Reputation(71)
I back away as though it’s made of poison. “What are you doing? Don’t give me things.”
He drops it in my lap. “Open it. Seriously. I’m not taking it back.”
“You should be with your wife. Your family.” As much as I hate Lynn right now, I can’t take her husband away from her.
“You’re going through a lot,” Patrick says. “And I feel guilty about what Lynn did. And . . . well, I’m unhappy, Kit. Miserable, in fact. I can’t stop thinking about you. Us.”
“Patrick . . .”
He leans toward me just as he did that day at the bar—with interest, with need. Maybe I’m too exhausted not to pull away, but if I am honest, he entrances me—his sadness, his wanting, the way he seems so bedazzled by me. So I lean in, too. Our lips crash into one another, and it is everything I’ve yearned for. I push harder into him, moaning, spinning, my heart thundering. When Patrick pulls away, I can feel tears on my face that I can’t explain. He looks at them worriedly, but I just wipe them away and laugh. I’m upset. I’m joyful. I’m ambiguous.
When our phones start pinging, we look at one another mournfully. “Back to work,” I say quietly. I already feel the ache of his absence. By his expression, I can tell Patrick feels the same.
He nudges his chin toward the jewelry box still on my lap. “Go on. See what I got for you.”
I let out one more note of protest, but it seems clear that Patrick isn’t taking no for an answer. Slowly, I open the box. I gasp at all the diamonds twinkling at me and shut it tight, glaring at him. “Jesus,” I whisper. “Why?”
He grins boyishly, grabbing the box from me and lifting the bracelet off the velvet. The chain is delicate, and the diamonds are plentiful and flawless. “It’s a bracelet fit for a queen. Didn’t you say you were part royalty?”
I try to speak, but I have no words. Is it possible our coming together is fate? Can I allow my brain to go there?
I reach for him, then pull away. Maybe I’ve been too burned. Maybe I need to sort out my feelings about Greg, which are still largely unexplored.
Or maybe I should just take the leap. Maybe the third time is the charm.
And so I stretch out my hand once more, and Patrick takes it. And then I lean toward him, living out the fantasy I haven’t been able to get out of my brain since the day we met.
25
RAINA
WEDNESDAY, MAY 3, 2017
That evening, I walk down a hallway of an old brick apartment building. The air smells like garbage. A light above me flickers, threatening to go out. A couple screams behind one of the doors; from another, I hear death metal.
I find apartment 22 and knock. On the other side, I hear the metallic clink of a latch being undone. The door opens, and here is Alexis. Not a resident of Hudson dorm, as she first told me. Not even a student at Aldrich University, period. The Facebook page she created, the one I fell for hook, line, and sinker? It’s all a lie. Even her style has changed—today, instead of crisp Tory Burch and Burberry everything, she wears a ripped cotton T-shirt and threadbare skinny jeans. Her eyeliner is thicker, messier; her hair falls across her face. And yet I still find her hot. Even though she could ruin me.
Alexis steps aside for me to enter. The apartment is dim and sparsely furnished. Dishes are piled in the sink, and there’s a rancid smell in the air. The blue couch is stained, the coffee table looks like it’s on the verge of collapse, and my eye goes to a framed picture of Alexis and some dude on the mantel. I almost want to point out that this dude isn’t Trip, until I catch myself.
“Drink?” Alexis asks from the kitchen, a dingy little galley that looks infested with bugs. She unscrews the cap of a large jug of vodka and glugs some into two glasses. As she passes me one, she rolls her eyes. “Don’t look so miserable. So I caught you.” She flops down in the chair opposite me. “I should be the miserable one. You were supposed to be my meal ticket.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” I say bitterly, knocking back the vodka. It tastes like rubbing alcohol.
I want to leave. Alexis is no longer the only person who knows what I did. I recall the fresh fear that went through me when Willa Manning cornered me on the street yesterday. Willa knew everything about me, down to the amount Greg had given me, down to where Dr. Rosen used to live. She’d even spoken to my mother. The fear shot straight to my bones. Everything I worked so hard for, everything I thought I could still achieve—was it about to be taken away? Willa held all the cards. It would be so easy for her to ruin me.
But Willa was questioning me because she thought I killed Greg. The thought astounded me, but seeing it from her perspective, it isn’t so crazy. There was nothing I could do but tell her the arrangement Greg and I had. I didn’t want to be on her suspect list—having the police question me would blow my secrets wide open. And I came up with a good bargain to ensure Willa would keep quiet, too—I hated using Sienna’s whereabouts as bait, but after seeing my friend the day after Greg’s death and at that party where she was guzzling wine into oblivion, I had a feeling she was keeping secrets. By the way Willa snapped to attention, I assume she thought so, too. But the idea of Willa telling Sienna the truth hurts. I value Sienna’s friendship more than I realized.
But I have no advantage with Alexis. Nothing to ensure she keeps her mouth shut. I’ve racked my brain all morning, but besides the wine we stole from that mansion on Tuesday, I don’t know anything about her.