Page 33 of The Golden Hour

I use a headache to excuse myself.

Vivian smiles slightly. “Get some rest, dear.”

Avoiding my uncles’ pointed, knowing stares, I say goodnight to everyone and retreat to my room. I don’t notice Selina walking toward me until she says, “Are you all right, miss?”

I startle, then smile. “I’m fine, thank you. How are you?”

“I’m well.” She pauses. “I took the liberty of cleaning your room and replacing the painting with another. I hope you don’t mind.”

Embarrassment flushes my face. “Oh, um, about the frame—”

“No need to explain,” she says, then drops her voice to a whisper. “I’m glad you found it.”

I freeze. “You left the note?”

She nods, glancing furtively behind me, then asks, “What note?”

My neck crawls with confirmation of the long-held fear. “Never mind, I was confused for a second. Thank you, Selina. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, miss.”

As we walk past each other, she touches my arm and whispers, “Phone calls in the bathroom only. Turn the shower on first.”

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I nod and hurry to my room. It doesn’t occur to me until much later that night, when I have the burner phone Rabbit delivered in my hand, to wonder how Selina seemed to know so much about avoiding surveillance. But by then, I’m half-asleep and it isn’t the danger I’m in or the insanity of being here I’m thinking about.

Instead, I’m thinking about a pair of blue eyes and the challenge in them.

You’re no hero.

Maybe tomorrow, I’ll feel again the need to prove him wrong.

But tonight? I agree with him.

19

Beyond the sparkling waters of a stone-rimmed swimming pool, the elite of Los Angeles mingle in the afternoon sun. The scents of freshly mown grass and faint chlorine mix with the perfumes of entitlement.

This echelon of society has always intrigued me. From an artistic standpoint, I’d love to wash off all the makeup, hairspray, tanning lotions, and pomades, and strip off the tailored polos, slacks, dresses, and Spanx, and photograph them in this current tableau—laughing too loudly as they sip champagne and scotch, oozing sincerity while inside they’re bursting with contempt. All framed by the placid Southern California weather and Vivian Avellino’s so-perfect-it-looks-fake backyard.

It could win me a Pulitzer, for sure.

Too bad I’m not here for art.

“What are we doing here again?” grumbles the man beside me.

“Mingling.”

Teddy Prescott III was the first person I called and the last person I expected to be the answer to my prayers. We were buddies in college—the drinking kind—and he happens to be the son of one of the city’s oldest and most monied families. It was sheer luck he had an invite to this little soiree sitting on his desk when I called. It didn’t take much to convince him to bring me as his guest—a bottle of thirty-year-old single malt Balvenie a client sent me for Christmas last year.

I’m regretting the sacrifice now, as we’ve only been here twenty minutes and he’s already complaining.

“All the women here are over forty.”

“This party is boring as fuck.”

“At least the caterers are hot.”

Then,

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