“We’ll talk about it after,” her friend insisted. “For now, this is your show, and we’re both going to enjoy it. Now lead the way so I can tell you how brilliant you are.”
Remi linked her arm through Camille’s and plastered on her brightest smile. If anyone could put on an act, it was Remington Fucking Ford, even if she was starring as Alessandra Ballard.
They admired her art. Drank champagne. Talked to art lovers and critics. Camille stood by her side while she answered the same questions over and over about synesthesia.
Yes. She actually saw the colors.
No. It wasn’t like being on LSD.
No. She didn’t have brain damage.
Remi didn’t let Camille out of her sight the entire evening. Every time the door opened and a man in a suit stepped inside, a shiver skated up her spine.
Warren wouldn’t let this pass. Not without a reminder of who was in charge.
Remi had never hated before. Sure, she’d temporarily despised. She’d even attempted a few voodoo curses in her early twenties. But she’d never hated anyone until Warren Vorhees.
At the end of the night, instead of elation at how many subtle sold stickers appeared next to her work, she felt a grim kind of fear.
“Want to come back to my place with me?” Camille asked, digging through her clutch for her keys.
“Sure,” Remi said.
“We can celebrate your huge success by packing.”
Remi choked on the last gulp of champagne she’d been about to drain from the glass.
She sputtered it down her chin and into her cleavage.
“I beg your pardon?” she said, eyes watering.
Camille handed her a cocktail napkin with a smile. “I’m ready.”
“Really?” Remi squeaked. She grabbed her friend by the shoulders and looked into her eyes.
Her friend nodded, eyes shining with unshed tears. “It’s time.”
“Yo, Alessandra!” Rajesh called out as she headed for the door.
“Not now, Raj.”
“Don’t you want to know how you did?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me all about it when you take your percentage,” Remi called over her shoulder.
Camille’s car was glossy yet understated, just like her. The Mercedes purred to life when she pushed the start button.
“Well, that was quite a night. I think the entire art world is going to be saying your name,” she said, waiting for Remi to fasten her seatbelt before pulling out of the parking space.
“Let’s go back to the packing thing,” Remi suggested. Her commercial success was nothing compared to her friend being ready to leave.
“Warren is in Washington for the next four days. Something terribly important about next year’s campaign,” Camille said, pointing them toward the expressway, leaving Chicago’s cold but sparkly downtown behind them.
“Where are you going to go?” Remi asked.
“My parents’ first,” Camille said. “I already called my mother. She thinks it’s a spontaneous visit, so she’ll be very disappointed when I tell her the real reason.”
“But they’ll support you, won’t they?” Remi pushed.
“They’ll have to,” Camille said. “I have a lawyer friend in town and I have an appointment with her on Tuesday. She already has a copy of the prenup.”
“You didn’t send it from your phone, did you?” Remi asked. Camille seemed awfully calm for a woman who’d just decided to leave her husband. A man who’d mentioned on more than one occasion that if she did leave, he’d end her life.
Remi believed him. She’d noticed something, a twinge, really, when she’d met him. But he’d been so smooth, so charming. He seemed like such a doting husband. And she’d never met a real monster before.
Now she knew.
“Are you okay? How much are we packing? When do you leave?” Remi asked, unable to hold back the onslaught of questions. Camille guided the Mercedes down the exit ramp and headed toward luxury suburbia and the senator’s ultra-modern mansion. It made Remi’s semi-renovated loft look like a garage where people got murdered. Well, to be fair, red paint looked an awful lot like blood.
“I’m okay,” Camille assured her with a genuine smile. “I’m terrified, of course. But it’s now or never.”
“Did he hurt you?” Remi asked, trying to keep any of the seventy-five emotions she was feeling out of her voice.
“He always does.”
Camille turned on the radio. Radiohead’s “No Surprises” filled the interior of the car. Its colors and their textures calmed Remi. This was a good thing. This was what she’d fought for. This is what she’d put their friendship on the line for.
“I’ll come with you,” Remi said suddenly.
“Where? To my parents’？”
“Yeah. They can’t misunderstand you or downplay it if I’m there telling them to their faces it’s all true. They can’t try to make you go back to him if I’m there to kick them in the balls into supporting you.”
“You’re a good friend, Remi,” Camille said as the car began to climb into the hills. It was a moonless night, and the sky was thick with clouds. The snow was deeper here, and tree boughs bending under the weight flashed by in the headlights.
“After your parents and the lawyer, you should come home with me,” Remi said suddenly.
“To Mackinac?” Camille asked. “I have to admit, it sounds idyllic from your description.”
“Oh, not in the dead of winter. But you’ll be safe there. It’s this beautiful, quiet snow globe. You could really get away. No one in their right mind would follow you there,” Remi promised.
“Hmm. Will I meet Brick?”
“Brick?” Remi repeated innocently.
“You’ve never said as much, but I put a few things together. Brick is the guy who broke your heart, isn’t he?”
“Can anyone break your heart when you’re young and dumb?” Remi asked airily.
“You’ve still got a heart even when you’re young and dumb.”
“Ugh. Brick and I may have had our differences. But I wouldn’t say he broke my heart.”
“Oh, so it was someone else then,” Camille said slyly.
Remi snuck a look at her profile behind the wheel. Her friend was smiling.
“No. He was the one who temporarily dented my ego.”
“Ah, dented your ego. That sounds much safer than broke your heart.”
“Let’s talk about what you’re packing,” Remi said, changing the subject.
A set of headlights appeared in the rearview mirror. High beams that looked as if they were approaching much too fast.
“Remi. It’s him.” Camille said, her hands tightening around the steering wheel.
“Maybe it’s just a drunk—”
But the car didn’t slow around the bend. They could hear the squeal of tires, the revving engine over the music.
“Call 911,” Remi said a split second before the sound of metal crunching into metal rang out.
The Mercedes lurched forward and across the double yellow line. Camille gave a shrill yelp while Remi upended her own purse in her lap and grabbed her phone.