Page 62 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
Darynda, my mother’s assistant, filtered through her emails. Sweet, pearl-clutching, pumpkin-spice-cereal-eating, Prada-obsessed, God-fearing, serial-gossiper Darynda. She had the mouth of a hippo. Always open. Always spilling secrets. Always spreading rumors.
I would love to see my mom explain her way out of that email.
A text from Mother came through my phone a few minutes later. An actual text, which was how I knew I’d entered the apocalypse. Virginia Winthrop didn’t text. She sent emails, wrote letters, and spoke on the phone, but she never texted. Texting was for millennials and the Tide Pod generation.
Mother: Emery, I raised you to behave like a lady, not some untamed animal. I expect you to treat me with the respect and dignity I deserve as the woman who raised you. Darynda will reach out with details for brunch. Kisses.
She followed up with:
Mother: Oh, and honey, you’re old enough now that calling me Mother just sounds silly. Virginia will do.
See?
Apocalypse.
Reed called before I could fixate on the fact that my mom wanted me to refer to her by her first name; I slept in a six by eight closet; my boss had kept today’s meeting from me; and I’d been stuck in an elevator with Nash Prescott, who had torn apart my clutch and stolen my wallet, food, and dignity.
“I need your help.” The first words out of Reed’s mouth as I answered the call.
I flipped onto my stomach and toyed with my sheets, the ones barely holding it together. An accurate metaphor for my life. My bodyweight on my stomach made it feel more hollow, its growl filling the air.
Again, I thought of my trust fund before reminding myself it was blood money.
“What do you need?” I asked, voice low and raspy, knowing it couldn’t be any good after the morning I’d had.
The third sign of the apocalypse, no doubt.
“Why are you whispering?”
Because I don’t know if any stragglers remain in the building I am currently squatting in.
I didn’t say this, of course.
“My neighbors finally finished having morning sex, and I’m afraid if they hear me, they’ll ask me to join again.” The lie slipped out so easily, I felt very much like a Winthrop in this moment.
“Again? As in you’ve joined in the past?”
“Again, as in they’ve invited me in the past. I said no.”
I pictu
red my imaginary neighbors, a rail-thin rock-star with a two-inch goatee and a redheaded plus-sized model he couldn’t get enough of. Harlan Felt and Alva Grace, in case Reed asked.
He didn’t.
“I swear, the weirdest shit happens to you.”
Probably because I make half of it up, so you don’t worry about me.
“That’s the life.” I fought off the sudden surge of homesickness when Reed laughed. Clearing my throat, I asked, “What did you need?”
“Ideas.” His ragged breathing filled the line. “I want to propose to Basil.”
I switched the call to a video call, so I could see his face as I asked, “Are you sure?”
What I really wanted to do was scream, “What the fuck!” and check him into an involuntary psych hold.
He scrubbed a hand down his face and tugged at his hair before staring at me. The poor lighting made his hair darker. He laid in bed, the silky strands flying in several directions. For a second, he looked so much like Nash.
