him up and spit him out, just like any other mark. She’ll tread all over him in those razor-sharp stilettos in her attempt to scam the Hawthornes for all their worth.
A chilling thought occurs to me, shivering up my spine. How can I trust Miranda to keep going after Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne? With me out of town, what’s to stop her from settling her sights on the easier, more accessible, and equally lucrative target?
After all, for Miranda, there are no wrongs to avenge, no villains to punish.
There are only targets.
“No,” I hear myself whisper.
Miranda’s eyebrow arches. “Excuse me?”
“No,” I repeat, this time more loudly. “I’m staying.”
Her face slowly begins to contort: first her arching eyebrows, then her wrinkling nose, then her quickly flaring nostrils. Her teeth, pearly-white, flash at me as her mouth stretches into a snarl. I notice a stray smear of lipstick on her back tooth.
I’ve witnessed the full extent of Miranda’s temper only a handful times in my life, mostly when we were kids. As infrequent as they were, her hair-pulling and shin-kicking episodes were enough to convince me to stay on her good side. As we grew out of our adolescence together, her fevered tantrums became increasingly rare. I assumed that, since we were finally adults, she had finally mellowed out.
But as her talon-like nails dig into my hair and pull violently, I realize that her anger was there all along, just simmering beneath the surface. Tears prick at my eyes from the sudden pain.
“Do you know how many hours I’ve sunk into this job? Do you know how many strings I’ve pulled, to bring in our partners? Do you know what they’ll do to me if I back out?” she shrieks. “ You were the one who begged for my help. You were the one who pulled me into this scheme in the first place. And, of all people, it’s you who’s standing in my way!”
“It’s not about me, Miranda. Or you, for that matter,” I retort, pushing her away. My hands fly to my head, smoothing down my hair and massaging my aching scalp.
“No, apparently now it’s all about Liam ,” she seethes.
“It doesn’t have to. And that’s on you, you know,” I shoot back hotly. “Maybe if you were a better criminal, you’d find a way to get to his parents that didn’t involve him. Maybe we wouldn’t be stuck in this situation.”
Wrong thing to say.
Miranda rushes toward me, shoving me towards the door with a surprising strength.
“Get out, get out, get out!” she screeches. With a final, violent push, she knocks me into the hallway. My heels give way beneath me, and I stumble to the carpeted floor.
Her door slams shut loudly. All along the corridor, doors begin to open. Heads poke out of their rooms, curious about all of the commotion.
With difficulty, I clamber to my feet. Desperate to flee this damn building and retreat to the safety of my own hotel room, I begin to walk forward. But as soon as I do, my ankle twists and I stumble once more to the ground.
I glance down at my feet, confused, and notice the swinging hinge of my left heel. It’s nearly snapped in two, hanging on by a thread.
Great , I think bitterly. Icing on the cake.
11
The call comes the next day. Thinking that it’s Miranda calling, I let it go to voice mail at first. I know she’s only calling to further berate me; when she loses her temper like this, it tends to last for a few days. I tug the hotel comforter up around my ears to muffle the sound of the ringing.
But when it rings a second time, and then a third, my curiosity gets the better of me. What could be so urgent? I wonder, flinging out an arm towards the night stand.
My eyebrows rise in surprise when I see Riley’s name on the screen. I answer.
“Sorry, sorry,” I say. “I thought you were my cousin.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Riley says. “Did the two of you have a falling out or something?”
“Something like that,” I say vaguely, moving my hand to my head. My
A chilling thought occurs to me, shivering up my spine. How can I trust Miranda to keep going after Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne? With me out of town, what’s to stop her from settling her sights on the easier, more accessible, and equally lucrative target?
After all, for Miranda, there are no wrongs to avenge, no villains to punish.
There are only targets.
“No,” I hear myself whisper.
Miranda’s eyebrow arches. “Excuse me?”
“No,” I repeat, this time more loudly. “I’m staying.”
Her face slowly begins to contort: first her arching eyebrows, then her wrinkling nose, then her quickly flaring nostrils. Her teeth, pearly-white, flash at me as her mouth stretches into a snarl. I notice a stray smear of lipstick on her back tooth.
I’ve witnessed the full extent of Miranda’s temper only a handful times in my life, mostly when we were kids. As infrequent as they were, her hair-pulling and shin-kicking episodes were enough to convince me to stay on her good side. As we grew out of our adolescence together, her fevered tantrums became increasingly rare. I assumed that, since we were finally adults, she had finally mellowed out.
But as her talon-like nails dig into my hair and pull violently, I realize that her anger was there all along, just simmering beneath the surface. Tears prick at my eyes from the sudden pain.
“Do you know how many hours I’ve sunk into this job? Do you know how many strings I’ve pulled, to bring in our partners? Do you know what they’ll do to me if I back out?” she shrieks. “ You were the one who begged for my help. You were the one who pulled me into this scheme in the first place. And, of all people, it’s you who’s standing in my way!”
“It’s not about me, Miranda. Or you, for that matter,” I retort, pushing her away. My hands fly to my head, smoothing down my hair and massaging my aching scalp.
“No, apparently now it’s all about Liam ,” she seethes.
“It doesn’t have to. And that’s on you, you know,” I shoot back hotly. “Maybe if you were a better criminal, you’d find a way to get to his parents that didn’t involve him. Maybe we wouldn’t be stuck in this situation.”
Wrong thing to say.
Miranda rushes toward me, shoving me towards the door with a surprising strength.
“Get out, get out, get out!” she screeches. With a final, violent push, she knocks me into the hallway. My heels give way beneath me, and I stumble to the carpeted floor.
Her door slams shut loudly. All along the corridor, doors begin to open. Heads poke out of their rooms, curious about all of the commotion.
With difficulty, I clamber to my feet. Desperate to flee this damn building and retreat to the safety of my own hotel room, I begin to walk forward. But as soon as I do, my ankle twists and I stumble once more to the ground.
I glance down at my feet, confused, and notice the swinging hinge of my left heel. It’s nearly snapped in two, hanging on by a thread.
Great , I think bitterly. Icing on the cake.
11
The call comes the next day. Thinking that it’s Miranda calling, I let it go to voice mail at first. I know she’s only calling to further berate me; when she loses her temper like this, it tends to last for a few days. I tug the hotel comforter up around my ears to muffle the sound of the ringing.
But when it rings a second time, and then a third, my curiosity gets the better of me. What could be so urgent? I wonder, flinging out an arm towards the night stand.
My eyebrows rise in surprise when I see Riley’s name on the screen. I answer.
“Sorry, sorry,” I say. “I thought you were my cousin.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Riley says. “Did the two of you have a falling out or something?”
“Something like that,” I say vaguely, moving my hand to my head. My
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