Page 9 of The Golden Hour

Molly turns from a counter with a mug of coffee, nearly black—just how I like it. Her smile of welcome morphs to concern when she sees my face.

“Good God, Grace, what’s wrong?” Depositing the mug on the table, she rushes to me, taking my shoulders in her hands. “Whatever it is, we’ll handle it. Just tell me.”

I wipe my welling eyes, mortified by my weakness and how pathetic it is that I fall apart so easily. Still, after all these years, after all I’ve seen and lived through, simple kindness undoes me.

“You’re too soft, Little Bear. Harden your heart. Otherwise that viper will chew you up.”

“And spit me out?”

My uncle’s eyes soften with sadness. “No, little one. She’ll swallow you down.”

“And digest me? Gross.”

He shakes his head, sighing at my eight-year-old attempt at humor, but I can tell he’s laughing on the inside.

“All right, let’s go another round. I want to see that target in shreds.”

Lifting the rifle to my shoulder, I take aim.

“Grace!” Molly gives my shoulders a shake. “What’s going on? You’re starting to scare me.”

“I’m leaving,” I blurt. “I’m sorry, but I have to go. Today—now. I’m not safe here anymore, and I don’t want to put you in danger.”

Molly’s eyes narrow and her lips form a thin line. “They found you?”

My heart jackknifes in shock. I’ve never spoken a word to her about why I’m actually here. All she knows is that I have no one and wanted a fresh start.

“What?” I gasp.

Her expression gentles. “Sit down and eat some breakfast. We should talk. And you can take off the glasses—I know you don’t need them.”

6

Dead.

She’s supposed to be dead.

Callisto Avellino went missing six years ago from her dorm at Brown University. Her room was torn apart. Police found traces of her blood and hair torn out by the roots. The entire nation assumed she’d been kidnapped for ransom.

But there was no ransom.

I remember the press conference three weeks after her disappearance. Her stepmother behind a podium, tearful as she pleaded for the public’s help in finding her fragile daughter, and the other two girls, Callisto’s half-sisters, sobbing nearby.

The heir to one of America’s most controversial royal families was never found, and two years ago, the family held a massive funeral for her. Televised—of course—because Vivian Avellino wanted the nation to see her as a grieving mother hell-bent on justice for child killers.

The perfect platform from which to launch her political career.

She’s supposed to be dead.

I can’t fucking believe I didn’t recognize Callisto immediately, glasses or not. Sure, she’s changed in the six years she’s been off the grid. No more sparkly veneer of youth and wealth. She’s a woman now. Sharp edges and lush curves. Once pretty, now beautiful.

And I almost had sex with her.

I haven’t even begun to process that fact, or the self-loathing I felt after, when I realized how scared she looked as she fled. Or how fucking perfect she felt in my arms.

If there’s one thing to be grateful for in the grand fuckery of the last twelve hours, it’s this morning’s disaster making it impossible to think much about Callisto.

I barely slept, which made for a miserable visit with my mother, which is why I’m now dragging my feet up a walkway to a quaint, bright yellow house—to the only other person who might be able to help me get through to the stubborn matriarch of the McCowen family.

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