She switches from Spotify to radio, feeling it’s in poor taste to pull into the post-funeral gathering playing songs from the alleged murderer.
Naomi looks down at her white shirt and black tie, the uniform of the country club’s servers, before fixing her side braid. Since press is strictly prohibited and invitations will be checked at the door, her plan is to covertly enter the memorial service as if she’s one of the staff, before changing into guest attire and posing as a former colleague of Colton’s.
She breathes deeply as she passes through the wrought-iron gates, ready to find out if this is either an incredibly clever or foolish plan.
The security guard eyes her suspiciously as she rolls her window down, a clipboard in his hand. She’s about to speak, but then he quickly waves her through, after spotting a few black limousines pulling up behind her. A rush of relief and adrenaline courses through her as she realizes she’s made it past the first obstacle.
A spectacular white dome comes into view as Naomi reaches the top of the emerald hill. The multistory structure is lined with windows on the first floor and a wraparound porch on the second. Guests are already standing outside on the balcony area, smoking and conversing.
Naomi parks her car and surveys the entrance. She notices numerous servers, wearing the same outfit she’s currently wearing, coming in and out of the door to the left. To the right, elegantly dressed guests, all clad in expensive black attire, are making their way through the glass bifold doors. It doesn’t look like any security is checking guests’ identification or stopping anyone trying to walk into the main entrance. Aside from the men at the second gate, the only security are those looking out onto the golf course and surrounding property.
Naomi smirks, realizing they’re probably trying to make sure no press or paparazzi sneak through the wooded area. “And I drove right through the checkpoint,” she whispers to herself.
She inhales, absorbing the boost of confidence, and takes off her black tie. Underneath her white shirt, she’s wearing a satin-black camisole tucked into black trousers. She chucks the shirt and tie into the footwell of the passenger seat and pulls on a black blazer before swapping out her flats for stilettos and grabbing her clutch bag.
Brown leaves crunch beneath her feet as she steps out of the car. She shouldn’t be surprised by the cool breeze that greets her—it is Maine, after all—but still she shivers as she marches forward.
*
The mood inside the country club isn’t as somber as Naomi expects. She was worried that going to a funeral would put her off her game, that it would bring back floods of painful memories. But this lavish event is a far cry from the low-key gathering she held for her mom and Faye.
Aside from the black attire, it feels more like a wedding reception with the impressive tables of food, loud chatter, and laughter.
Naomi scans the crowd for Casey Scott, taking in the sea of famous and influential cliques. A group of politicians, including Colton’s uncle Kenneth Scott, are gathered around a high-top table to her left, while a group of bank CEOs and hedge fund managers are huddled by the bar to her right. She can almost smell the money coming off them, that group alone worth the GDP of a small country. Then there are the lone wolves, using the wake as a networking event.
Naomi pushes through the crowd, stopping when she notices the impressive ensemble in front of her, including most of theMr. Americacast alongside a few supermodels and musicians. It’s strange to think Harlow isn’t here. Of course it makes sense, but still. It’s also odd that Colton’s ex-fiancée, Meghan Rhodes, doesn’t seem to be among the guests. But one face in particular stands out—because it’s impossible to miss.
In the center of the room, a giant oil painting of Colton stares back at her. She recognizes him by his boyish grin and lush eyelashes. But the warmth of his appearance is gone—as if his ghost has taken possession of the photo and is waiting to haunt everyone here.
Everyone thinks he’s this can-do-no-wrong hero, but he can’t be as great as everyone makes him out to be.
Not to talk bad about the dead, but I didn’t like him.
A shiver crawls up Naomi’s spine as she recalls both Bobby and Trevor’s comments. Until now she’d chalked them up to him potentially being a cheater, a playboy who’d toy with Harlow’s emotions. But staring at his painting now, hypnotized by his dark-brown eyes and thick lashes, she can’t help but wonder if his heroic persona was hiding more than that. If, like Harlow, the world thought they knew him, but really had no idea.
What was your secret, Colton?she thinks.Did we not know the real you either?
*
Naomi almost doesn’t recognize Casey Scott with her new bob haircut, but the former model is one of the tallest women in the room. She’s wearing a loose-fitted black dress and a deep-red lip, reminding Naomi of Daisy Buchanan. Casey says something to the bartender and then looks down at her phone. Her husband, James, Colton’s brother, is next to her, casually leaning on the bar as he quietly speaks to another man, his face turned away from Naomi.
She decides to take her chance.
“Excuse me,” Naomi says exasperatedly as she approaches the bar. Once Casey turns, Naomi reaches past her and grabs a napkin from the tray.
“Sorry.” Naomi grimaces. She points to her top, which she pretends has just been soiled by something. She dabs at the dry fabric with a napkin.
“Well, at least it’s black,” Casey says. “I can’t even see anything.”
A metaphorical lock clicks in Naomi’s mind, and she is relieved Casey didn’t just smirk and turn away.
Naomi sighs, throwing the napkin down at the bar. “It’s only from Target anyway. Don’t tell anyone, though.”
Casey smiles, and Naomi knows her self-deprecating comment worked. Naomi has a strategy planned for various people she might encounter today, and her strategy for Casey is to appear down-to-earth and utterly average. She read that Casey’s parents were both public school teachers, so figures she’ll respond better to someone who doesn’t seem pretentious or materialistic. And she’s right.
“I’m Faye,” Naomi says, mentally cursing herself the second her sister’s name comes out of her mouth. She was planning on using Amelia’s name for a cover, but Faye slipped out instead. Just when she thought she was keeping it together…
Forcing herself to quickly recover from the mistake, Naomi stretches out her hand to Casey. “I used to work on Colton’s PR team.”
