59

The ambiance on the fourth floor matched the lobby: soft lighting and a chic aesthetic. Victoria scanned the numbers on the doors for Teagan’s apartment. She paused outside the corner unit, her hand primed to knock but unable to make her presence known. A feeling of finality settled into her bones. Whatever happened next, there was no going back to the way things were—not to before Warren or X, or any of the moments in which she’d previously defined her old life. Her husband was dead. Her house was gone.

She was on her own.

With a steadying breath, she rapped quickly and listened for sounds of movement. Hot air rattled from the vent above her head as a lock clicked and Teagan appeared. As usual, she could’ve stepped out of a magazine. Short and fit, all lean muscles and sharp angles accentuated by glowing skin and a thick, messy ponytail.

Even in loungewear, Teagan Livingston was undeniably beautiful, but that wouldn’t help her tonight.

She pulled Victoria in for a tight hug. “I’m so glad you’re all right.”

Victoria reciprocated automatically, cupping Teagan’s elbows as she leaned back, the world reduced to them. The flood of emotions overwhelmed her: anger and resentment, fear and loss. She bit the inside of her cheek and exhaled.

“Me too,” she said flatly. “Everything’s going to be fine, though.”

Teagan’s head tilted. “Shouldn’t I be the one comforting you?”

“I’m okay.”

“That’s not what Bitch Face #14 says.”

“I’m about to unleash Bitch Face #1 if you don’t knock it off,” Victoria said. “You going to let me in or are we going to chitchat in the hall all night?”

“Oh good, your sparkling humor’s still intact; I was worried you might’ve lost it. Yeah, come on, let’s get you warm.” Teagan smiled and stepped aside so Victoria could enter, locking the door behind her. She padded to the kitchen and gestured widely. “Make yourself at home.”

“Been a minute since I’ve been here,” Victoria said, lazily looking around the apartment. Despite having lived there for over a year, there weren’t many personal touches. A couch and two stiff chairs were arranged around a sleek coffee table. The drapes were heavy, the floorboards were dark and wide, and the walls were barren. Not a single picture, knickknack, or piece of art. It had museum vibes.

Or mausoleum.

“Whose fault is that?” Teagan asked.

“No one’s. Love the whole minimalist design, by the way. Sociopath looks good on you.”

“If I were a sociopath, wouldn’t it make more sense for me to overcompensate? Some ugly still life of a bowl of fruit? Those ceramic mugs with words in a skinny font that every suburban twenty-something on TikTok has? Like Dexter bringing donuts trying to fit in at the station.”

“Do you have donuts?”

Teagan muttered what sounded an awful lot like bitch under her breath. Victoria liked that she was getting riled up. It would make the next part easier, and if she enjoyed twisting the pin in the voodoo doll, that was no one’s business but hers.

“Coffee?” Teagan asked.

“Coffee,” Victoria repeated.

Teagan grabbed mugs and pods and prepped the Keurig as Victoria sat on the uncomfortable couch. Her reflection grimaced in the mounted flat-screen. She peeled back her hood and smoothed a hand through her hair, watching Teagan glide from one spot to the next, almost floating above the floor. Grace was for dancers, ballerinas who pirouetted for transfixed crowds hungry for perfection or disaster.

But apparently, grace was also for plastic surgeons with a penchant for lying.

“Are you ready to talk about what happened tonight?” Teagan asked, rummaging in one of the drawers without looking up. “Thought I had those fancy swizzle stick things you like, but I can’t find them.”

“That’s fine.”

“Fine’s never fine. You deserve a cup of coffee the way you like it.”

“Teagan, I said it’s fine.” Why was it that whenever they had something important to discuss, they always ended up arguing about the little things instead?

“Okay, princess, don’t complain when it sucks, though. Milk?”

“Black. Thank you.” She strode to the kitchen and accepted the mug from Teagan with a curt nod. The chill finally receding, she wrapped her fingers around the warmth and leaned against the counter.

They blew on their drinks in silence, almost mirroring the last time they’d shared a moment like this. When X had threatened her and Victoria had in turn confided in Teagan in the hopes of finding the person responsible for Warren’s death. The distance between them was deeper now, and Victoria reminded herself to keep it that way.

She’d let herself down in the past, put blind faith in the altruism of others, but she wouldn’t do it again.

Teagan perched against the counter opposite her, her auburn hair almost fiery in the light. “So,” she said, dragging out the word before firing off a barrage of questions, “can we start with the obvious? Tell me everything about the fire.”

“You probably know as much as I do.”

“How did you wind up with Margaret Connors?”

“That’s . . . complicated.”

“Vague,” Teagan said.

“Processing.”

“Have you talked to the police yet? Does anyone know where you are?”

Victoria held up a hand, hoping her mood read as unbothered and not hanging on by a silken thread. Once she started speaking, however, the words tumbled out. “Yes, we can talk about the fire. I’ll tell you about how I’d only been gone for twenty minutes at most before my house must’ve gone up in flames. We’ll talk about how I have a sneaking suspicion that X was behind it. How Margaret accosted me in a Walmart. How my entire world ended in a trashed basement and an empty downtown parking lot. We can talk about all of it,” she said calmly, “but first, you’re going to explain why you killed my husband.”