Page 13 of The Viper
“Yes, please.”
He hailed one with the ease of someone who’s done it too many times. When the Prius nosed into the lane, he opened the back door and gave me a look that felt like a warning without the lecture.
“Thanks,” I said, sliding in.
The driver peered at me in the mirror—sixty-ish, cap low, eyes kind. “Where to, ma’am?”
I gave him the address on James Island. He nodded and pulled into the flow.
Charleston at night was a painting done with wet brushes—the glimmer of the river, the smear of headlights, palmettos black against a bruised sky. We took the bridge, the city’s glow receding behind us, the marsh opening like a secret. I rolled the window down two inches. The night pressed in, lush and green, the air tasting like salt and cut grass.
“You okay back there?” the driver asked. His accent was soft, not prying.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“Weird night,” he said philosophically. “Town’s full of those. You famous or something?”
A laugh slipped out of me, tired and honest. “Something.”
He smiled into the mirror and let the quiet come back.
I stared at my reflection in the dark glass—baseball cap, plain sweater, no makeup. If I hadn’t been me, I would have been any other girl hitching a ride home after a night out. That wasthe cruelest part. Normal was always just one costume away and never actually available.
We turned off the main road, weaving through live oaks to the rental. The driver pulled to the curb and killed the lights, as if he knew I wanted subtlety.
“Thank you,” I said, handing him cash before he could object. “For the quiet.”
“Take care, Miss,” he said.
I stood on the street a moment, letting the night fold around me. The house hunched in blues and grays, porch wide, columns bright even in the dark.
I crept up the front steps, careful on the boards that squeaked. The lock turned, soft as a breath. Inside, the house smelled like a furnished rental trying its best to be a home.
“Lexi?”
I yelped and spun around, hand to my chest.
Carrie stood at the end of the walk, a tote slung over one shoulder, her curly hair twisted up with a pencil. She lifted both palms.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Shit,” I exhaled, leaning against the doorjamb. “What are you doing here?”
“Dropping off the new heels Franklin’s assistant demanded for tomorrow’s stills,” she said, rolling her eyes.
I glanced instinctively toward the windows. The house was dark except for the little nightlight Hannah insisted on leaving in the hall. “She’s asleep,” I said. “If she wakes up and sees me out here …”
“She’ll what?” Carrie’s smile faded when she took in my face. “What happened?”
I stood there, just breathing, feeling the doorframe cool against my back. “Someone spiked my drink,” I said finally. “A stranger stopped me before I could take a sip.”
Carrie’s expression sharpened instantly, her mouth going tight.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “Let’s not do this on the front porch.”
We slipped around the side of the house to the back deck, the marsh laid out like a vast, dark secret. Spanish moss fluttered in the faintest breeze. Carrie set the tote down and perched on the step. I sat beside her, suddenly exhausted.
“Tell me everything,” she said.
