“Dylan Danvers said something that confirmed a suspicion I had and gave me an idea.”
“You talked to him?”
“I have you to thank for reminding me about his show.”
Stephanie entered an intersection as the yellow light turned red.
“What did Dylan tell you?”
“Believe me, the less you know, the safer you are. But I do need you to help me get back into my house so I can open Karl’s safe.”
“Done. I already texted my salon and told them it was an emergency, but they can’t take you for two hours. Which gives us time to get you some decent clothes. I’d take you to the house and give you some of mine, but Gavin only has a half day at school—besides, we really don’t wear the same size.”
Stephanie had always been two sizes smaller and never failed to mention it. Cara found it comforting that she was more worried about being seen with someone badly dressed than aiding and abetting a fugitive.
They pulled up in front of Neiman Marcus, where Stephanie told Cara to get out and start shopping while she parked. They would meet at the dressing room in the contemporary department. She peeled out and turned the corner before Cara could say she didn’t have enough money to pay for anything.
Cara did her best to look like she belonged—after all, she once had—as she grabbed a couple of pairs of cargo pants, some T-shirts, a blazer, and a reasonably priced Varley sweatshirt before locking herself into the dressing room. While she waited, she checked Stephanie’s Instagram, just to be sure she wasn’t vaguebooking abouta special visitor I can’t revealora top-secret shopping trip at Neiman Marcus. Thankfully, she hadn’t posted a thing.
A few minutes later, Cara heard her on the sales floor, loudly asking for items “in a size four, obviously not for me,” before she thundered into the dressing room. “Car... are you in here?”
“At the back, on the right,” Cara answered quietly, hoping Stephanie would follow suit.
Stephanie’s arms were overflowing as she handed Cara a powder-blue double-breasted jacket with a matching short skirt and a canary yellow jumper.
When Cara stripped down to her underwear, Stephanie gasped.
“They’re really comfortable,” Cara said, feeling defensive, but not willing to admit her bra and panties were from Goodwill.
Stephanie exhaled dramatically and left, returning with a Natori bra and a three-pack of high-cut briefs. “Please leave those things in a trash can before we leave the store.”
There was no point arguing that they could be washed.
Stephanie had also grabbed a pair of Jimmy Choo booties, a white sleeveless Cinq a Sept top, and a pair of black jeans. “We need to get you a pair of Vejas. They’re kind of last year, but you can’t keep wearing that pair of Golden Goose.”
“This is all perfect,” Cara told her, “but I can’t afford the underwear, much less everything else.”
“It’s on me. This is mostly for my benefit, anyway. I really can’t take you into the salon in what you were wearing. Which reminds me, we have to get your makeup that matches your face. I’ll grab the essentials, and we’ll make sure you don’t look like you were in a fight before we go.”
Cara was starting to suspect Stephanie had wanted to give her a complete makeover all these years and was now delighted she had her chance.
She gave her a big hug anyway.
SIXTY-FOUR
JORDAN
Sigalert on the 405 at Sunset. Traffic backed up to the 101.
—KNX 1070 AM
Wen drove like a native Angeleno, arguing with Crosby about the fastest route to Beverly Hills.
“Let’s just take the 405,” he said.
“Ventura Boulevard to Coldwater Canyon,” she insisted. “I do it, like, all the time.”
“Exactly how often do you go to Beverly Hills?”
