Page 6 of Bloody Lace

I’d all but forgotten about the handsome Russian man who saved me from falling on the icy sidewalk last Christmas, at the Met party. I can’t quite remember his name—it’s somewhere in the fringes of my memory, but I remember the way his arm felt around me, and the distinct juniper and woods scent of his cologne. I still don’t think I’ve ever smelled anything better on a man.

Maybe Dahlia was right,I think ruefully as I get into a cab to head to her apartment, where the party is being thrown.Maybe I should have gone home with him that night.It would have ended like it always does, with him never calling me again, but maybe that wouldn’t have been the worst thing. Over the last year I’ve been on a handful of dates, none of them good, and none of them ending in more than a kiss goodnight. My ‘dry spell,’ as Dahlia called it, is well and truly a desert, and I’ve started to wonder if I’m ever going to meet someone that I want to go on a second date with, let alone fall passionately into bed with.

I don’t even really remember what that’s like. I’m not sure it’s something that I’ve ever had. Decent enough sex, yes, butpassion? Chemistry, sparks, a feeling ofneedingsomeone like food, or water, or air?

I definitely don’t know what that’s like.

The party is in full swing by the time Dahlia buzzes me up to her apartment. She’s wearing a shimmery gold babydoll dress, her blonde hair in thick, loose curls around her shoulders, a cranberry spritz in one hand as she opens the door. Inside, it smells of perfume and cologne and warm bodies, her apartment awash in soft light and her pink-and-white decorated Christmas tree taking up a third of her living room. Guests—some of whom are also my friends and some of whom are not—filter in and out of her kitchen, getting drinks and snacks off of the spread that I catch a glimpse of through the archway that leads into it.

“I thought you were going to be late,” Dahlia exclaims, taking my coat and giving me a hug. “I texted you.”

“Sorry,” I say apologetically, heading straight for the kitchen and a drink as she trails behind me. “I had to take care of Buttons, and I was held up leaving the store. Actually—kind of literally.” I tell her about the Crow as I ladle some of the sparkling punch into a crystal glass—Dahlia actually uses her good glassware for parties. I’d be terrified that someone would break it, but when I expressed that once, she shrugged and said if they did, she’d use her parents’ credit card to replace it.

Dahlia lives a bit of a charmed life. But the thing I love about her is that it’s never gone to her head. She’s sweet and thoughtful, always gets the tab if she wants to go out somewhere that she knows is out of my budget, and works as hard at her job as anyone else, even though she could quit tomorrow and be fine.

“Did you call the police?” Dahlia looks shocked as I take a sip of my drink, scooting around to the side of the long island where all of the food is laid out. I snag a particularly tempting-looking crostini with cream cheese and a curl of smoked salmon, and shake my head.

“No. I would’ve been at the shop for hours. You know they wouldn’t have prioritized that, I’d have been waiting for ages forsomeone to be bored enough to come by. And then I would have had to give them the statement. I would have missed most of the party. And you know how busy I’ve been. I didn’t want to miss this.”

Dahlia’s mouth twists as she nods. It’s been a good year for me at the boutique, but with that has come necessarily having to turn down a lot of things I normally do. Our weekend nights out have ground to a halt, especially as orders started coming in for the holidays, and even though Dahlia has never made me feel badly about it, I know she misses the time we usually spend together. For the last couple of months, I’ve been so busy that she started going over to my apartment after she got off of work, just to walk Buttons for me.

“I get it,” she says sympathetically. “But you probably should have called them, Evie. That guy sounds dangerous.”

“Or he was just pulling a prank. Trying to scam me. Since I stood my ground, he’ll move on to his next target.”

“I think that sounds like wishful thinking.” Dahlia bites her lip. “My father has to deal with things like that, sometimes. People will try to extort him. Blackmail him?—”

“Your dad is in politics,” I point out. “I run a tiny bespoke clothing boutique. It’s not really the same thing at all.”

“What he’s talking about is real, though,” she insists. “Mafia, Bratva—those kinds of organizations exist. Some of the people my father deals with even take money from them. Some of them are eveninpolitics. That man could have been telling the truth.”

“I’m not saying I don’t believe they exist, just that they wouldn’t bother with me.” I shake my head. “In the grand scheme of things going on in this city, I’m nothing. A speck?—”

“You’re not nothing.” Dahlia comes around the island, squeezing me around my waist as I pop another crostini into my mouth. “One day, your designs are going to befamous. Now,” she adds, plucking my almost-empty glass out of my hand. “Let’sget another drink in you, and get you out to the party. There’s this guy I really think you should meet?—”

Two hours later, I’m thoroughly buzzed and dancing to an upbeat pop remix ofAll I Want For Christmaswith the man Dahlia wanted me to meet, whose name I’ve already forgotten. He’s shouting into my ear over the music about hedge fund management, and I’m grateful when I feel my cell phone buzz in the pocket of my skirt.

“I’ll be back!” I call out over the music, and retreat down the hall towards Dahlia’s bathroom. The number is one I don’t recognize, and I see that they’ve already called me twice. I must not have noticed it buzzing, too preoccupied with how to nicely let down the finance guy Dahlia introduced me to.

“Hello?” I close the door behind me as I answer the phone. I think I hear shouting in the background of whoever is calling, and I frown, leaning back against the door. “Who is this?”

“Ms. Ashburn?”

“That’s me?” I frown. “I?—”

“This is Officer Perry, with the NYPD. You own the Pearls and Lace boutique?”

“I do—” My stomach tightens, thinking of my visitor earlier. “Has something happened?”

“I’m afraid so, ma’am. I need you to come down here and meet us immediately.”

“What is it?” Cold prickles over my skin, and my buzz feels as if it clears in an instant. I press the back of my hand to my forehead, a sense of dread washing over me. “What’s happened?”

“Ms. Ashburn…” There’s a pause, as if he’s gearing himself up to deliver bad news, and I swallow hard, waiting for him to finish.

“It looks as if someone has set fire to your business.”

3

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