“Well, I’ve been trying to contact Kali Rose-Kennedy to discuss her relationship with Neil Pence, only to have her father tell me that she hasn’t come home, and he doesn’t know where she is.”

“White trash is as white trash does,” I say with another shrug and a sigh. “My mother never could keep track of me either. Thankfully, the emancipation.” I wiggle my fingers at her to show off my wedding ring as the salesgirl comes over to take the dress from me. She puts it in a changing room with the others, but less like she’s providing me customer service and more like she just doesn’t want me touching the damn thing any more than necessary. “Well, you know I hate Kali with a passion. I have no idea where she is.”

“How about a woman by the name of Coraleigh Vincent?” Sara says, surprising me. Fuck. I have to resist the urge to look back at Vic. But I can feel him, poised, waiting. Callum is just oozing violence from behind me. If he thinks he has to, he’ll kill cop girl for me. But I don’t want that, not for anyone involved.

Hael comes up to stand behind Sara, hands clasped in front of him like a bodyguard, head tilted to one side. His red hair is bright beneath the store’s white lighting. It reflects back at me from the mirrored walls a thousand times over.

“She used to work pretty closely with your stepfather,” Sara continues, browsing her phone for a moment and then looking back up at me. “Tell me: have you seen her lately?”

I laugh, but I don’t have to try very hard to make the sound ugly.

“Coraleigh?” I ask, like she doesn’t come to mind often. To be quite honest, she doesn’t, she hasn’t. She was a small part of my pain. Maybe, when I was holding her against her will at the beach house, she thought she meant more to me. She thought I actually gave a shit about her. To be quite honest, the only reason I’m still glad we went after her is because she helped reveal all the other duplicitous assholes in my life. Ophelia, for example. She’s so much more a part of this city and its underground than I ever could’ve imagined. “Who the fuck gives a shit? She’s a bad person who likely got what was coming to her.”

“Bad person, how?” Sara asks, and this time, I do glance back at Vic. Purposefully. I give him a long, searching look that both serves as camouflage and allows me to get a read on him at the same time. How much should I tell her? I’m wondering.

The way Vic very slowly lifts a cigarette to his mouth, I know what he wants. “I’mma go smoke this outside.” He moves away, nodding his chin to indicate that Cal and Hael should follow after him.

I wait until all three boys are outside before responding. The suspension is killing Sara; I can tell.

“She was selling foster kids to the highest bidder,” I say, giving Sara a long look to make sure she understands.

“And how do you know that?” the police officer remarks, giving me a look right back. She isn’t even a detective and yet, here she is, talking to me. Somebody, somewhere thinks she can ‘get through to me’ or some shit I’ll bet.

“She did that, to me and my sister.” I shrug and shake my head. “If she’s missing, it’s likely one of her clients that did it.” I move over to the dressing rooms, stepping inside before Sara can ask me anymore questions. “But I’m not a snitch. You saw what happened to Kali when you goaded her. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone took it on themselves to crack down on her after the party.”

“Somebody with a stab wound in their side?” Sara asks, but I’m too busy shedding my clothes and sliding into a red cocktail sheath dress with a sweetheart neckline. It’s the color of blood, and very tight. I wouldn’t, under any circumstance, call someone wearing this thing sweetheart. As Valerie Broussard sings in “A Little Wicked”, nobody calls you honey when you’re sitting on a throne.

Fuck this idiot cop, I think, opening the door and watching as Sara’s estimation of me changes based on what I’m wearing. I look like a slut, but one that she wishes she could be, and that terrifies her. It makes her hate me. Oh, look, Bernie, you’ve become a psychic overnight.

“Ask around and see how well-liked Kali is,” I tell Sara with a shrug, moving over to a raised dais and its half-circle of mirrors. As soon as I see myself in that dress, but with bare feet, I ask the salesgirl to bring me some classic black pumps. Louboutins, just because the soles are as red as blood. Bloody shoes. And now I’m singing Cardi B again in my head.

I’ve only ever liked rock or metal in the past, but she’s making me feel like a bad bitch today, so how can I say no?

Once the heels are on, and I’m standing in front of the mirrors, I know that I’m losing ground with Sara. Picking this outfit, of all things, this color … well, it may as well be the scarlet motherfucking letter.

Just to summarize: it’s a book about a Puritan chick who screws a minister, gets pregnant, and then refuses to tell anyone in town who the father is. Poor girl gets a red letter ‘A’ slapped on her chest; it stands for adulterer. That’s what I feel like today, like some fucked-up Puritan girl made pariah through no fault of her own.

“If you want to find Kali, start by looking for Mitch.” I hope the admission—while it means nothing to me—will build some fragile trust between us. Nope, not this dress. As much as my inner Prescott ho likes it, I know that it won’t gain me anything with Ophelia. The color red can either be bold … or cheap. This is coming across as cheap.

I move back into the dressing room and lock the doors.

“Already tried,” Sara continues, seemingly content to sit and wait for me. “He, and his brother Logan, have been missing since the night of the dance.”

I switch out the sheath dress for the silk one, but as soon as I put it on and look at myself in the mirror, I know that it isn’t right either. I look like a trophy wife, some old man’s arm candy, an accessory instead of a fixture.

“And? It’s been two days, Sara. Relax.” I drop the pile of silk to the floor and kick it aside with one of the Louboutin heels on my feet. Salesgirl can clean it up. Show her what it’s like to take care of someone from Prescott for a change. Usually, we’re the ones pumping gas or wiping tables and being treated like shit by Fuller folks or Oak River Heights assholes.

The next dress I try on has a price tag that quite literally makes my teeth hurt. Four-thousand, eight hundred dollars. It occurs to me that anyone that purchases a dress this expensive should likely be slapped, just for being an asshole. And this is exactly the sort of dress that everyone in that art gallery will be wearing.

I try it on, sliding the crepe material over my head and letting it fall into place. Someone will have to button the top button and zip it up for me, but I turn anyway and examine myself in the small mirror.

This dress has a sweetheart neckline, just like the other one, but it’s floor-length with a mesh inset at the thigh, leaving the pale flesh of my upper legs visible. There’s just a hint of a tattoo peeking through. I swipe my hand down the front of the dress, enjoying the lush feel of the fabric. It’s not as red as I’d initially wanted; instead, it’s a red to black ombre, bloodred against my collarbone and fading to ebony at my feet.

I head back out of the dressing room, swing my hair over one shoulder, and put my back to the cop. Look, my posture says, I’m not afraid of you. Not at all. You know that, right?