Page 17

“Says the woman who ran a full background check on me before replying to my text.”

“It’s called due diligence.” I rake my fingers through my bedhead. “Researching the strange man who helped me bury a corpse is very responsible behavior, actually.”

A low laugh. “I stand corrected. Come make another responsible decision and have breakfast with me.”

This time, I don’t hesitate. “Yes.” Even if I don’t know how responsible this is.

I give him the place. He gives me the time. Then I stare at my phone.

Fuck. What the hell am I going to wear?

By the time I pull into the restaurant parking lot, my bedroom floor looks like the bottom of a hamster cage. Except, instead of wood shavings, it’s seventy percent of my wardrobe. In my case, killing a man is easier than dressing for breakfast with one. Not breakfast with the man I killed. Jesus. The other one. The hot one who helped me bury him.

I shut off the engine and grip the steering wheel while my pulse tries to headbutt its way out of my body. People stroll inside carrying purses and toddlers and absolutely no awareness that I spent part of last night participating in felony landscaping. So lucky.

The oversized black hoodie is zipped to my neck, and loose black pants cover everything below it. Same silhouette. Same carefully cultivated suggestion that speaking to me may result in a necessary tetanus shot. Mom barely noticed me when I left. That should make this easier. It doesn’t.

My fingers tremble on the zipper. Then I pull it down.

Underneath is a pale blue lace blouse I forgot I owned, sheer florals across my shoulders, white lace at the neckline, and a tiny black ribbon at my throat. With the black skirt, I resemble some lost version of myself trying to find her way back. Half goth, half storybook. Emo Alice on the wrong side of the mirror.

The tights are the problem. Black sheer lace threaded with flowers from ankle to thigh. They lived unopened for almost two years because every time I considered wearing them, a too-loud voice whispered they were too noticeable. Too feminine. Too inviting. Pressure builds somewhere I can’t reach. Ugh!—it’s breakfast, not exposure therapy.

I wiggle out of the loose pants with all the grace of a raccoon escaping a garbage can and throw them into the back. The hoodie follows.

In the rearview mirror: black hair I hate. Dark liner I hate more. The temporary teardrop tattoos. The real tongue piercing and the row of rings along each ear. Hate. Hate. Hate.

But the bow? Black velvet with ribbons spilling down my hair. It’s ridiculous. And I adore it.

The mask isn’t gone. It isn’t even particularly damaged. Now there’s a hairline crack running through it, and for reasons I refuse to unpack in a restaurant parking lot, I don’t hate what I can see through it.

My phone buzzes, and I jump so hard, it pisses piss me off.

GAGE: I’m inside. I resisted ordering for you.

ME: I’m proud of your personal growth.

GAGE: It has been extremely difficult. Also, yes. I hydrated.

ME: Thank God. I was worried.

GAGE: Were you?

My thumb hovers.

ME: Annoyingly, yes.

I touch the edge of my wine-colored lipstick. Less than twelve hours ago, this man was handing me a shovel beside a corpse. Now I’m worried whether my lipstick matches my shirt. My life has absolutely no genre consistency.

I reach for the door handle. “Go.” Nothing happens. “Jubilee, get out of the fucking car.”

My phone rings.

“You’ve been sitting in your car for four minutes.” I can hear the smirk.

Every muscle in my body locks. “What the fuck?!”

“Relax. I simply recognized the beautiful woman who keeps arguing with herself.”