Page 29 of The Golden Hour

She freezes, hand halfway extended to her phone. Sparing her the effort of a reply, I head for the door.

“Callisto.”

Pausing, I turn. “Yes?”

With a small smile and tilt of her head, she says, “I rather like this new version of you.”

In the hallway, my wide smile disintegrates, and my body ripples with disquiet.

But there’s satisfaction, too.

She won’t know what hits her.

* * *

Seven hours later, exhausted more from Vivian’s hyperactive stylist than trying on a million outfits, I fall onto the guest room bed and decide I’m not moving until morning.

I’m on the edge of sleep when there’s a soft knock on the door.

“Yes?” I croak.

“Miss?” comes Selina’s soft voice. “There’s a phone call for you.”

I whip upright, my sleepy mind sloshing against my temples. “A phone call?”

“Yes, miss.”

I run through a short list of who it could be—a family member or Hugo.

“Can you take a message?” I ask after a moment. “Unless it’s one of my sisters. Is it?”

“No, miss. It’s a woman. She, um, goes by the name Rabbit? She’s called many times today. Mrs. Avellino just now gave me leave to tell you.” By the tone of her last words, I know Vivian used more colorful words.

I’m already halfway to the door, a grin on my face and unexpected joy lifting my heart.

Rabbit.

I’m the only one who ever called her that. Her name is Jessica, and she’s been my best friend since she moved to Los Angeles our sophomore year of high school. She was my ride or die. Almost literally, as it turned out. Missing her has been a toothache with no cure—a persistent pain, only tolerable when I accepted its permanence.

In the hallway, Selina greets me with a nod, then leads me into a small library at the back of the house. I rush to the side table with an antique rotary phone, the receiver sitting beside it.

“Jessica?” I gasp.

There’s a two-second pause.

Then my best friend—and the only person who, up until a few days ago, knew I faked my death—snarls, “What the fuck is going on!”

“Hold on.” After a quick glance at the door, thankfully closed, I whisper, “I can’t talk about it.”

Well versed in my paranoia about surveillance in the house, she says, “Meet me at our usual place in an hour?”

I almost agree, then realize my car is MIA. For a minute, I consider asking Vivian for a driver, but discard the idea. It’s too soon for her to trust me, and more importantly, it’s too soon for me to trust any of the staff.

“I, uh, might be on lockdown.”

She sighs. “Okay. I guess I’ll see you when I see you.”

The old code makes me smile. “Sooner rather than later.”

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