Page 68 of Maid of Dishonor

Sam sighs. “All right,” she says, sounding reluctant. “If you think it will work.”

“I do,” I say, hopefully sending off waves of confidence. In truth, I’m more just sort of hoping for the best. I mean, it will probably work. Hopefully. It should, anyway.

* * *

When we arriveat Maya’s, Sam goes straight to the door while I wait in the car. I pick up my phone and mime talking to someone so that I can wave to Maya if she sticks her head out to check on me, but it turns out to be unneeded. Sam waits on the doorstep for a few seconds before Maya opens the door, and it closes as soon as Sam gets inside.

I grab the two tarot decks from the center console, unwrapping them and flipping through each deck until I find the Tower cards. I just stare at them for a second, because we really did pick some creepy-looking decks. Though of course, what do I know about art? I like those cottage pictures that all look the same but justslightlydifferent. The ones that look warm and cozy. Those are what I would call good paintings. So I’ve got a feeling I’d be unable to appreciate anything requiring too much in the way of artistic sensibilities.

I give the cards one last glance before shoving them in my pocket, lifting one cheek off the seat awkwardly so I can slide them in. Then I grab the butter knife we brought and get out, close the door as quietly as possible, and head around the back of the house.

It’s fortuitous that this place is only one story, because no way am I scaling any walls just to put a card on Maya’s pillow. I reach to the top of the screen, pushing it up slightly—as per the instructions we found on YouTube, although it doesn’t seem like a great idea to be teaching people how to break in through closed windows, but whatever—before sliding the knife beneath the screen and then pulling. The screen pops out, and I set it carefully out of the way, propping it against the brick siding before focusing on the window. It’s the one with a dysfunctional latch, so I’m able to slide it open with relative ease. Praying that no neighbors are watching me, I hoist myself up and into Maya’s room.

Frankly, I’m surprised at how clean it is. Her bed is unmade, and there’s an item of clothing here and there, but stupidly my mind pictured vomit everywhere or something. I place one of the tarot cards right smack dab in the center of her pillow, the dark colors a contrast to the soft blue. I turn around, moving quickly—and run into Maya’s small bookshelf, stubbing my toe in the process.

The resultingthunkof a book falling off the top, mixed with my loud curse as I shake my poor foot, are almost certainly noisy enough to give me away. I wait with bated breath for just a second, but when I don’t hear anyone coming, I start to move again, half hopping to accommodate my stubbed toe.

I ease Maya’s door open slowly, stumbling out and slipping into her bathroom, where I wedge the second tarot card into the corner of the mirror frame. Then I book it on out of there, because if Maya sees me doing all this, her wrath will know no bounds. Back through the bedroom I go, then out through the window, and after fitting everything back in place and making a mental note to fix this window soon, I’m home free.

Carter Ellis, professional window-breaker-inner. It has a nice ring to it.

By the time I’m back to the car, I’m embarrassingly out of breath, and my toe is throbbing in the way only a stubbed toe can. Sam says I’m a baby about stuff like stubbed toes, but I don’t care; that nonsensehurts.

So I stand by the car just long enough to catch my breath. I cast one last look over my shoulder in the direction of Maya’s window, and then I walk to the front door, giving one sharp knock and letting myself in.

Nineteen

Sam

When Carter comes insideand sits down next to me on Maya’s couch, the first thing he says is, “I stubbed my toe.”

I roll my eyes, trying not to smile. Because the truth is, when Carter gets a cold, he ceases to function. I’m talking canceled plans, popping vitamin C like candy, taking his temperature every hour—the man gets a little case of the sniffles and then proceeds as though his coffin has just been wheeled around the corner. And when he stubs a toe? He acts like his neck has been broken.

I’m not sure why this is. He gets injured every now and then playing baseball, and he walks it off like it’s no problem. A huge purple bruise mottling his ribs from a ball to the gut gets no more than a passing glance. So maybe it’s something about his feet? I don’t know. All I know is that Stubbed-Toe Carter is a wimp.

“Poor baby,” I coo, patting his knee gently, directing my words to his foot.

“You laugh, but someday it’s going to happen to you, and you’re going to break your toe, and then you’ll regret it,” he says darkly.

I laugh. “Carter, I’ve stubbed my toe before! It’s just never become a full-body malady like yours all seem to be.”

He just grunts before looking at Maya. “How are you feeling?” he says.

She shrugs. “All right, I guess.” But she sounds glum, much more so than she has in the past, and it causes me to bite my lip and shoot a glance at Carter.

I can see the worry on his face too. “How’s Chet?” he asks. “And the wedding stuff?”

Maya’s face falls even more. Which is both good and bad, I guess—I hate that she’s feeling down, but it also means maybe she’s closer to calling the wedding off.

“Chet is dandy,” she says, her voice sounding anything but dandy. She’s scowling in the vague direction of the front door, playing absently with a few strands of hair that have fallen out of the messy bun on top of her head. “In fact, he might show up any time now. He said he was coming over. I told him not to bother, but this is usually what happens when he thinksgrovelingwill get him what he wants.” She spits the word out with enough venom that it’s clear Chetdoesneed to grovel.

“What happened?” I ask hesitantly. “What did he do?”

“Yeah, what did he do?” Carter says, his face stormy. “And can I kick his—ow!”

He breaks off when I elbow him in the ribs. It’s not subtle, and Maya definitely sees it, but oh well. She doesn’t say anything about it, anyway. She just sighs.

“We’re struggling a bit with—with logistics,” she says. “With the way things are going to work with our new relationship dynamic. He wants—”

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