And right now, I’m balancing it all while hiding the fact that the man they think Imaybemet watched me commit murder last week—and I can’t stop thinking about him.
I just about jump out of my skin when there’s suddenly a knock at the door.
All three of us freeze. Iris looks up from her laptop, fingers pausing mid-keystroke. Opal blinks, pendulum dangling in one hand, boobs still completely unbothered by gravity or social convention.
“Are we expecting anyone?” I ask, already standing. My voice sounds a little too high.
Opal shakes her head. “I don’t have any plans.”
“DoorDash?” Iris suggests, though she looks skeptical.
I shake my head. “Didn’t order anything.”
The knock comes again. Three raps, evenly spaced.
I cross the room, pulse in my throat, and open the door just enough to see. A man stands there in a dark suit, holding a slim black envelope. He doesn’t say anything—just extends it to me like he’s delivering a subpoena.
My stomach flips.
“Willow Vale?” he asks. His voice is flat, professional.
“Uh…” I glance behind me at my sisters, who are watching me with big, huge eyes like we’re nine years old and the boogieman has come to the door. “Yeah?”
He places the envelope in my hand, gives me a nod, and leaves without another word. No explanation. Just leaves.
The second the door clicks shut, Opal squeals. “Willow, what if it’s a hex? Who just delivers a black envelope without saying anything?!”
The paper is thick, expensive feeling.
Iris narrows her eyes. “I’d say you were just served with papers, but I’m pretty sure they have to say ‘you’ve been served.’”
“Black paper though, Iris,” Opal says, eying the envelope like it’s a bomb.
I let out a breath. It’s not an arrest warrant; they would have just taken me away. And that guy was wearing a suit, not a uniform. Telling myself to chill the hell out, I slip my finger under the flap, tearing it open. Inside is a single piece of cardstock, black with gold ink.
It’s a ticket.
For tonight.
For Saint Shade.
Front row. And the show starts in two hours.
My pulse goes haywire.
“Ohhhhhh, my Artemis!” Opal shrieks, snatching the ticket from my hand before I can stop her. She clutches it to her chest like it’s Willy Wonka’s golden ticket. “This is it! This is him. Iknew it! Fucking Saint Shade?! He invited you to his show? This is basically a marriage proposal in Vegas language.”
“Opal, it’s a show,” Iris says as she peers over my shoulder at the gold lettering. “But it’s not nothing. Front row isn’t cheap. Seems you’re not the only obsessed one, Will.”
“Holy hell, sis—you’ve got him hooked,” Opal grins wickedly, her eyes absolutely gleaming. “He’s like… mysterious-hot. Masked sex appeal. And he pickedyou.”
I snatch the ticket back, heart hammering. The words blur slightly, like they’re seared into my retinas. He knows where I live. Of course he does. The man’s been stalking me, just like I’ve been stalking him. Mutual obsession. Mutual blackmail.
This is dangerous. Stupid. Exactly the kind of reckless move I should run screaming from.
But my tarot cards are practically howling from my room down the hall. I swear I can feel them vibrating, alive, demanding I listen.
“I need to—” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. “I need to think.”
