Page 3 of Little Death
Yasmine: …so is he hot?
Me: No!
Yasmine: I knew it. He’s fine as hell, isn’t he?
Abandoning my empty champagne glass with a nearby server and declining a refill, I move to the window next to the piano and find Aiden instantly at a makeshift stage, surrounded by a ring of guests. Even at a distance, he has a commanding presence…and a beautiful one. I’d called him a fallen angel, and the same description comes to me again as he continues his speech. From his gorgeous face to his dark golden hair, the people gazing up at him look like they’d follow him to hell at the slightest provocation.
I turn away from the sight and push him from my thoughts. He doesn’t matter, and I’ll probably never see him again. The main room is almost empty, so it’s the perfect time for me to make my escape and put my plan into motion.
Me: No.
I don’t need to see her face to know she’s probably calling me a liar.
The only picture I could find must have been taken when he was much younger. Before he inherited his father’s millions, and started his hospitality empire. According to the limited information available, he used his inheritance to open his first casino in Ireland. It was wildly successful, leading him to replicate the same approach in several European countries and ultimately expand into America.
Yasmine: Liar. Please don’t let his devilish good looks distract you. I won’t survive medical school without you if you get caught and sent to jail for trespassing.
Moving toward the stairs requires me to weave through the stragglers on their way to the terrace, lured by the siren call of Aiden’s Irish brogue. My ready excuse is that I got lost in the maze of a mansion in my search for a bathroom. No one will question that because I don’t plan to take this mask off until I’m safely back home. Little do they know, I used to be the princess of this castle.
Me: Don’t worry. He’s distracted playing host. I’m going up while everyone is outside. It’ll be fine. In and out.
Yasmine: The fact that you think any part of this is fine is what tells me it’s a terrible idea. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Me: I’ll text you again in 30 when I’m out of here and safe. You worry too much.
Yasmine: I’m going to steal meds from the hospital to sedate myself.
Me: Love you too!
I never thought I’d do many things six months ago. Struggling through law school is one. Sneaking around a party thrown by New Orleans’ newest billionaire is another.
But I’m not the same person I was six months ago.
That person died along with my mother.
I take the stairs as quickly as I dare to avoid capturing attention, but it doesn’t seem to matter. The waitstaff is too busy clearing away forgotten drinks and appetizers to pay me any attention. The thought of my mother’s ghost and replaying morbid thoughts keeps me moving at a fast clip until I reach the top.
My goal is at the farthest end of the hallway, a spare room my mother had turned into a library slash hideaway for herself. If I’m going to find her phone—the last possible vestige of clues about what happened to her—that’s the only place it could be. After her death, my father says he and the police searched high and low for it, but they never found it. If I’m wrong and her death was an accident, there’ll be nothing on it, and I’ll give up my crusade…but if I’m right…If I’m right, it’ll be the proof I need to make the police and my father take my concerns seriously.
Every few steps, I glance behind me, certain someone will be close on my heels, but I see nothing but my shadow. It doesn’t stop my heart from galloping or the sweat from beading on my hairline. Swiping at it nervously, I stamp out the first blooms of hope that make my hand shake as I reach for the door handle.
It doesn’t turn.
Fuck.
Cursing some more under my breath, I break out a small pack of hot-pink tools from my clutch—thank God I packed them and opted for the bigger purse—and get to work. As I fumble with the tools, I hope the YouTube videos I watched will be enough to break in. On my third try, miraculously, the lock pops open, and I throw myself inside with a muffled squeak of surprise.
The scent hits me like a tackle from a linebacker, stopping me mid-stride, and I slap a hand over my mouth and nose to mask it. My other hand grips the doorframe to keep myself upright. A cold weight plops into my stomach. Each inhale draws in more of my mother’s Dior perfume until I could swear she’s present in the room with me. Not even the scent of fresh paint drowns it out.
When I gather my wits and crack my eyes open, however, no one is in the room but me. The shelves where she’d curated her beloved mystery novels are bare, save for bland masculine decor. They’ve been painted a glossy black, which I immediately despise on principle. Instead of her comfortable antique reading chairs and Tiffany lamps, there’s a sleek, expensive-looking pool table. A rack of cues lines the wall to my left. Her neutral blue-green walls have been covered over with more black.
My heels catch on the Oriental rug as I practically sprint across the room to the window seat on the far wall. Flinging the compartment open, I find the storage space underneath empty aside from spare pillows, but that doesn’t deter me. When we were younger, Elizabeth and I discovered a hidden compartment inside. We used it to pass notes to Mom or each other. Mom would surprise us with gifts—little things to show she was thinking of us. Candy. Books. Toys. Trinkets from her travels.
Memories flood me of the thousands of times I’ve done this before. The back of my throat closes, nose stinging. My hand trembles uncontrollably as I reach to dislodge the panel to the secret compartment. I hesitate for the slightest moment before I apply pressure. My chest cracks open along with the panel door. Quickly, I reach inside and feel blindly around, half dreading I’ll find nothing, half afraid of what I will find.
If there’s nothing, then this wild, crazed feeling I’ve been living with will simply be grief. It’s been hell, but at least I’ll know the truth. At least it will give me the impetus to deal with it. If there’s nothing there, it’ll be the first step to accepting she’d been a deeply unhappy woman who’d chosen to violently, callously take her life. I’ll find a way to move on, if there is one. I just need to know for sure.
Surely, my therapist can recommend a reputable grief counselor who can help me work through the tangle of my life. I’m halfway to booking an appointment when my fingers brush against something polished and cool.
