Carolyn’s eyebrows made a V. “My roommate at Stanford is gay. I’ve been to a lesbian bar in Palo Alto with her a bunch of times.”
Again, Carolyn had that defensive, I’m-pretending-I’m-not-mad-at-you-but-I’m-still-furious tone, almost like she expected Emily to apologize to her for assuming she was being narrow-minded. Emily raised her palms to the sky in surrender. “Okay. Let’s go.”
They were halfway across the parking lot when Emily heard a giggle. The cars cast long shadows onto the ground. There was a rustling sound behind a picnic table. Even if it’s Ali, I’m safe, she thought, glancing at the black town car that had parked discreetly in the back of the lot.
Still, there was something spooky about the fact that it really could be Ali. If Ali walked up to Emily right now, would Emily be vengeful and punishing, or would she smile weakly and accept her apology? In the days since they’d told the cops, Emily had felt guilty twinges. She’d told them everything. The cops would be looking for Ali now. Emily didn’t love Ali anymore, though—the guilt was more a knee-jerk reaction. She wondered how long it would take to go away.
Inside were sounds of a female singing voice and an acoustic guitar. Emily followed Carolyn inside, noting the silvery streamers hanging from the ceiling, the fruity-smelling candles on the bar, the giant tropical fish tank, and the plushy armchairs—which were all filled with girls. There was a stage set up at the back with a dance floor in front of it. Several couples were waltzing. Two girls were making out on the windowsill. But other than that, the bar didn’t seem that different from anywhere else in Hollis—the same beers were on tap, and the same dart boards and pool tables stood at the side. There was even a hockey game on a small screen over the bar.
Carolyn hovered at the edge of the bar. Emily stood next to her, not knowing what to say. A pretty black girl caught Emily’s eye. She raised her hand and waved. Emily looked down, feeling shy. Carolyn still didn’t say a word. Were they just going to stand here all night?
The singer played a Beatles cover, then something by Bob Marley. Suddenly, Carolyn whirled around. “We need to lighten the mood. Want to dance?”
Emily almost burst out laughing. Carolyn totally wasn’t the dancing type. But her sister looked serious, her arms outstretched, her hips rocking back and forth. “Okay,” Emily said, following.
They walked onto the dance floor and started to move to the beat of the reggae song. The pretty black girl who’d waved at Emily sidled up to her and took her hand, but Emily gave her a demure smile. “I have a girlfriend.”
“Don’t we all?” The black girl smiled, showing off the straightest teeth Emily had ever seen. “It’s just a dance, honey. No strings.” Then she handed Emily a champagne flute full of bubbling liquid. “I’m River. And this is on me.”
Emily glanced at her sister, who was grinning at her. Suddenly, amid the hand-holding, cheek-kissing, slow-dancing couples, Emily could almost feel Jordan’s soft skin in her palm, smell the jasmine perfume on her neck. She missed Jordan times a million, but it was only a dance and a glass of champagne. Whatever.
The song morphed into something fast, with a techno beat, and River took Emily’s hands and spun her around. Emily sipped her drink, the fizzy bubbles making her feel lighter and free. A tall girl who had her hair in pigtails coaxed Carolyn into a conga line, and they shuffled around the dance floor, their cheeks shiny and their eyes bright. Emily and her new friend grabbed on and followed them. Someone held up her phone and snapped a picture. The bartender, a muscled girl with arms full of tattoos, tipped back her head and laughed.
Suddenly, Emily noticed a familiar skinny, white-blonde in the crowd. Iris?
She pushed away from Carolyn and wove through the group. The white-blond girl stood in front of an ATM, her back to Emily. Emily touched her bony shoulder, her heart pounding. The girl turned. She had a pointier face, brown eyes instead of green. “Yes?” she said in a friendly enough voice. But it wasn’t Iris’s voice.
Emily’s heart sank. “Sorry. I thought you were someone else.” Despair fluttered through her. Please let Iris turn up, she prayed to the universe. Please let her be okay.
She went back to Carolyn, trying not to think about it. They danced for three more songs, to the point of sweatiness. Finally, Carolyn careened to the sidelines, breathing hard. River kissed Emily on the cheek and disappeared into the crowd. Emily plopped down on a couch with her sister again, daring to lean into Carolyn’s shoulder. Carolyn didn’t pull away.
“Thanks,” Emily said. “That was a good idea.”
Carolyn’s eyes softened. “So . . . truce?”
“Truce,” Emily said. “Definitely.”
Carolyn held up a drink and clinked it to Emily’s drained champagne glass. Emily peered at Carolyn’s tall glass of dark liquid. It had a familiar smell, and she burst out laughing. “Is that straight-up Dr Pepper?”
Carolyn raised her glass. “Heck yeah, it is.”
Emily clinked her glass to her sister’s, hiding a smile. It seemed like Carolyn was still the same girl from the Rosewood Day French Festival, after all.
And you know what? Emily was kind of glad.
14
COFFEE TALK
That same Wednesday evening, Spencer lay on her bed, looking at the picture of the Acura keychain she’d taken with her phone just before dropping it off at Fuji’s office. Had Ali meant to drop it? Also, if Ali or Helper A were driving around in an Acura, it meant they had some cash. Clearly that wasn’t coming from Ali—her family was in financial trouble from keeping her in The Preserve for so many years. Did that mean Helper A had money? Maybe Spencer should call Fuji and suggest they get a list of every Acura driver on the Main Line. Maybe it would turn up a rich boy whose first name started with N.
“Spence?”
Spencer shot up. Her sister, Melissa, stood in the hall. She still had on a gray business suit and heels, which meant she’d come from her job at an investment firm in Philly. Only, Melissa didn’t live at home anymore—she’d moved into her city town house last year.
“What are you doing here?” Spencer asked.
“I came to talk to you,” Melissa said softly. She shut the door and walked into the room. “Look, I know what’s going on.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s her, isn’t it?” she said in an almost inaudible voice. “She survived the fire. She’s torturing you again. And now the cops are after her.”
There was a wide quality to Melissa’s eyes that made her look a bit possessed. “How did you know?” Spencer demanded.
“Don’t be mad. I heard about the cops coming after you but you being let go. Wilden still has a lot of connections in law enforcement. I made him ask around, and he found out about . . . you know.” She sat back. “I deserved to know, Spencer. She’s my half sister, too.”
Spencer got up and faced the window, which had a view of Ali’s old house. She hated thinking about how Ali was her half sister. “Don’t ask any more questions. You don’t want to end up in a closet with a dead body again.”
“But I don’t want you to end up dead, either.” Melissa walked up behind her and squeezed her shoulder. “If you need something, anything, I want to help. I hate that bitch as much as you do.”
She gave Spencer a hug, then rose and patted her shoulder. Call me, she mouthed before closing the door.
Spencer sat back against her headboard, blanket in her lap. Had that just happened? Her sister, now her ally? It was about time . . . but it was also the wrong time. Though Fuji had put security on Spencer’s family, too, it didn’t comfort her entirely. Melissa needed to stay as far away from Ali as she could.
A few minutes later, the doorbell downstairs rang. Spencer sprang up again, her heart thudding hard for a different reason. Chase.
She checked her reflection in the mirror, fluffing her blown-out hair. Did an above-knee-length Tory Burch wrap dress scream too formal? Chase was just taking her for coffee, after all. She glanced at her jeans, stacked neatly on a shelf in the closet. She didn’t even know why she was making such a big deal out of this, anyway—Chase was just a friend. A helpful friend, of course—a cute friend—and a friend she felt a bit indebted to, since he knew about Ali. But she had no idea why it had taken her so long to do her makeup or why, whenever she thought about Chase nosing around Mr. Pennythistle’s model home the other day, a small smile came over her face.
The doorbell rang again. Spencer groaned, shoved on a pair of low heels, and clomped down the stairs just as Mrs. Hastings was answering the door. “Well hello, Chase.”
Chase walked into the foyer. He smiled when he saw Spencer, then looked her outfit up and down. “Whoa. You look awesome.”
Spencer blushed. Chase was in cargo pants and a T-shirt. But before she could ask to change, Chase offered his arm. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”
He opened the door to his Honda, then pulled away from the curb. He took the exit toward the city, then turned right into a neighborhood Spencer didn’t recognize. “Where are we?” she asked, looking around. Judging by the red, white, and green flags hanging from the porches of the quaint brownstones that lined the streets, half of Italy must have pulled up stakes and relocated here.
“You’ll see,” Chase said as he parallel parked in front of an unassuming-looking coffee shop. Once again, he opened the door for Spencer to get out and took her hand but dropped it fast. Then he pushed open a jingling door to the café. It smelled strongly of espresso beans inside. The room had marble floors, bronzed countertops, and wrought-iron tables and chairs. Opera played over the speakers.
“Look who’s here!” a voice called, and then a silver-haired man in a pinstriped, three-piece suit emerged from behind the counter. He gave Chase a huge hug, giving off a strong scent of cigars. Spencer shifted from one foot to the other. He looked like someone out of The Sopranos.
“Spencer, this is Nico,” Chase said, when the hug ended. “Nico, Spencer.”
Nico looked Spencer up and down, then cuffed Chase on the arm. “Quite a catch, buddy.”
“Oh, we’re just friends,” Chase said quickly, glancing at Spencer. She smiled.
Nico winked like he didn’t believe them, then made a sweeping gesture around the room. A few couples were at the tables. An old man was doing a crossword in the corner. “Sit anywhere you like.”
Spencer settled on one of the chairs and looked around. Metal pots hung from the ceiling. Zillions of black-and-white photographs of serious-looking women holding babies or cooking in kitchens were on the walls. There were also old ads in Italian and posters for operas she’d never heard of. It reminded her of Paris or Rome.
She leaned across the table to Chase. “And you know this place how?”
Chase smiled. “I found this when I was working on one of the cases for the blog. Nico provided me with a lot of insider information—plus he gets me tickets to the opera.”
