Page 18 of Freedom’s Inferno

“But, you were calling me hot when you said I looked like the vampire from the movie, right?”

Something loosened in my sternum.

Stubborn, obstinate woman.

“No, I was saying you look like you’re out for blood.”

I slowed inside the doorway of Gary Byres’s place, my gaze climbing the vaulted ceiling and tracing the sweep of a staircase that probably cost more than my first apartment. Polished hardwood, chandelier glittering like a star field, even the air smelled like expensive wine and designer perfume.

“Jesus,” I muttered, snagging a bacon-topped crostini from a passing server’s tray. “I think we’re paying this guy too much.”

Beside me, Lana’s mouth curled in that little half-smile that always hid more than it showed. “His wife’s a surgeon. Between the two of them, they’re not hurting for money.”

I opened my mouth to answer when something barreled across the glossy floor and hit my leg. A flash of brown-and-white fur, a thump of paws, and a wet nose bumping against my thigh.

“Shit!” I steadied myself, then looked down into the droopy eyes of a beagle wagging his tail like I’d made his whole night. The dog barked once, joyous, before licking at my hand.

“Uh… hey there, buddy.” Against my better judgment, I slipped him the bacon and gave him a rough scratch behind the ears. His tail wagged so hard I thought he’d tip over.

“Douglas!”

A warm voice carried across the foyer, and a moment later Gary Byres appeared in his gala tux, a glass of champagne dangling from his hand. He approached with the kind of confident ease that only comes from money and knowing everyone wants to be on your good side.

“I’m so sorry about him,” Byres said, crouching to shoo the dog back. “Douglas tends to forget his manners when we have guests.”

“No harm done,” I said, brushing fur off my slacks.

The dog gave me one last hopeful look before retreating.

Byres straightened, flashing a lawyer’s smile: equal parts charm and assessment. “Charles Sterling. And Mrs. Blackwell. So glad you both could make it tonight.” He shook our hands and offered Lana his condolences.

She accepted with easy grace, her gaze skimming the room behind him.

“You’ll excuse me,” he said, “I need to check on the caterers. Please, make yourselves at home.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving a faint trail of cologne behind him.

“What now?” Lana asked, eyes sweeping around the room.

“What do you mean, ‘what now?’ This was your plan!” I hissed.

The entire room had stopped to stare as we entered, or so it seemed.

I’m just being paranoid.

Lana chewed her lip, working through a puzzle. “All right, we shmooze, graze our way through the appetizer table, and hope we find an opening to sneak away…”

“Sneak away? This isn’t a fucking spy novel.”

“Just trust me, okay? Follow my lead.” She took my arm before I could argue, her nails digging into my sleeve just enough to remind me who was steering.

I let her pull me toward the crowd, the hum of conversation swelling as crystal glasses clinked and laughter rose from silver-tongued throats. Every smile a mask, every handshake a trap.

Lana moved like she belonged, and it reminded me of how different we were.

I followed, my jaw tight, scanning every face for a crack in the façade. If this were a spy novel, I’d have been way more badass. Instead, I was exposed.

Chapter 8