AMANDA
MONDAY, JANUARY 22
When school lets out, I pull my hood tight around my face and follow Ben down to the construction site. The benefit is tonight, and I have two hours until I’m on set-up duty with all the good trustee sons and daughters of Logansville. I can barely believe that with all this going on, I’m going to spend tonight clinking glasses with a roomful of arts patrons, but there’s no getting out of Linda’s benefit.
Ben’s kept a low profile since our Saturday night confrontation at the diner. PI Krausse has been stationed down the street from the Gallaghers’, keeping watch, but this afternoon he’s at the Parkers’ shop, looking into Ben’s car. I need to head home to shower and get ready, but I can’t resist tailing Ben. Just for a little bit.
When he gets to the site, he waves his brother over. I’m not close enough to hear what they’re saying, but I can see David dig into his pocket for his keys. If Ben’s borrowing David’s truck, I’m following. I spin around and sprint up to the student lot. I make it into the coupé and down around the side of the school just in time to watch the truck hang a right at the light and drive off in the direction opposite CVS, toward downtown Logansville. I speed up and follow.
We’re told that Carter will be released from Mercy in the morning, as long as he’s still stable. Yesterday, I made one last visit to the hospital, where Carter was restless and ready to get home. Our conversation was polite, pinned safely to the present. We talked about how Coach might put him in an assistant coaching role during training and who his parents have invited to Carter’s welcome home soiree tomorrow. (Hint: the entire town.) The future can wait until Carter’s home and Ben’s in police custody.
I stay two cars behind David’s truck the whole way into town. Fortunately it’s big and blue and easy to follow. I’m a little bit relieved that Carter’s not getting out of the hospital today. The benefit will be easier to handle without him on my arm, both of us pretending everything is normal between us.
Tomorrow is another story. Everyone who’s anyone will be at the Shaws’ to welcome their golden boy home. The party will be big and public—and conveniently right on the eve of his eighteenth birthday. Private’s going to expect me to make good on my instructions.
Which is why tailing Ben is so important. If he messes up, just a little bit, it’ll be enough for PI Krausse to swoop in and involve the police. They may not be listening to me, but they’ll listen to our PI.
Ben drives all the way down to Main Street and pulls into one of the spots in front of the Verizon store with its Logansville-approved storefront in mauve, navy, and gold. I park two stores down and wait.
When he climbs out of the truck, Ben looks over his shoulder and fidgets with his coat sleeves like he knows he’s being watched. I slouch down in the front seat, but it’s not really necessary. There are five cars between us, and one is some sort of baby Hummer. I crane my neck to get a good view as he disappears into the Verizon store.
He’s in there forever. I lean back in the seat and try to get inside Ben’s brain. Either his phone is as prone to breakdowns as his car, or Ben Gallagher knows I’m on to him. And after what happened at the diner, I’d say he definitely knows. Can’t use the same phone anymore; time to get a new model with a new caller ID to conceal. Too bad for Ben, I turned my phone—and my old number—in to the police. I’m practically twitching in my seat by the time he comes out of the store. Click click. I snap two photos of him carrying a plastic Verizon bag. For a moment last week, I actually thought we were the same. Now, I can’t believe I ever felt any sympathy for Ben Gallagher.
I wait for his truck to pull out and head back the way it came. I want to keep following him, but I have to get ready for tonight and get over to the museum. Besides, I got what I came for. I shoot off a quick text to PI Krausse with the photos attached, then I put the car in reverse. We’re so close to catching Ben in the act, I can almost taste victory.
At home, I make a beeline for the answering machine. There’s a second message from Officer Lu, a short-and-not-so-sweet request to contact her immediately. The station is officially filing false reporting charges against me. She says it’s a serious offense if I’m found accountable. I can make it all go away if I’ll just come into the station with my parents and a letter from my physician. If they don’t hear from me by the end of the day, they’ll have no choice but to move forward. I am officially obstructing their investigation into Carter’s hit-and-run.
What Officer Lu doesn’t know is that Rosalie, PI Krausse, and I are the only ones actually moving this investigation forward. I just need a little more time to prove I wasn’t falsely reporting anything. I leave the phone off the hook and head upstairs to change.
• • •
By the time I get to the museum, I’m in head-to-toe black in a floor-length gown and Jimmy Choos. My hair is twisted up and pinned back with delicate black flowers, and the onyx heart rests against my throat like a promise or curse. I almost take it off, but then I think better of it. My mother will notice if it’s gone. This is her big night, not the time to raise questions.
It’s a relief not to have Carter here, but at the same time, it’s undeniably strange. Since freshman year, Carter has been by my side at every single society event, house party, and gathering in Logansville. Tonight, I’m on my own.
I snap a selfie in the lobby and text it to him with the caption The Logansville nightlife misses you. I’m very careful not to say I miss you, even though it’s a tiny bit true. In my heart, I know it’s over. I’ve known it for days—since his promises at Verde dissolved into lies. Maybe at the time, Carter meant every word. Maybe he believed we’d really start fresh. But for all the goodness in Carter Shaw’s heart, the truth is he’s also a cheater.
And there will always be another Rosalie. My happily ever after is not meant to be with Carter. I know that now, but it’s going to take more than a few days to get over three and a half years and an entire future together. And then there’s the small matter of my parents. I can handle breaking up with Carter, although the thought makes my stomach twist. But breaking the news to Linda and Jack? My dad might take it okay in the end, but I can already feel the sear of Linda’s white-hot fury against my skin. Leaving Carter means leaving my family out to dry. That’s how she’ll see it. She will never, ever forgive me.
Hands shaking just slightly, I drop my phone into my clutch. If I follow this line of thinking any further, I won’t be able to make it through the night. I take a deep breath and head into the classical wing. The benefit won’t open its doors to guests until six thirty, but the museum is already buzzing with the caterers, the bar staff, the florist, the string quartet warming up on stage, and of course all the trustees and their families micromanaging the details. I weave through the churn of bodies, searching for my mother.
“Amanda.” She spots me first, from her station near a dour-looking Rembrandt. She pauses in her instructions to the catering captain and motions me over. “I need to you check every seating card against the diagram. Last year the Coopers and the Weatherbys were reversed, and it nearly caused a riot.”
I nod. “On it.”
“And, sweetie? You look beautiful.” Tears prick the corners of my eyes, and I blink them back before she can see. I should savor this moment. It might be the last compliment Linda Kelly throws my way in a long time. She gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, and I’m relieved to find a distinct lack of alcohol on her breath.
I take the diagram and head off in search of Table 1. I’ve always assumed my life would be filled with nights like this. I’d eventually join my mother on her boards, or found philanthropies of my own. As Mrs. Amanda Shaw, it all seemed possible. Inevitable. Now, I wonder how many more benefits the Kellys will chair. With my future title—and fortune—about to go up in smoke, my parents are going to have to find another way to dig themselves out of debt.
It hits me—maybe for the first time—that it’s not my problem to solve.
No matter what my mother might believe, joining my future with Carter’s is not my job. If you asked her directly, she’d never admit she wants me to marry rich. For days she’s been calling Private an opportunist, but she’s the opportunist in the family. When Carter and I got together, she saw a solution and latched on tight. But Carter’s not the answer, for me or them. They’re the adults. They’re going to have to figure this out.
I suddenly feel a thousand pounds lighter. I pluck a glass of champagne from the prepoured drinks at the bar and practically waltz to Table 1. My mother is going to scream and rant and say terrible things to me. She’s going to cast a lot of blame. She’s going to make me feel horrible, and she’s probably going to make me doubt myself.
But I need to focus on my own future. And my parents need to figure out theirs. I take a celebratory sip, then another. It’s never seemed that simple before. Suddenly, it just does.
I work my way around the tables one by one feeling focused, clearheaded. At Table 12, I find two reversed cards and put Mr. Windsor back next to his wife. Ben’s reign of terror is almost over. Carter will come home, and I’ll end things on my own terms. Then, I’ll tell my parents. And after all that happens—the screaming, the blaming, the fury—I will still have a future. I’ll apply for financial aid; I’ll take out loans. I’ll start over at George Washington or Bryn Mawr or NYU.
I notice my phone buzzing midway through my Table 14 check. Thankfully it’s the last table on my list because the doors are open and the museum is filling up. The first message is from Carter, a response to my earlier text.
Enjoy the benefit, sweets. I know it’ll be a success.
No emojis, no I miss yous, no exclamation points. Three weeks ago, I would have been livid. Crushed. But tonight, it’s fine. It’s more than fine. Whatever we used to have, it’s really over. I take another sip, let the bubbles fizz and pop on my tongue.
The rest of the messages are from Private, except they’re not. Instead of Private Number, the header simply reads No Caller ID. I put my glass down and open the conversation.
It may be 2 days until your boyfriend’s birthday, but your clock just got reset.
Carter’s welcome home party, tomorrow night. You will end things in front of all your nearest and dearest.
This is not a request, Princess. If you don’t break up with Carter, I’ll be doing the breaking, and I’d hate to mess up your pretty face.
I drop my phone on the table like it’s burning and lean against the back of a chair. Someone brushes against me from behind, and I spin around. Mrs. Cooper apologizes, and I realize I’m standing at her seat. I retrieve my phone and graciously step aside, trying to get myself under control. The museum is a swirl of black tuxes and red, gold, and silver ball gowns. It’s just Ben, I tell myself over and over. Just dorky Ben Gallagher made bold behind a screen. But how the hell did he get my new number? I specifically told everyone at the diner not to give it out.
I step away from the table to fire off a quick text to Adele and Trina. A minute later, Adele writes back.
Ben wanted to apologize for acting weird at the diner, so I gave him your number. I thought you meant randos when you said not to give it out. My bad.
For a second, I’m furious with Adele. But then I realize. It’s perfect. Fewer than ten people have my new number, and one of them is Ben. He’s basically given himself away. Instead of an apology, he’s sent another threat, and whatever he’s planning now has a when and a where. This might be exactly what PI Krausse needs to put the nail in Ben Gallagher’s coffin. Between the photos in front of the Verizon store and these texts from a different blocked number, that’s practically proof that Ben is behind this.
I quickly scan the rest of the Table 14 seating cards and walk over to my mother. “Finished,” I tell her. “I just have to run a quick errand.”
She glances at the time. “The opening toast is in less than five minutes, and I need you and your father by my side for the photographers. Surely whatever you have to do can wait?”
I press my lips together. I should tell her about tonight’s texts, that the PI needs to trace the new blocked number, but this is the worst possible time. The museum is absolutely swirling with people, and she’s in her element. I’ll stay through the toast, then duck out. I can get to PI Krausse’s office and back in forty-five minutes. If he can trace this new caller ID, even prove it came from a Verizon phone, Ben’s caught.
I glance back at Table 14 where I realize I’ve left my drink and my clutch, but I’m already being ushered to the long trustee table up front. My parents and I take our places behind our name cards and fresh glasses of bubbly and smile wide for the photographer. The board president introduces my mother and the other trustees and announces the North African exhibit we’ll be able to bring in with part of tonight’s proceeds. In the end, Linda Kelly has exceeded her fund-raising goal. In typical Linda style, she used the weekend to reel in the gifts that skyrocketed her total above that of every other board member.
My mother is nothing if not resourceful. Surely, even without me, she will be able to figure something out.
We raise our glasses and toast all the arts patrons in Logansville who made tonight and the bright future of the museum possible. I scan the crowd, looking for the usual suspects. The Steinways, the Beaufords, the Windsors, and of course the Shaws. Carter’s parents are seated at Table 1, directly in front of the trustees. As the board president says a special “thank you” to my mother, Winston’s lips part in a boyish grin. It’s the same smile that used to light up Carter’s face when we first fell in love. Something tightens in my stomach, a small fist of worry.
I take a few polite sips, then put my glass down. The champagne tastes sour in my mouth. My celebratory mood is gone, and besides, I have to drive out to that strip mall. I excuse myself to my mother and retrieve my clutch from Mrs. Cooper’s table on my way out.
The first wave of nausea hits in the lobby. My stomach roils, and the air around me shimmers with heat. Or maybe I’m the one who’s hot. I stagger against a plush leather bench and force myself to sit—not lie—down. This isn’t anxiety; something’s physically wrong.
I glance around, but fortunately the lobby is empty aside from an older couple cooing over a tall bronze sculpture near the doors. Everyone else is inside, and the sculpture couple doesn’t seem to notice me clutching at my stomach on the bench. My mind searches back, mentally retracing my steps. I didn’t have a chance to eat dinner before coming here, but I definitely ate lunch. Well, I had an apple. And some of Trina’s chips. That’s the problem with early lunch; I’m never hungry. I’ve had alcohol hit me hard before, but this is different. I don’t feel drunk; I feel sick.
I need some fresh air. Once I’m outside in the parking lot, I’ll feel fine. I’ll be able to get it together and drive out to the PI office. I couldn’t have had more than one glass. I can’t really be this wrecked.
I force myself to stand up straight and walk through the exit doors. The January air hits like a slap. I forgot to stop by coat check on my way out, but I’m not going back inside. I just need to get to my car and turn up the heat and wait out whatever this is so I can get on the road.
It’s all I can do to walk in a straight line. I hold on to hood after hood and make my way to the coupé. The air around me is still shimmering, but this time it’s definitely not heat. When I get to my car, I slouch against it for a moment without opening the door. I need to open my clutch. I need to get out my keys. I can do that.
I glance up, across the lot. Through the shimmering air, a big blue truck glides out of the lot and onto the road.
I flap my hand uselessly in front of my eyes, trying to clear the air, but the truck is gone, if it was even there at all. I grit my teeth, lean hard against the car, and empty the contents of my clutch onto the hood. My lipstick rolls away, but I grab for my keys and get the door open. Once I’m inside, I know I need to get the car started and turn on the heat, but all I can do is slouch across the seat, face pressed to the fabric. The nausea has turned to stabbing pain that jolts all the way from my stomach through my chest and to my head. I just need to lie down for a few minutes, until this passes. When this passes, I can get my phone to the PI. When this passes, Ben will be sunk. When this passes . . .