Page 103 of Riot House
“Invite said eight but I recommend coming at around nine or so,” she says. “Helps to make an entrance when you're fighting with a guy like my brother. And holy shit,are you gonna make an entrance wearingthatcostume.”
* * *
I'm on edge as I unzip the bag, letting it fall to the ground. My heightened state of anxiety triples when I see what's inside it. This isn't some drug store twenty-dollar costume. It isn't even the kind of expensive costume you have to order online. This is the kind of costume you have made from scratch, to a list of specifications that you send to a dressmaker weeks ahead of an event.
It's beautiful.
The bodice is frost-white and shimmering with Swarovski Crystals. There's boning sewn into the luxurious fabric, as well as laces around the back, which look daunting as hell. I've never in my life worn anything so convoluted.
The skirt is made of a diaphanous, silky type of fabric, layers and layers of it in blue and silver and white, so fine and stunning that I can't help but run my fingers over it.
This is the most gorgeous piece of clothing I've ever seen in my life. I recognize it for what it is immediately: it’s a Tinkerbell costume. I mentioned to Wren when we were verbally sparring in the attic that I always wanted to be Tinkerbell when I was a kid, but we didn’t always get what we wanted…and he remembered? It was such a flippant, off-the-cuff remark. I can’t believe he stored the information and then ordered this.
It's too beautiful.
It’s too much.
All of it is too fucking much.
I’ve pieced together a really suspicious-looking picture of Wren’s life last year and it’s so frightening and awful that I can’t bear it. I’m still in love with him, and I can’t make myself stop. A wickedly sharp knife plunges into my heart, grinding up against my ribs, stealing away my breath as I sink to my knees, clutching the beautiful fairy costume to my chest.
This isn’t fair.
I knew falling in love with someone like Wren was dangerous, but fuck. I didn’t expect I’d wind up sobbing into the most expensive item of clothing I’ve ever held in my hands, worrying that he might havemurderedanother girl. The girl who used to sleep inmybedroom. God, the symmetry of it all is just too fucking terrible to even think about.
I lie on my back on my bedroom floor, crying at first, but I eventually end up just staring at the light fitting above my head, trying to make the high-pitched buzzing in my head quiet. It doesn’t go away, though. It drones on and on, until I feel like I’m going to go mad from the incessant sound.
And then I snap.
I have to know the fucking truth.
Ideserveto know.
I don’t care how stupid it makes me. I’m going to that fucking party, and I’m going to get to the bottom of this once and for all.
But there’s something I have to do first.
Stiff from lying on the floor so long, my back complains as I sit up and open the bottom drawer of my vanity. There, tucked in between my folded shirts, is the small white box that Carina left propped against my door five days ago. I glare down at the beautiful raven-haired woman on the front of the box, wondering if I’ll be able to fake a smile as big as hers when I walk through the front door of Riot House.
I highly fucking doubt it.
41
ELODIE
The dress fits like a glove.Even when someone has your specific measurements, it’s rare to find a dress that fits this well. It took a lot of effort to get into and required Pres’s help to lace up properly at the back, but once I have it all done up, even I have to admit that it looks amazing.Ilook amazing. Aside from the dress, it feels as though I’m looking atmyselffor the first time in three years when I stand in front of the mirror in my room and observe my reflection.
“I like it. I think I like it,” Pres says, standing back, tapping her index finger against her jaw. She’s wearing a Beetlejuice costume made out of black and white stripy pajamas, a lot of black eyeshadow, and an Albert Einstein wig. “It was just a shock at first. I’m just used to you as a blonde. Y’know, it’s weird, but dark hair suits you better now that I’m seeing it.”
I dyed my hair back to my natural color in my bedroom, only briefly ducking into the bathroom to rinse it clean when the timer on my cell phone dinged. Being a brunette again feels like coming home. I’ve reclaimed a small part of myself that was taken away from me. Like this, I am the person I was supposed to be all along and not the stranger that my father tried to create.
“Yeah. I think it suits me better, too.” I turn away from the mirror, collecting my invite to the party from the bed.
“Wanna walk down with me?” Pres asks. “I was running late. I told the others to go on ahead without me.”
“Sure.”
So, Pres and I walk down the hill to the party together in the dark. The driving, pounding music flooding the forests around Riot House indicate that the celebrations are already well underway by the time we reach the turn-off that leads to Wren’s house. There’s no need to knock on the front door; it’s already yawning open into the night like some great, toothless mouth, leading straight down into the pits of hell.
