It takes everything in me to hold it together until I’m in the privacy of one of the bathroom stalls, because I am freaking the fuck out.
As soon as I’m inside and the lock is engaged, I slump against the door. I let out a silent scream and squeeze my eyes shut.
This is not good. This is not good. This is not good.
She is not from Eden, North Carolina—I am.
Her mother didn’t die from breast cancer—Mine did.
Her name is not Lucca Marino—Mine is.
Lucca Marino—Ten Years Ago
I inch the window open slowly. This afternoon when I tried it, it squeaked around the halfway mark, so I’m trying to stop it just before that point. When there’s just enough space to slip inside, I go for it.
The adrenaline rush never gets old.
Dropping my backpack on the floor of the guest room, I quickly shuck the black leggings and carefully pull off the hoodie, making sure the wig cap stays in place and I don’t smudge my makeup. Opening the bag, I pull out the sequined black cocktail dress and slip it on. It fits like a glove and is short enough that I’m likely to expose myself if I bend over, so it’s perfect for what’s happening here tonight.
The long, auburn wig is next. I flip it on, taking a few minutes to adjust it. I’ve practiced this enough in the dark to know when I get it right. Sky-high heels and a small, black clutch finish the look.
I shove my stuff under the bed then quietly leave the room.
The party is in full swing, and it’s a short walk from the guest room to the center of the house. There’s a band set up outside and most of the food is spread out buffet style in the dining room, in addition to the passed trays of oysters Rockefeller and mini lobster rolls that I saw being prepped in the kitchen when I was here earlier. My stomach rumbles, but I don’t snatch one off the tray when it passes me. I can eat later.
A woman stumbles into me and I have to catch her before she takes us both down.
“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry!” she slurs, clutching my arm for support. It’s Mrs. Whittington. The second Mrs. Whittington and current wife of Mr. Whittington, not to be confused with the first Mrs. Whittington, who loves to bitch about the second one any chance she gets.
“It’s okay,” I answer.
She eyes me up and down. “Love this dress! Where did you get it?”
“Oh, a little boutique I ran across while we were vacationing in Virginia Beach,” I answer, my accent completely gone. That took more practice than putting on the wig in the dark.
I wait for recognition to cross her face, but in these clothes, with this hair, and the contoured makeup and smoky eyes, there is no part of me that is recognizable. It doesn’t hurt that no one expects the poor little girl who works in the back room of the local flower shop to rub elbows with high society as they throw massive parties to celebrate the engagement of a couple whose marriage won’t last two years. Honestly, these two will be lucky to make it down the aisle.
Once Mrs. Whittington is steady on her feet—or as steady as she can be in her current condition—I move past her. I would have had trouble coming in through the front door since the parents of the bride and groom are greeting everyone who arrives, but no one will question me now that I’m inside the party.
I pick my way through the open floor plan to a hallway on the other side of the massive den. I don’t usually have to make an appearance, but the way this house is laid out left me no other options. The band is literally set up in front of the owner’s bedroom windows outside, so through the inside door I must go.
I linger near the opening of the hall that will lead me to the Albrittons’ master suite. With my phone in my hand, I’m the image of someone who is looking for a quiet corner to make a call. My eyes are everywhere but the phone as I gauge the level of interest the other guests have in me. My other hand is in my clutch, my fingers wrapped around a device hidden inside. I take a deep breath then push the small button.
A loud crashing sound makes everyone turn in the direction of the kitchen, and I slip down the hall unnoticed into the bedroom. Someone may search for the source of that crash, but they won’t find anything out of place.
The room is dark, but it takes no time to get to the bathroom. I slip on the pair of black gloves from my clutch, then open the drawer in the built-in dressing table, searching for the heart-shaped box I know is tucked inside. I find it. Then I pick through the box’s offerings and pull out the sapphire ring, a pair of emerald earrings, and a necklace with a decent-size amethyst surrounded by some channel-set diamonds. I wish the diamond earrings and pendant Mrs. Albritton wore into the store last week were here, but I’m sure she’s wearing them right now.