Page 131 of These White Lies

Anna Lindquist walks in. Alone.

Her heels click unhurriedly across the tile. Her dark green dress is elegant and understated, perfectly tailored with a high neckline. But what makes my heart fall to my feet is the Lapidarist necklace hanging from her throat.

She closes the door with a quiet click and lets her gaze settle on mine in the mirror.

“You’re either very brave or incredibly stupid,” she says. Her tone is even, almost polite. “More composed than I expected.”

I turn to face her. My voice is steady, even as my pulse hammers. “Years of negotiating with assholes.”

Anna moves with deliberate grace, joining me at the counter. She sets a bejeweled clutch down, opens it, and draws out a gold lipstick tube. She spins it open and slicks a rich red across her lips with the ease of someone who knows she has all the time in the world.

“Where is the necklace?”

The directness knocks the air out of me. I fumble for a response, rational thought deserting me. “I didn’t know what it was. I didn’t ask for it, and I never wanted it.”

Her eyes study me, unblinking. “But you kept it.”

“No.” My voice sharpens. “I moved it. From Keith’s hiding spot to somewhere safe after someone tried to kill me. I’m not stupid. If you want it, you can have it. I don’t care. It’s not mine. It’s not even my style.”

My gaze flicks to the glitter at her throat. “Though clearly it’s yours.”

Her fingers brush the diamonds—a small, reverent touch. “There are only a few in existence.”

“I’m sure it’s worth a fortune.”

Her lips curve faintly. “You’re too smart to play dumb.”

“I’m not,” I shoot back. “I’ve done nothing except try to give back something I never should have had.”

“And Keith’s death?” she asks, tone soft but sharp. “You want me to believe you’ll accept that it was just a… misunderstanding?”

I hold her stare. “Keith destroyed my life. My name. My business. He was weak, hiding behind lies, leaving me to clean up after him. I’m not mourning him.”

Something in her eyes hardens. “He said you were the better lawyer,” she says softly, “at the end, I mean.”

My throat locks. I can’t move.

Her gaze doesn’t break. She steps closer, close enough for me to catch the faintest hint of her perfume.

“Where is the necklace, Elizabeth?”

I square my shoulders. “It’s in a safe place. If you want it back, we’ll arrange a handoff. No tricks. I just want this over.”

She nods once, slow and deliberate. “Good.”

Then her hand moves fast.

The flash of metal registers, but too late. A jolt tears through my side, electric and vicious, locking every muscle in my body. My knees buckle, my heels skidding on the tile as I collapse. The pain flares bright and sudden and then drops out beneath me as my body hits the cold tile floor.

37

BRADY

The kitchen is hot, noisy, and jammed with too many bodies moving in too little space. Steam from warmers fogs the air, and the clang of pans competes with orders being shouted by a small woman I’ve silently dubbedthe party planner tyrant. Sweat gathers at the back of my neck beneath the stiff collar of the catering jacket.

I grab a fresh tray from the warmer—crab tartlets arranged in neat rows—and turn just in time to get blocked in by two young catering women.

The taller one gives me a slow once-over, like I’ve been added to the dessert table. “You must be new.” She licks her lips in what I assume is supposed to be a sexy way. “Because I definitely wouldn’t forget you.”