Page 10 of Wild Card
She lifts a brow. “Yes, and I have the receipts to prove it. I’m not some fool running around Las Vegas in cursed antiques. My insurance company would have a coronary.”
Beside me, Presley shifts forward slightly. I can feel his attention on me—can practicallyhearwhatever sarcastic comment is brewing behind his teeth. But he stays quiet. For once.
Talia crosses her legs with the elegance of a pageant queen. “Now,” she says sweetly, “are you accusing me of stealing your exhibit, or just questioning my fashion choices?”
“We’re not accusing you of anything,” I say, evenly.
“We’re following up on all viable leads,” Presley adds, his voice low, measured. “Your name just happens to be one of them.”
She laughs—light, brittle, theatrical. “Well, I’m flattered. But I’ve been married to Dalton Brandt for fifteen years. If anything’s cursed, it’sthat.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from reacting.
Talia reaches for a gilded compact on the side table and flips it open. “I’ve been more than cooperative. You’ve got your answer. I’ve got a lunch appointment. And my patience is thinning.” She powders her nose with deliberate strokes, eyes flicking between the two of us in the mirror.
“You have everything you need,” she says, snapping the compact closed with a crispclick.“Now go.”
As if on cue, a pair of stone-faced security guards appear in the doorway. Presley sighs quietly. “Charming as always.”
I rise from the chair, smoothing the front of my blouse. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Brandt.”
She doesn’t respond. Just turns her face back toward the mirror, adjusting a diamond earring like we were never here. We’re led out wordlessly, the sound of our footsteps muffled by the obscenely plush carpet. Outside, the sun hits my face, but all I feel is heat boiling under my skin.
“She’s hiding something,” I mutter as we approach the gate.
“Yeah,” Presley says, glancing back at the house. “But the question is whether it’s about the jewels… or just her entire life.”
I don’t answer. I’m too busy replaying the look in Talia’s eyes.
It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t guilt. It was control.
We’re only five minutes into the drive back when I turn to Presley and say, “You caught it, right?”
He glances at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Caughtwhat?”
“Talia’s compact,” I say, shifting in my seat. “She was usingLancôme.”
He furrows his brow. “Okay… and?”
I blink at him. “Seriously? You didn’t find that weird?”
He shrugs one shoulder, casual as ever. “Aria, I’m flattered you think I know my way around powder brands, but unless it comes in a security-safe container or smells like gun oil, it’s probably not on my radar.”
I sigh dramatically and turn toward the window. “Unbelievable. You notice a suspicious shoe tread in a two-year-old security video, but you don’t clock the most obvious detail of the day.”
“Enlighten me, Sherlock.”
I look back at him, my voice clipped but firm. “Talia Brandt has been pushing herownluxury makeup line for the last two years. She’s got product displays in every boutique lobby from the Citadel to the Bellagio. Billboards, social media campaigns, influencers—hell, there was even a tie-in with that awful magician from the Mirage. She’s obsessed with promoting it. Always swore she only wore her brand.”
Presley’s face shifts—finally catching up. “So if she’s powdering her nose withLancôme,that means…”
“She’s lying about something,” I say. “And not even trying that hard to cover it up.”
He leans back in his seat, arms crossed loosely, lips pressing into a thoughtful line. “Could be she grabbed the wrong compact. Could be she’s trying to distance herself from her own brand while something shady’s going down.”
“Exactly.”
“It’s suspicious,” he says, nodding slowly, “but it still doesn’t tell us what happened to the jewels.”
