I peer over the rim of my martini glass at a young woman leaving the dance floor. In her obnoxious fuchsia stilettos, she wobbles to the bar. Her lacquered eyelashes say she’s out for a girl’s night, and the coy smile she shoots at every eligible man in the room reveals that she’s not

expecting to leave alone. She’s young. Too young to have enough money for that white Saint Laurent clutch she’s carrying, or the diamond tennis bracelet that dangles from her left wrist. It glimmers in the epileptic flashing of purple and blue lights. It’s at least five carats, maybe seven. In good condition, a piece like that could go for at least twelve grand.

​

I tear my eyes away before anyone can notice my gaze, before my watchfulness can no longer be mistaken for anything other than curiosity or a scan of the room for would-be competition. She’s no doubt drunk off her ass on expensive champagne that would be outrageous

to anyone not here on daddy’s money. But her? She doesn’t give it a second thought. I down the rest of my drink and stand, smoothing out a wrinkle in the front of my dress.

 

When I approach the bar, she’s still waiting to be served. She’s far more patient than I anticipated and replies with a simple “no worries” when the bartender tells her he’ll be right with her. The muscles in her shoulders tense when I take a seat next to her, and it isn’t until she

glances at me that she relaxes again. Even drunk, she’s still cautious, aware of her surroundings. A man catches sight of her from a few seats over, doing a double-take before his face splits into a wide smile. He leans over the few empty barstools between them, closing the

distance as much as he can while also trying not to come across as too invasive.

 

“You know, I have to say,” he says. “ I think you might just be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” I have to bite my tongue to stifle a laugh. In the hour I’ve been here, he’s given that grin to every woman within five feet of him, probably accompanied with some pickup line

of the same caliber.

​

The woman flushes, smiling politely. “Thank you.”

​

“Could I maybe interest you in some company?” the man asks.

​

“Actually, I’m celebrating two years with my boyfriend tonight,” she replies. “He’s waiting for me back at our table.” She’s a good liar. Her body doesn’t stiffen like most people, and the words roll right off the tongue. If it wasn’t for the way she twists a piece of her platinum

ponytail around her fingers, I might have believed her myself.

​

The man looses a breath. “Damn, that’s too bad. He’s a lucky guy.”

 

The giggle that bubbles from between her lips is soft, innocent. Believable.

 

He tosses back the rest of his drink. “Kudos to you two.” Even though her back is to me, I can hear the shy smile in the woman’s voice as she thanks him.

​

When the man leaves, she sighs, sagging, just in time for the bartender to return.

 

“Lance wasn’t bothering you too much, I hope?” he says. “He hits on just about every girl who walks through the doors.” I smile to myself, toying with the stem of my glass.

​

The young woman’s demeanor changes instantly. “Nothing I couldn’t handle,” she says, “just gave him the tried and true fake anniversary excuse.”

​

“And? What’s the real reason?”

​

“I’m out with some sorority sisters for a girl’s night,” she tilts her head down, looking up from under her long lashes, “and I wasn’t interested.”

 

The bartender chuckles. “What can I get for you?”

​

“Another bottle of the same, please.”

​

He rests the hand towel he’s carrying over his shoulder. “I’m out of the blanc, but I have a rosé chilling in the fridge.”

 

She beams. “That’s totally fine.”

​

“For you?” he asks me.

​

“A Grey Goose, thanks.”

​

He takes the martini glass I’ve set down on the mahogany surface. “Coming right up.”

​

“You handled that well,” I say once he’s gone. “Lance, I mean.”

​

She turns to me, sizing me up for the first time since I sat down. “Really?” she asks.

​

“Much better than I would have.”

​

“Every single guy in this place has hit on me,” she says, resting her elbows on the countertop, “except for the one that I actually want to.”

 

I lift an eyebrow. “And which one is that?”

​

When she nods her head in the direction of the bartender, I fight the urge to snort. Rich socialite meets a handsome rugged bartender, probably struggling to make it to his next paycheck.

​

I’m not surprised.

 

“He’s taken,” I say.

​

The woman has the good grace to look embarrassed. “Are you his girlfriend?”

​

This time, I don’t fight the laugh that comes from me. “No,” I lift my left hand and wiggle my ring finger, “I saw the ring when he took my glass.”

​

She sighs as the bartender makes his way back over. “Shit.”

​

“Here you go, ladies,” he says. “One Grey Goose martini,” he sets my glass down in front of me, “and one bottle of Dom Pérignon Rosé.” I bite back a smile.

​

“Thank you,” the young woman says. When he’s out of earshot, she turns her bloodshot eyes on me, “I think you just saved me from a world of embarrassment.” She stumbles when she stands, and I jump to my feet, latching onto her left wrist to stop her from falling.

 

“Are you all right?” I rest my hand on the small of her back while she regains her balance.

​

After a moment, she smiles. “I knew these heels were a bad idea.”

​

I release her wrist. “There’s no such thing as a bad idea,” I say, “only poorly executed ones.” The woman laughs. It’s not at all like when she giggled at the ostentatious man who was hitting on her. This laugh is much more genuine.

​

“Have a good night,” she says with another gorgeous smile.

​

I sit back down on the barstool, tipping the rim of my martini glass in her direction. She rounds a corner into another section of the club, and I take a small sip of my drink before placing it back on the counter.

​

Smirking, I stand and nudge through the crowd of intoxicated individuals. All of them are too entranced by the thumping music to notice me slip out through a side door, nor will they remember what I look like tomorrow if anyone asks questions. Cool night air rushes to meet my flushed skin in the alleyway, the gusts heightened by the buildings on either side of me. When the door to the club shuts behind me, I turn my face away from the single security camera the place could afford and move into its blind spot. I feel a bit bad. I had been expecting a spoiled child. Maybe she still is. At least, that’s what I tell myself to ease some of the guilt that’s begun to take root. I sigh. What’s done is done.

​

As I duck my head to hide from prying eyes, I slip the delicate diamond tennis bracelet clutched in my fist into my purse, noting how it glimmers under the dim light of the moon. 

​

Seven carats. I knew it.

 

…

 

For the last few days, I’ve been staying at a beat-up motel on the outskirts of Manchester, New Hampshire – a structure that not even the most exhausted of road-trippers would turn to as a last resort. According to the building’s neon sign casting fluorescent pink light into the parking

lot, it’s a “ O EL.” Not what I would call living in the lap of luxury, but I can’t afford to be picky.

 

This is the kind of place where the front desk doesn’t ID you when you tell them you’re paying with cash. Not that the verification of my identity is something I need to worry about. I have a wide selection of them to choose from and a piece of plastic for each.

 

I retrieve the room key from my purse as I walk along the outdoor landing of the second level. Behind the door of one of my neighboring rooms, its occupants perform activities usually paid for by the hour.

​

Reaching my own room, I insert the key into the lock, only to find that it’s already been turned. I pause. Someone has been here. More than that, they want me to know that they’ve been here. Anyone smart enough to want to be undetected would have locked the door after they left.

​

Or…

​

I suck in a sharp breath. They’re still here.

 

I glance over my shoulder back into the dimly lit parking lot. There are no new cars that indicate any arrival of someone who could be here to intercept me. No sleek black SUVs to indicate that the FBI finally tracked me down. No, whoever is here isn’t law enforcement, which

is significantly worse. Especially since I’ve already shoved my key into the lock. Anyone still inside will have heard the noise.

 

Pushing the door open, the streetlights from the parking lot casting a deep orange glow over my shoulder, making the dark blue carpet look black. Closing and locking the door behind me, I flip the switch on the wall closest to me. Light floods the room, though it still appears empty.

 

I inhale deeply, and as I do, I pick up on a powdery musk mixed with vetiver and sandalwood.

​

“You have a lot of nerve,” I say.

 

Conan emerges from the bathroom, light washing over him. His blond hair is a little longer than it was the last time I saw him, the crease between his eyebrows more pronounced than ever.

​

“What gave me away?” he asks innocently.

 

“Your cologne. I can’t believe you’re still wasting your steals on bottles of Clive Christian. You haven’t changed at all.”

​

“Neither have you,” he says. “Still hiding your bag in the ceiling tiles?” My eyes land on my duffel bag in Conan’s hand, and he holds it out to me. “I taught you that trick, Jules,” I scowl, snatching it from him as he eyes my dress. “Where have you been?”

​

A fresh wave of irritation washes over me. “What do you want?”

​

“A civilized conversation, maybe?”

​

I set my bag on the mattress and unzip it to ensure he hasn’t taken anything. “You’ve grown severely out of touch if you think there’s any sort of civility to be had between us.” By the way he clenches his jaw, I’ve struck a nerve. Good.

​

Pulling a 10x loupe from my bag, I retrieve the tennis bracelet from my purse. With a steady hand, I hold the small magnifier up to my eye, peering into the diamonds. They shimmer with authentic brilliance where the light hits them. I grin. They’re real, with hardly any imperfections in the stones. It’s a beautiful bracelet. The sooner I get rid of it, the better.

​

“I didn’t realize you were here for work,” Conan says. He juts his chin at the bracelet.

​

“Who’d you snag that off of?”

​

“A sorority girl from a club downtown,” When he only stares at me, guilt tugs at the pit of my stomach again. “A rich one,” I add. His expression is unreadable, those eyes seeing right through me, just as they always have. I find myself unable to meet the penetrating gaze, and a muscle in my jaw twitches. “Don’t look at me like that, Conan.”

​

He runs a hand over his face. “I was wrong. You have changed.”

​

His words hit me harder than I expect and I wince before quickly recovering. “I’m really not in the mood for a lecture.” But he’s right. I have changed. After everything that’s happened, it’s impossible not to. Looking back at who I used to be, I’m not sure I even recognize who I am

now. I wonder if Alex would.

​

The thought hits me like a fucking train, and I have to stop myself from reaching out for the support of the wall. Alex…

​

Conan shakes his head. “What the hell happened to you?”

​

A cold silence settles between us, and I level a stare at him. “You already know the answer to that. You’re here for more than just a social call. What do you want?”

 

When he speaks again, his tone is clipped. “I need your help.”

 

I blink. “You’re not serious.”

 

“If I wasn’t serious, I wouldn’t ask.” He pushes his hair back the same way he has for years. For a moment, I’m quiet as I look at him, trying to figure out if he’s joking. But his green eyes are resolute, and his lips are set in a firm line.

 

I want to laugh. After all the hell he’s put me through, he thinks he has the right to ask for my help? I zip up my duffel bag and hoist it over my shoulder.

 

“Goodbye, Conan.” He looks annoyed by my response, but not surprised. I head for the door.

​

“I found something,” I freeze, a torrent of emotions raining down on me. We haven’t spoken in two years, let alone breathed a word of Alex’s death. Eyes burning, I turn to face him.

​

“You wanted to talk,” I say. “Talk.”

​

​