I can perform this. I’ve been performing for five years. I can smile and flirt and pretend my skin doesn’t crawl every time he gets close.
I have to.
“While I’m actually listening to everything they say.”
“Exactly.” She squeezes. “Role reversal. I do your analytical investigation thing. You do my social butterfly thing.”
This is what Alex does. What she’s always done. Takes my spiral and turns it into action. Takes my fear and weaponizes it. Gives me something to control when I feel powerless.
And I love her for it. Need it. Even as I recognize the pattern.
She’s managing my emotions because I can’t. And that’s okay. That’s what dandelions do—grow together, survive together, hold each other up when the concrete gets too heavy.
It’s insane.
It might work.
“We dig deeper,” I say slowly. “At the fundraiser. Turn the trap into an opportunity.”
“Dandelions grow through concrete.” Alex’s voice is steady. Sure. “They wouldn’t give up. Neither will we.”
If I have to play his girlfriend, I’ll play it so well he won’t see me gathering evidence against him.
If I have to smile and flirt and charm his donors, I’ll do it while memorizing names and connections and every detail that might help us later.
If I have to dance with the devil, I’ll lead.
“Friday night,” I say. “We go to war.”
If I survive that long. If I don’t break. If I’m as smart as Mariana thinks I am.
“Friday night,” Alex agrees. “We go to war.”
She pulls the Eight of Swords card from her pocket. Shows it to me. The bound woman surrounded by swords.
But her feet are free. The swords don’t touch her. She could walk away if she just realized.
“You’re not as trapped as they think you are,” Alex says softly. “Plus I’ll drive you and stay nearby.”
I look at the card. At the dress. At my best friend who believes in me even when I don’t believe in myself.
Maybe she’s right.
Or maybe I’m about to walk into the same trap that killed Dahlia and all the others. Maybe I’m not special. Not different. Not smart enough.
But I’m going anyway. Because I have no choice. And if I’m going, I’m going as a weapon.
“Let’s go home,” Alex says. “We have work to do.”
Fourteen
Time feels distorted.
As though I’m existing outside of myself. As though life happens around me but never tome.
In front of me is our full-length mirror. Reflecting someone back at me.
I’m not so sure that woman is even me.
