Page 102 of Cruel Pleasures
I almost smirk. “Which is what I’m being?”
“Obviously.”
We reach a stalemate that lasts several seconds. For the duration of it, we’re left in silence, each peering at the other in the dark shadows of the room. I came here in the middle of the night with no intention of doing what I’m doing and yet I let it happen anyway.
I move away from the door and reclaim my spot in the corner by the window and armchair.
“Tell me more about your friend.”
“Only if you tell me about your wife.”
…of course. I should’ve expected that.
“You first,” I say.
I can hear the smile lightening her voice. “Something tells me you probably know more about her than I do. But I’ll bite.”
For the next two hours, I’m in Imani’s room. It remains captured by shadows and she stays put in bed while I’m in the corner. But there’s little break in the conversation as she makes good on my request. She tells me all about Lyra Hendrix, from how they became friends freshman year in college to how they once almost got arrested for trespassing in a boutique after hours.
Then I make good on my promise. I tell her—the first person since it happened—about Asami. She doesn’t ask questions, and if she has any visceral reactions, she keeps them as subdued as possible.
The plum sky’s starting to lighten by the time Imani drifts off to sleep and I leave her room. An inexplicable sense of fulfillment makes me stop halfway down the hall.
That was the longest, most personal conversation I’ve had in many years. Possibly ever.
But something else altogether catches my attention. The acute sense I’m not alone.
Looking out into the black void that’s the rest of the hallway, I peer at whatever is lurking in the distance.
24. Imani
Breakfast - Dove Cameron
What do you do when the woman you’re certain is trying to kill you invites you to afternoon tea?
The answer might seem simple. But within the context of the Midnight Society and the game we’re playing, it’s the most complicated invitation I’ve received in my life.
It arrives with a tap at my door.
I’ve returned to my room only minutes after an afternoon session at the sauna. I’m still in the plush robe as I pad over to the door and find Jerome on the other end. He presents me with an invitation that’s perched atop a silver tray.
“At the behest of the Hostess.”
Reluctantly, I snatch the invitation off the tray and then slam the door in his face.
It’s perhaps the prettiest notecard I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s no generic card purchased at a run-of-the-mill stationary store—it’s letterpress on textured paper with the penmanship of a calligrapher. Classy, embossed, and illustrious all at once.
My name, or the name I came here under, is scrawled on the front. On the inside is a short message that reads:
Sasha,
I would be delighted if you could join me this afternoon for tea.
The east parlor, 3 p.m.
I’ll be waiting.
-H
