Page 86 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
No, thank you and fuck you very much.
Delilah scribbled her signature on the bottom of something and added it to the mountain of papers on her desk. “I’m not exaggerating.”
Chantilly’s head ping-ponged between the both of us.
I asked, “What’s my net worth again?”
Delilah dropped her Conway Stewart pen and spooned yogurt into her mouth, not bothering to wipe it when a clump fell to her desk. “Not as high as you’d like to think, considering how much of it you give away. I shudder to think of a world run by you. Is fiscal responsibility in your vocabulary?”
Yes, and so is penance.
I bit my tongue.
This fight was a long time coming, but I wasn’t having it in front of Jessica Rabbit’s desperate long-lost cousin.
“You do charity work?” Chantilly fluttered her lashes at me and fingered a strand of hair. “I donated blood to the Red Cross a few years ago.”
I spared her a glance. “Chasmophile, you’re embarrassing yourself.”
Spiky nails the color of blood dug into the upholstered back of the three-thousand-dollar cantilever chair she’d tried to sit on. “It’s Chantilly.”
Delilah set her pen down and watched us with her full attention, amusement lighting up her eyes. “Who confuses Chantilly for Chasmophile?”
Good question. I had no answer.
“If anything,” she continued, “you’d think it would be Chartreuse.”
“Oh, you’re so funny, Delilah. Chartreuse.” Chantilly paused mid-laughter, fingers indenting the chair’s upholstery. “What does chasmophile mean?”
Delilah mocked a patient smile that reeked of condescension. “A lover of nooks and crannies.”
Oh.
Emery.
Always Emery.
She’d worn a shirt that said ‘Chasmophile’ when she went through her Twilight phase, reading in every corner of the house, migrating with Virginia’s movements. Wherever Virginia was in the mansion, I’d always bet Emery sat in the exact opposite end of the house, legs curled up against her chest as she read in a little nook.
And I was about ready to donate my brain to science to cure whatever ailment made it continually think of Emery.
“Delilah,” I began.
“I know that tone enough to know I’m not going to say yes.” She turned to Chantilly. “Cover your ears.”
“What?” Chantilly’s eyes begged me to save her.
I didn’t. “Cover your ears, Chartreuse.”
Delilah talked back to me. I let her. Enjoyed it, even. But she knew not to do it in front of others.
“Relocate a temp from your office to design,” I said as soon as Chantilly covered her ears.
“I don’t think so.” Delilah stapled a stack of papers together with the vigor of a running back diving into the end zone. “We’re busy enough as is.”
“You, perhaps?”
“Ha. Ha. You’re so funny. You have a career in stand up if your hotel fails—and it will if you continue to pay employees more than their positions call for and exceed project budgets.”
