Page 189 of The Next Lie

She helps me into the dress.

The satin slides over my skin with a cool weight, then settles like it was made for me. Maybe it was. With Shiloh, that is both ridiculous and possible. Sonny zips it slowly, then steps around to face me.

The mirror waits.

I look.

For a second, I don’t recognize myself.

The green changes everything. It makes my skin warmer, my eyes darker, my hair look almost black against the curve of my shoulders. The dress fits close through the bodice and waist, accentuates the curve of my ass, then falls cleanly to the floor. The slit opens when I move, showing one leg and the high-heeled gold sandal Sonny insisted on because apparently if I am going to meet the head of a cartel, my calves should participate.

The mask is gold filigree, delicate and sharp, with tiny emerald stones near the outer edges. It should feel like costume jewelry, but it feels like armor.

Sonny clasps Shiloh’s bracelet around my wrist, covering the faint mark where my rubber bands used to snap. I don’t like not wearing them, but the bracelet will give me something to worry, instead. I touch the cat charm with one finger.

Homer sits on the bed, finally still, staring at me like he has seen either a canary or a very interesting curtain.

“Don’t even think about climbing me,” I tell him.

He meows.

“I mean it.”

He meows again, softer this time, and my throat tightens because apparently the cat has chosen tonight to be tender and terrible.

Sonny brushes at the skirt, then steps back. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“You’re ready.”

The room tilts a little.

Ready.

I do not know if that is true. I am dressed. Painted. Pinned with cameras and signals and everyone else’s fear. My hair is perfect. My hands are steady. My stomach feels like a fist.

I pick up the mask.

Sonny squeezes my arm. “You look beautiful. Powerful.”

“I feel like I might throw up.”

“I’m sure powerful women probably do that sometimes. They can’t be powerful all the time. They probably have IBS and all sorts of stuff.”

“That’s…oddly comforting.”

“I do try.”

At the door, I stop and look back at Homer. He has curled into a small orange loaf on my pillow, eyes half-lidded.I point a finger at him.

“Guard the room.”

He blinks.

My heels click against the wood, Sonny following behind me. Each step makes the dress swish around my legs, a quiet whisper that sounds too elegant for the kind of dread sitting under my ribs. At the landing, I hear voices below. Men. Low tones. A pause when the my heel hits the final stretch of stairs.

Then I turn the corner. They’re all there.