“She was selling foster kids to the highest bidder,” I say, giving Sara a long look to make sure she understands.
“And how do you know that?” the police officer remarks, giving me a look right back. She isn’t even a detective and yet, here she is, talking to me. Somebody, somewhere thinks she can ‘get through to me’ or some shit I’ll bet.
“She did that, to me and my sister.” I shrug and shake my head. “If she’s missing, it’s likely one of her clients that did it.” I move over to the dressing rooms, stepping inside before Sara can ask me anymore questions. “But I’m not a snitch. You saw what happened to Kali when you goaded her. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone took it on themselves to crack down on her after the party.”
“Somebody with a stab wound in their side?” Sara asks, but I’m too busy shedding my clothes and sliding into a red cocktail sheath dress with a sweetheart neckline. It’s the color of blood, and very tight. I wouldn’t, under any circumstance, call someone wearing this thing sweetheart. As Valerie Broussard sings in “A Little Wicked”, nobody calls you honey when you’re sitting on a throne.
Fuck this idiot cop, I think, opening the door and watching as Sara’s estimation of me changes based on what I’m wearing. I look like a slut, but one that she wishes she could be, and that terrifies her. It makes her hate me. Oh, look, Bernie, you’ve become a psychic overnight.
“Ask around and see how well-liked Kali is,” I tell Sara with a shrug, moving over to a raised dais and its half-circle of mirrors. As soon as I see myself in that dress, but with bare feet, I ask the salesgirl to bring me some classic black pumps. Louboutins, just because the soles are as red as blood. Bloody shoes. And now I’m singing Cardi B again in my head.
I’ve only ever liked rock or metal in the past, but she’s making me feel like a bad bitch today, so how can I say no?
Once the heels are on, and I’m standing in front of the mirrors, I know that I’m losing ground with Sara. Picking this outfit, of all things, this color … well, it may as well be the scarlet motherfucking letter.
Just to summarize: it’s a book about a Puritan chick who screws a minister, gets pregnant, and then refuses to tell anyone in town who the father is. Poor girl gets a red letter ‘A’ slapped on her chest; it stands for adulterer. That’s what I feel like today, like some fucked-up Puritan girl made pariah through no fault of her own.
“If you want to find Kali, start by looking for Mitch.” I hope the admission—while it means nothing to me—will build some fragile trust between us. Nope, not this dress. As much as my inner Prescott ho likes it, I know that it won’t gain me anything with Ophelia. The color red can either be bold … or cheap. This is coming across as cheap.
I move back into the dressing room and lock the doors.
“Already tried,” Sara continues, seemingly content to sit and wait for me. “He, and his brother Logan, have been missing since the night of the dance.”
I switch out the sheath dress for the silk one, but as soon as I put it on and look at myself in the mirror, I know that it isn’t right either. I look like a trophy wife, some old man’s arm candy, an accessory instead of a fixture.
“And? It’s been two days, Sara. Relax.” I drop the pile of silk to the floor and kick it aside with one of the Louboutin heels on my feet. Salesgirl can clean it up. Show her what it’s like to take care of someone from Prescott for a change. Usually, we’re the ones pumping gas or wiping tables and being treated like shit by Fuller folks or Oak River Heights assholes.
The next dress I try on has a price tag that quite literally makes my teeth hurt. Four-thousand, eight hundred dollars. It occurs to me that anyone that purchases a dress this expensive should likely be slapped, just for being an asshole. And this is exactly the sort of dress that everyone in that art gallery will be wearing.
I try it on, sliding the crepe material over my head and letting it fall into place. Someone will have to button the top button and zip it up for me, but I turn anyway and examine myself in the small mirror.
This dress has a sweetheart neckline, just like the other one, but it’s floor-length with a mesh inset at the thigh, leaving the pale flesh of my upper legs visible. There’s just a hint of a tattoo peeking through. I swipe my hand down the front of the dress, enjoying the lush feel of the fabric. It’s not as red as I’d initially wanted; instead, it’s a red to black ombre, bloodred against my collarbone and fading to ebony at my feet.
I head back out of the dressing room, swing my hair over one shoulder, and put my back to the cop. Look, my posture says, I’m not afraid of you. Not at all. You know that, right?
“Tell me where the afterparty took place,” Sara says, zipping me up and fastening the single button. Her fingers are gentle but calloused, like she does more with them than you might expect. Like, maybe she hits the shooting range regularly. “That’s all you have to do.”
I ignore her for a moment, climbing back on the dais and wishing I could just wear my wedding dress to the gala. But Ophelia would recognize it. She’d know we didn’t have the balls or the funds to get another outfit. And that, that would be a poor move in this game of chess.
Sara steps up behind me, putting one foot on the carpeted dais where I’m standing. I glance back at her, looking over my shoulder and realizing I have to do it, that I have to dye my hair before I attend Ophelia’s bullshit gala thing. Dye it the color of blood, Bernie.
I laugh and turn back to the mirror. If Sara’s still asking after the location of the party, then she doesn’t know a damn thing. Somebody will squeal, eventually, they always do, but it’ll be a while. A few weeks, at least, when they’re less likely to be hunted down by the other students to have their mouths sewn shut …
“I already told you: I’m not a snitch,” I repeat, looking at the black mesh against my pale thighs. Jesus fucking Christ, I look like a ghost. It’ll only get worse over the winter, too. But I do like that, the almost offensive contrast between white skin and ebony fabric. The dress is expensive, but not for the crowd Ophelia Mars runs with. It might not even be good enough, but I don’t care. I like the way it looks. It’s expensive. Good enough.
Plus, my side hurts too much to keep trying on dresses, so fuck it.
“I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me,” Sara says, which is a good sign. She’s still ready to give me the benefit of the doubt.
“Did you look into all of the complaints against Neil?” I ask, turning around to look at her. With my hands on my hips, and the height difference from the heels and the dais, I feel like I’m looking down at a loyal subject, ordering her about. The thought makes me smile. “Because if you haven’t, then I can’t help you.”
“There’s not a single complaint against Neil Pence that wasn’t dismissed. It might come as a surprise to you, but the guilty are often the first to file complaints on law enforcement. We get them all the time.”
I ignore Sara’s ignorance and head back into the dressing room before the boys can come in and see me in this dress. I want to surprise them when I wear it for the first time. After last night, I’m feeling possessive. The last thing I want is for Sara to see the way they look at me. At best, she’ll misunderstand the hungry glint in their eyes, the way they lick their lips, the way their cocks thicken inside their pants. At worst, she’ll see that they’d do anything for me—even kill.
“Bernadette, you were never in the foster system. Tell me: how do you know Coraleigh Vincent?”
Fuck, this woman is relentless.
I turn back toward her. There’s just something about staring into a person’s eyes. The reflection of her face isn’t good enough. I need more than that.
“I feel like you already know the answer to that,” I reply carefully, testing the waters. Sara’s face remains stoic, but intense. She does know. She knows that Neil was crooked, that he was broken in ways that can never be fixed. I’m not sure when she realized it or if she always knew and was bullshitting me, but it’s right there, spelled out clear as day in her brown gaze. “Neil didn’t want anyone to know, that’s why.”
“Where is he, Bernie?” she asks me again, but this time, I catch the slightest hint of desperation in her voice. She wants this kill; she wants to bring him in. It’s become an obsession.
“She’s more than you think she is,” Kali purrs, her corpse hanging from a chandelier above me, head thrown back, mouth gaping as she cackles. Fuck me, I have a vivid imagination.
“Sara, you’re smarter than that,” I say, swiping my palm down the front of the dress. “As I’ve said before: even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.” I maintain eye contact with her for a full minute. It’s not that easy to do with anyone, let alone a near stranger. Try it. But for every second that the standoff lasts, I gain something. Eventually, it’s Sara who looks away.
“Don’t be a stranger over the winter break, okay?” she offers, turning away from me and collecting her purse. She glances back over her shoulder just once before leaving. “If you can choose any dress, get that one. It suits you.”
Her sneakers are loud as they squeak across the shiny floors, but I don’t wait to see her go, waving the salesgirl over so she can unzip and unbutton the dress. As soon as I get back into the dressing room, I slump onto the bench seat and curl my fingers around it. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I can’t decide if that just went really well … or horribly.
“You’re going to screw everything up,” Kali proclaims from inside the mirror. She doesn’t exist anywhere else because she isn’t fucking real. She isn’t real, and yet I’m letting her torment me all the same.
A rapping of knuckles against the changing room door startles the shit out of me.
“You okay in there, Blackbird?” Hael asks, his voice laced with concern. It’s a voice that says if you don’t reply back to me in five seconds or less, I’m coming in there. I can’t decide if I should smile or scowl. I like that they watch over me, that they want to protect me. But I’ve always, always, always wanted the luxury of being able to protect myself. “Do you want to do a fashion show for us? According to Oscar, I have cheap taste, but I can at least tell you how fucking hard you make me.”