Page 47 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
Unhinged.
Worthy of a horror movie soundtrack.
She’d lost it.
Emery Winthrop had finally lost it.
But crazy had always fueled her blood. She sought adrenaline highs like a junky, climbed trees and fell down without blinking an eye, snuck into beds, proudly wore her emotions on t-shirts, and defended herself fiercely.
She reminded me of a cornered predator, ready to lash out, desperate to differentiate herself from the Virginia 2.0 her mother demanded her to be.
It made her wild.
Reckless.
Foolish.
So, so foolish.
“I know your type.” She swiped at my finger, swatting it to the side. Her dress bowed forward, unzipped, but she either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “Not just rich but wealthy.”
The word spat out like a curse. She edged herself onto me. Not edging herself onto me—edging herself onto my phone. She drove her heel into the screen and twisted until it cracked, a kaleidoscope of reds, greens, and blues that did nothing but light up the Converse she wore beneath her floor-length gown.
“Handsome.” Another word she’d turned into a curse. “Over-privileged. You think you’re better than everyone else, that you can do whatever you please and get away with it. You disgust me.”
It wasn’t lost on me that her description suited her dad. I didn’t tell her this, though, because doing so would reveal my identity. I unveiled a saccharine smile she couldn’t see and laughed. Loud. In her face. Spearmint caressing her skin.
She could enjoy her pretty, perfect world—her emails from Gideon and the fat sum that sat in a trust fund under her name—a little while longer. Soon enough, everything she owned would be mine.
Her hopes.
Her dreams.
Her future in the palm of my hands.
I was hard at the idea of revenge.
Beneath us, my phone sputtered out.
Dead.
Another casualty to the Winthrop name.
Anger stained her voice. I let her revel in it. My pulse thrummed at the realization I might have lost my final photos of Dad on there. Dad’s birthday party. Ma had packed a picnic because it was all she could afford, but it was the last time I’d smiled. Really smiled.
My fingers itched to snatch my phone and fix it, but I couldn’t do anything while stuck here.
“Do you have a last name, Emery?” I enunciated her name, taking pleasure in the way her body stilled.
Her bravado vanished.
She backed away from me. “Who’s asking?”
“A concerned guest, who’d like to report an ill-mannered employee,” I lied.
She nestled herself in the corner, relieving me of the vodka scent. Of her. “Don’t bother. I’m with the catering staff, and we’re gone after the night.”
The puzzle clicked into place. The name tag. The rail-thin frame. Prescott Hotels hired models to serve at every event. Usually, ones who hadn’t made a name for themselves and needed money.
