Curious, I unzip the bag, first seeing the beautiful mask Walker made for the masquerade a year ago. I scoop it up, setting it on the mattress, already distracted by what I think is in the bag: the beautiful, blood-red gauzy dress I tried on for Trevor’s engagement party. The one that I loved but was much too scandalous for meeting Trips’ family.
Knowing what I do now, I should have worn the thing as an epic fuck you to the lot of them, minus Mattie of course. But she’d probably be on the same side as Trips and me and find the dress appropriately anti-upper crust.
Swallowing back too much emotion, I pull out the dress, surprised when the bag falls to the floor with a bang.
Setting aside the dress, I dig into the bag and find the shoes I’d thought would look good with it—strappy sandals that go up to my knees, something an amazon would wear.
The entire ensemble had been too much for me then. But now?
I’ve taken a life, nearly taken a second, chopped off fingers, and held my dad while he died. I’m still here, a survivor of a war I’d never wanted to wage.
RJ told us earlier that the cadaver dogs found more bodies, and that the police have nearly uncovered all the connections between the shell companies. Soon, they’ll know that it was Trips’ dad who owned the cabin. We hope it will be enough for them to dig into the secrets we planted at the estate.
Meanwhile, the sex crimes task force Reed works on almost has what they need to arrest Trevor.
The plan is coming together, even if it’s slower than I’d imagined. At least the text Jansen sent made the staff disappear overnight. Trips’ father has to know that was us, that the police are circling. But he isn’t running, and none of us knows why. Jansen thinks he might be too sick to run, but until that man is six feet under, I won’t believe any weakness would stop him from getting what he wants.
I don’t want to think about what I’ve survived, though. Not about everything that’s still unsettled. For one night, we’re going to celebrate the man who had the hardest job of all of us: RJ. It’s clear he spent months in front of his screens before he had to sneak into the wedding as well. He was absolutely vital, but the weight of his role has taken its toll.
Now that there’s nothing to do, he’s sleeping at strange times and hovering just outside of the conversation. My breakdown seems to have hit him differently than the others. He’s treating me like I’m fragile, like the wrong word could send me back to the place I was in a few days ago, staring ata wall from before the sun rose until long after it set. He’s not wrong—I am fragile. But I don’t want him to treat me like I am. Which means I’m going to have to tell him that.
Or maybe show him.
A ridiculous plan builds in my mind as I slip into the dress, the swimsuit bottom and the halter tie top still such a weird combo to me. It’s perfectly hemmed for the shoes, and once again I wonder about what the guys were up to last year. I paint my face in fierce lines, the swipe of eyeliner the boldest I’ve seen on myself in months, nothing of the sweet, girlish style that was expected of me left on my face.
With my hair a mess of curls above my shoulders, the curl pattern tighter with less weight pulling it down, my nipples visible through the folds of the sheer fabric, I look like the warrior I’d imagined. Give me a sword, and I could take down whatever enemy stands in front of me.
Powerful. I look powerful.
And for the first time, that identity settles into my bones. It had been a mask before, a feeling I was trying to embody. But now, with everything I’ve survived, I know I am exactly that. Powerful. A survivor. A fighter.
A queen.
With an army of beautiful, talented men at my disposal.
A knock on the bathroom door pulls me from my thoughts, and I open it to find a suited RJ, a nervous smile on his face, his masquerade mask dangling from his fingers along with a small bag. His smile falls as he takes in my appearance, something hungry coming over him as his eyes skate over me.
I have a feeling a similar look must cross my face, because by the time our eyes meet, the air vibrates between us. “Happy Birthday,” I say, stepping into the hallway.
He clears his throat but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he tugs me to my room, pushing the door shut with his back. I stand awkwardly as he breathes heavily, then urges me to sit in one of my pink chairs, perching across from me, worrying the ties of the little bag he has in his hands.
“What’s that?”
He looks down at it. “It’s for you.”
“It’s your birthday. You’re the one who’s supposed to be getting all the gifts,” I laugh.
The hint of a smile curls the corner of his mouth. “Maybe giving you gifts is a gift to me?”
“So I’m your present?”
He reaches across, snagging one of my hands. “You’re the only gift I’ll ever want, Clara.”
Emotion swells, and I tilt my head back, blinking quickly. “Don’t you dare make me cry when I just finished my makeup.”
He squeezes my fingers. “You can cry if you want. You’d still be breathtaking.”
“Stop it,” I whine, blinking even faster.
