PROLOGUE
CATRIONA
“Is that black car following us?” I’d twist around to get a better look at the driver of the car behind me, but I don’t want to be too obvious. If I could get away with evasive maneuvers, I’d try, but the last thing I need is for SENATOR GALLAGHER’S DAUGHTER ARRESTED ON TRAFFIC VIOLATIONS to scroll across tonight’s breaking news. Said senator would be less than pleased.
“Stop being so paranoid, Cat. No one’s following us,” my younger sister, Elizabeth, says as she flips down the passenger visor to reapply nude gloss to her pouty lips. “I know it’s a shock, but not everyone is obsessed with you.”
I frown, certain that a car has been on our tail since we left my house, then glance in the rearview mirror. My best friend, Yasmine, meets my eyes, then rolls hers. She shrugs and glances covertly behind us, her tight black curls floating in the jets of air from the blasting heater.
“She’s right. I don’t think they are. They just turned at the light,” Yasmine says.
“Thank you,” I say, as my fingers tap out an anxious rhythm on the steering wheel. Yasmine sends me a quizzical look, probably wondering what the hell is wrong with me, but she doesn’t press when I give a subtle shake of my head.
Thankfully, she’s a forgiving and discreet soul who not only kept her mouth shut about my current obsession but also didn’t say a word when I showed up the fateful morning after my truly idiotic plan went disturbingly awry.
And by awry, I mean I landed in the bed of a man with a dubious background, experienced the phenomenon of multiple orgasms, and left before he could wake up and realize I’d escaped. I seriously doubt any explanation I’d given would’ve stopped him from putting those big hands around my pretty little neck. This time, probably not in a way I’d like.
I push thoughts of Aiden O’Connor from my mind. It’s over. I’m never going to see him again, and I got what I wanted. There’s nothing else to think about. Absolutely nothing at all. No reason he’d want to track me down.
Punish me.
Nope.
“Hello?” Elizabeth asks in her singsong voice. She snaps her fingers for emphasis. Twisting in her seat, she flicks a look at us both. “Why did you two even make me come today if we’re going to spend it driving around in circles? I’m starving, and you promised you’d take me out for lunch since I couldn’t hang out with Rue and Iris.”
“What?” I ask, wiping my hands on the skirt of my baby-pink long-sleeved sweater dress and blinking at the street signs even though I’ve lived in New Orleans my whole life. “I wanted you to come. I’ve barely seen you, and it’s your freshman year at Tulane.”
She works up a fleeting smile. I can’t tell if it’s genuine or if she’s just trying to placate me so she can get this lunch over with. “I’m sorry, you’re right. I don’t mean to make you feel bad. We’ve both been busy.”
I swallow back my automatic rebuttal and cover my guilt. I should have been home. Should have made a point to carve out time for her. I never seem to have enough time for her. Is that why she always seems resentful now?
“You realize that is the third left turn you’ve made, right?” Yasmine interjects before I can panic-wallow. “Who Dat is on Burgundy Street. Perhaps both of you should eat lunch before this turns into World War III. You get hangry if you skip meals. So let’s focus on the road signs and use our nice words, okay?”
I swallow hard, and this time when I study the rearview mirror, I’m looking past Yasmine’s concerned face to the black car I could’ve sworn has been tailing us since we left campus. Maybe Elizabeth is right, and I’ve just grown more paranoid. Hard not to after what happened the night before Halloween. And God knows Elizabeth won’t want to hear anything once I mention our old house or its connection to our mother’s death. She never wants to talk about her anymore.
So I swallow back all the secrets I’ve been keeping, triple-check that there’s no black car in traffic behind me, and white-knuckle it the rest of the way to the café.
During our meal, I think I’ve convinced them my paranoia was nothing—until Yasmine tugs on my elbow as we’re walking out of the restaurant a couple of hours later. Elizabeth weaves down the sidewalk with her phone pressed to her ear, blithely chattering to someone on the other end. She spent most of the meal swiping through her phone and glaring at everyone. The ever-present tendrils of guilt in my stomach twine even tighter. How many more secrets will there be between us?
“Seriously, I wasn’t going to ask questions because you came back in one piece, but you’ve been off ever since, and it’s been months. You don’t need to tell me what happened, but I need to know that you’re okay.”
Yasmine has been my friend since I transferred to St. John’s Prep in third grade. We both shared an obsession with 2000s Usher, abhorred seafood (which is practically illegal in Louisiana), and agreed that purple was overrated, but we could share pink as our favorite color. I’ve never kept a secret from her in my life—let alone one so big I want to burst.
“I’m probably just being paranoid, like she said,” I reply, tugging on her arm. “It’s nothing. Too much time spent watching the news.”
She resists my attempt to get her to move. “You hate the news, so I know you’re lying. Tell me why you’ve been acting like the FBI is tracking you.”
“It’s probably not the FBI.”
Her mouth falls open. “What the hell did you get into that night, Catriona? I thought you said everything was fine.” She lowers her voice. “No one saw you… did they?”
“What do you mean by no one?”
“The more you talk, the more bullshit I smell. Hurry before Elizabeth realizes we’re walking at a glacial pace and harasses us some more. I swear that girl has an attitude problem no number of beignets will fix.”
To be fair, Yasmine had tried to talk me out of my plan that night. But once I got the idea in my head, there was nothing she could do. Because all I care about is learning the truth about my mother’s death. The police say it was an accident… but I’m not so sure. I was convinced I could find clues at our old house, where she was found.
The only problem? The Irish businessman—or at least, that’s what everyonebelieveshe is—who bought it.
