Page 42 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
Falling.
Falling.
Falling.
Black.
Storm season in North Carolina always took tourists by surprise.
It attacked suddenly, vibrant sun peeking out after the rain had cleared. I’d grown up with it, and still, I found it odd, like a quirk Mother Nature branded to remind us she held the power.
I glanced to the body on the floor, sprawled out in a right angle. Not dead. Unconscious, drunk, and snoring louder than a broken carburetor. And not just anybody. Emery Winthrop, an interesting but not entirely unwanted turn of events.
A few days ago, Fika had revealed that she knew where her dad was hiding, and as if Fate had decreed it, she’d landed on my lap. Literally. Facedown, her temple pressed against my thigh until she’d lolled off with a loud thud and an annoyed groan that might have made me wince if I cared about murderers and their accomplices.
Thunder growled so loudly outside, it shook the metal box. I planted my feet, cursing when something pricked at my heel. Shining my phone’s light on my foot, I pulled the long pin of Emery’s name tag out of my shoe, clasped it together, then tossed the tiny metal rectangle at the elevator doors.
The flashlight illuminated her skinny frame, bonier than I’d ever seen her. Her slit had risen and torn, leaving most of her leg bare to me. She’d grown taller in the past four years, and she laid sprawled across the elevator floor, taking up all the space.
My space.
My elevator.
My hotel.
A drunk and unconscious kid, the last thing I needed in a hotel swarming with politicians, a Presidential candidate, and Secret Service agents.
The name tag tugged at my mind, begging me to unravel how she had one—how she worked for my company.
She had Winthrop money, meaning she’d been a member of the Three Commas Club since birth. College degrees doubled as ornaments, jobs were merely a formality, and if she wanted, she could never work a day in her life and still live as luxuriously as a Saudi oil prince.
A loud snore jerked her thin frame until she rolled over, revealing her clutch in the same black fabric of her dress. She reeked of alcohol and poor decisions and looked like a victim of the storm.
Swiping at her hair, I checked her scalp. No blood or bumps, but she smelled like a brewery, and her head would pound when she woke up. My fingers caught in a tangle, taking three tries to pull it out.
The long locks could have doubled as a bird’s nest, and I swore, if this was the direction fashion trends were headed, I was hitching a ride on Elon Musk’s newest rocket to Mars.
Bye, bye, human race.
Adios to your pumpkin spice lattes, cookie butter ice cream, and charcoal toothpaste.
Good fucking riddance.
I shook Emery’s shoulders and snapped my fingers next to her ear. She sat up with a whine on her lips, shoved my hands aside with surprising strength, and muttered, “fuck off.” The scent of vodka swarmed my senses before she curled onto her side and fell back asleep.
Unbelievable.
I snatched up her clutch, unclasped it, and sifted through the contents. Several packets of oyster crackers scattered to the floor the second I opened the bag. I shook my head, noting she hadn’t changed a bit.
Emery used to walk around with candy and snacks shoved deep inside her pockets, mostly Snickers, a habit she’d picked up after Virginia neglected to give her lunch money too many times. Usually on accident, but sometimes on purpose to encourage her prepubescent daughter to lose a few pounds.
Pieces of work, the Winthrop family.
Flicking Emery’s wallet open, I flipped through her cards. An expired driver’s license sat on top of her Clifton University student I.D., reminding me how young she was.
The license read, “Emery Winthrop,” whereas the student I.D. read, “Emery Rhodes.” Amusing, but not surprising,
given she was born and bred from liars.
