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CHAPTERONE
JUNE
After five years of clawing down a certain path, fighting tooth and nail to leave the past in the past, I now teetered on the edge of the same precipice I’d tried running from. Every lie I’d told myself had led me here, where the truth hung heavy in the air. Every step I’d taken to break free had only pulled me back, dragging me full circle—to the very cliff I’d faced five years ago.
Metaphorically, anyway.
Physically? I sat before a sputtering outdoor gas fireplace, its flames flickering and on the verge of dying out. The pit was tucked behind the gilded, cult-like compound where the rich gathered to worship themselves—AKA Massey Hotel & Suites and the Alderton-Du Ponte Country Club.
Yeah, I was in a mood. Today sucked.
I let out a slow breath, disturbing the flight path of the mosquito that’d been buzzing around my head for the past hour. It seemed to have a debate of its own.To bite her, or to not.I had more than enough skin exposed—I’d stripped off my teal Alderton-Du Ponte polo after my shift, leaving me in a simple black tank and my khaki pants that came down to my ankles. Enough skin for the bloodsucker to have a field day, but no. The mosquito buzzed, but never landed, almost as if its sole purposewasn’tto suck my blood, but to keep me company.To bite her, or to not.
My debate was far less simplistic.To jump, or to not.
Metaphorically, anyway.
After a twelve-hour shift at Alderton-Du Ponte, the most exclusive country club on this side of Connecticut, what sane persondidn’thave an existential crisis? And it wasn’t any simple shift—the “Wedding of the Century” was happening tomorrow, which meant, as the “Princess of Alderton-Du Ponte”—or, really, the “Staff Princess”—I had my hands full with every single department’s final preparations. It meant prepping the reception area, stocking the bar, deep cleaning the restrooms, checking in with the valet. It meant I ran my tail off, flip-flopping all over the grounds, not given a moment to stand still.
I should’ve been grateful for the distraction, especially today, but I couldn’t even pretend.
As the day went on, and the list of chores grew, my metaphorical precipice called to me.
Do I jump?had been the soundtrack to every command. Mr. Roberts telling me to re-drape the linen in the ballroom because it didn’t look right.Do I jump?Mrs. Pine snapping at me that I the golden lace for the centerpieces was supposed to be an inch from the center, notthroughthe center.Do I jump?
And then pulling out my phone at the end of my impossibly shift, finding the time10:32PMstaring back at me, and yet not a single text message. If I didn’t reach out first, not a single person in my life would seek me out. Not Caroline. Not Annalise. Not… Grant.
Not even on the anniversary of my mother’s death.
Do I jump from my metaphorical cliff?
It was unreasonably cold for mid-June. I wished I’d left my polo on, and not in the backseat of my clunker. The mosquito fell quiet.
Initially, I’d come out here and just stared at the pitiful flames before me—the gas in the firepit must’ve been running low—and just waited for someone to wander over. The hotel was at max capacity, so surely someone would seek out the smoker’s lounge eventually, right? Wrong. Judging from my aching butt in the patio chair, I’d likely been out here for hours, but no one had come.
My gaze wandered to the right of the patio space, to a big section of Alderton-Du Ponte that jutted out. From the outside, the building was ugly. There was a black door set into the brick building, but no windows otherwise. There was no landscaping done around it, either, making it just a giant box in the middle of lush green grass.An eyesoreseemed to be the common consensus amongst the socialites.
It was the emergency exit door to the Du Ponte Music Hall. A stage was behind that door. My metaphorical cliff sat behind that door, locked away to be nothing but a temptation. Tonight, though, for the first time in five years, after despair sank into me like teeth, I truly let myself imagine what it’d be like to give in.
Do I jump?
“Is the east coast always this cold in the summer?”
Despite sitting in a public area, my even-paced heartbeat jumped into my throat at the sound of the low baritone. I turned in my patio chair, finding a man standing near the mouth of the courtyard, hands in the pockets of a pair of what looked like loose cotton pants. He had on a long-sleeved shirt, the top two buttons undone and exposing skin.
“Good lord,” the stranger said mildly as he came closer, peering at me. More specifically, peering at my tank top. “You’re not cold?”
“It’s June,” I said, the rusty sound of my voice startling me further. It’d been the first time I’d spoken in hours.
“It’s also fifty-five degrees. With wind.”
I believed it. I had goosebumps. “The fire helps.”
The stranger took the invitation. He stepped closer to the fire, stretching his palms toward it to soak in its heat. The flames weren’t high enough to fully illuminate his face, only exposing a hint of a square jaw and wide eyes. From the vague outline, he looked my age, maybe. Twenty-four, twenty-five. That was my guess.
“It’s a little late to be coming out for a smoke,” I said, knowing I should probably be more wary of the stranger who’d approached so late at night, but I didn’t unfold my legs.
“I could say the same thing. You waiting to bum a cigarette off of someone?”