Page 14 of The Locked Ward

If you don’t get me out of here, they’re going to kill me.

Georgia’s words are urging me to take a risk, driving me toward the room where Honey Cartwright is gathered with her friends.

I set my glass down on a table and edge across the threshold into the main receiving room.

This may be the only chance I’ll have. Everyone is focused on the celebrity in their midst; they all want to establish a connection with the senator who could soon be living in the White House.

Maybe they’ll get an invitation to sleep in the Lincoln Bedroom if they get in good with him now.

My target is elsewhere. It’s the guest book splayed open on a stand just inside the white-on-cream room. Even from this distance, I can see the pages are filled with names of the people who know the Cartwrights best. Maybe through them, I can begin to unravel the mystery of my twin.

My fingers close around my phone. All I need is a few seconds to take a picture of the names written in the book.

I take a few more steps forward, then casually look around. A man seems to be scanning the crowd. A security guard? Then I see him lift a glass of wine and take a deep drink.

Security wouldn’t touch alcohol on the job. He’s not a threat to me.

I edge closer to the book, mentally rehearsing my movements.

My phone is in my right hand, the camera already on.

I reach for the pen that’s next to the guest book with my left and scrawl an illegible signature.

Then I tilt my body to the side and pretend to check my phone, frowning at an imaginary message while I click a photo.

I step away, still frowning at my phone.

“Was she your sister?”

The blood in my veins turns to ice. The man with watchful eyes—Reece DuPont—has materialized beside me. He’s waiting for my answer.

How does he know who I am? My throat is too dry for me to speak. I can’t read the man’s expression. Maybe he’s one of Georgia’s allies. Or maybe he’s about to call the cops on me.

“Tri Delt, right? Wasn’t that Annabelle’s sorority?”

Relief crashes through me. I nod and smile.

“What did you say your name was again?” His question is casual. His expression is anything but.

“Amanda,” I say. Some internal warning keeps me from giving my last name.

He opens his mouth to speak, then whips around at the sound of a tremendous crash behind us.

I spin around, too, and see a waiter has spilled a tray full of drinks. Wine oozes across the floor, carrying shards of glass in its stream. Within seconds, a half dozen other waiters come rushing over to clear away the mess.

I use the distraction to step away before the blond man can ask me any more questions. I weave through the crowd until I reach the front door. I keep my head low and hurry to my Honda.

Even though it’s a sunny afternoon and I’m in a place with high security, a shiver runs down my spine as I climb inside. I instinctively reach out and hit the button to lock my doors.

Only then do I look at the image on my phone. It’s crystal clear. I’ve now got the names of dozens of people who know the Cartwrights.

But I don’t think any of them know who I am.

Which means I can slip into their lives like a ghost, collecting stories and details about Georgia. I can begin to piece together who she really is.