How are women supposed to hold this much fabric while doing their business? This is why we normally go to the bathroom in packs.
My chest clenches at the thought, reminding me that it’s been far too long since I’ve seen Blake. I make a mental note to text her and finish up in the stall.
I’m washing my hands when I hear, “You.”
My hands pause under the faucet as I blink. Looking in the mirror, I see someone standing behind me by the door. “Hi, Clara.”
She pushes off the wall where she was leaning and approaches, glowering at me. Her words come out a bit slurred. “You must think you’ve won.”
“Excuse me?” I ask as I dry my hands on a paper towel and toss it in the trash.
Clara places a hand on the counter like she can’t stand on her own. “Showing up here with all three of them drooling after you.”
I flinch, exhaling sharply. “What? They weren’t?—”
“You meannothingto them,” she spits at me and holds up a finger. “I give you one more week, and then they’ll throw your ass out on the curb with the rest of the trash.”
“You need to leave,” I respond firmly.
“I know who you are,Savannah Bartlett. You’re not fooling anyone.” My body freezes at her use of my father’s last name. I don’t know how she figured it out. “You don’t belong here. You’re the daughter of a psychopath. You’re probably just as crazy as he is.”
Her words are like a slap in the face, and I don’t plan on sticking around to let her do it again. I push past her and dart out the door.
“Savannah?” I hear Hollis call out to me, but I ignore him. “Shit. We have a situation…” I assume he’s talking into his hidden microphone, but I don’t bother to listen to the rest of his commands.
I’m out the main doors and back on the red carpet when the flashes blind me again. I hold my hands up in an attempt to shield my eyes. But this time I don’t have Hunter to help me through the leeches.
“Ms. Bartlett!”
“Ms. Bartlett, over here!”
“Savannah, look to the camera!”
I shove my way through, not caring about the people I might be hurting along the way. They don’t care about my privacy, so I don’t care about their comfort.
There’s a jerk on my arm, and I’m pulled up short. “Long time no see, Savannah.”
My eyes adjust, discovering a microphone shoved in my face. Blonde hair and bright red lips come into view. “Sherry,” I reply curtly. Behind her, a cameraman points his camera directly at us.
Sherry Jenkins is the lowest of the low. She’s the definition of self-serving. She used to corner me anywhere and everywhere when John was on trial. I thought I saw the last of her when he was found guilty.
Guess not.
“Would you mind answering some questions?” Sherry moves the microphone closer to my mouth.
I push her hand away. “I’m not taking any questions at this time.”
She raises the microphone again, despite my answer. “Does Hunter Reed know who you are? Did you tell him that your father is the infamous serial killer, John the Baptist?”
Shaking my head, I struggle to keep it together. My hands flex at my sides, desperate for my knife. “Get out of my way.”
Sherry acts as if I haven’t spoken at all. “Did you lie to Hunter Reed to get to his money? Is it true you made him take you on a shopping spree where you spent tens of thousands of dollars?”
Her questions throw me off balance. Falling for her trap, I respond, “What? No.”
“Out of the way, Sherry,” a voice growls from behind me, and a set of familiar hands engulf my arms, pulling me back into a rigid body.
“Hunter Reed,” Sherry acknowledges. “Good. I have some questions for you, too.”
