“I’ll take it.”
The smile becomes genuine. “Excellent choice. Would you like to see shoes? We have some stunning heels that would pair perfectly—”
“Just the dress.”
At the register, she bills the four-figure price tag to the Kade account, then wraps the dress in tissue paper, sliding it into a garment bag with the store’s logo embossed in gold.
I head outside, ready to find Cam among the warren of shops.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
DAMIEN
The hiredballroom has floodlights mounted either side of the entrance, their beams aimed along a red carpet, balloons and streamers decorating each side.
We’re still twenty minutes out from the official start time, and the only people hanging around are venue staff, one of the supervising teachers, and the professional photographer, lining up his equipment for a series of perfect shots.
Cam’s positioned out back, patrolling the back entrance.
I’m doing the same from the front.
Ophelia could pull up to the curb any moment, and despite my threat, I doubt Chelsea altered her plans. She’s not the type.
My phone vibrates against my ribs.
CAM
got a guy with a squirt gun
alleyway behind the hall
I pocket my device and walk around the building’s perimeter, nodding at the security guard stationed by the staff entrance. Cam stands over a figure dressed entirely in black, curled on his side, cradling his wrist.
I pull a pair of leather gloves from my inside pocket, making a show of smoothing the black calfskin over each finger, flexing both hands when I’m done.
Cam nods to me. There’s dirt on his rented tuxedo and a satisfied gleam in his eye. “Saw him lurking near the side, looking twitchy. Then he pulled that.”
He points to a squirt gun lying a metre away. A cheap plastic thing painted matte black.
“Good job.”
I crouch next to the boy, studying him, letting the silence grow. His balaclava has slipped, revealing a weak chin covered with acne. “What’s your name?”
He doesn’t answer, just hunches tighter.
I pick up the squirt gun. It’s heavier than I expected, the reservoir full of ink, the fragrance of low-tide estuary rot.
The boy’s breathing becomes shallow, and I nod to Cam. “Grab his phone.”
He frisks the guy, pulling out a phone and dragging up the balaclava. He’s our age but I don’t recognise him. The phone unlocks on the view of his face.
“Yeah,” Cam says. “She’s here.” He shows me the screen, then continues scrolling. “Just this prank, nothing else.”
“Okay.” I nod again and he drops it on the asphalt, slamming it with his heel a dozen times for good measure.
The boy whimpers when I crouch beside him. “You’re getting off easy. If you’d followed through, that wrist would be broken, not bruised.” I stand back, satisfied at his fearful expression. “Now get out of here.”
He clambers to his feet, and staggers away, favouring his injured arm.
