I started drinking through the cocktail hour, needing the liquid courage to get through my mission and to keep from wanting to scream. I clutched the button a little tighter, clinging to Matt like he was my lifeline, ignoring the repeated looks my mother shot my way, which I knew conveyed her displeasure at my doing something so unladylike as keeping my hand in my pocket.

Whatever.

We sat for dinner, the catering staff my mother had hired for this evening setting out the various courses. Conversation was stilted and polite, and then I heard Matt’s father’s name come up, and I saw my opportunity.

We’d gone back and forth on what excuse I could use to get away from the table without arousing their suspicion, but still giving me enough time to search my father’s office. Matt had suggested saying I was ill, and up until now I’d thought that would be the best play; but now, listening to them discuss Mr. Ryan’s murder in graphic detail, I knew the perfect getaway would be to leave the table in tears—or as close to tears as I could manage. My father wasn’t prone to emotional displays so he certainly wouldn’t come after me, and emotions made my mother uncomfortable so I didn’t have any worries in that quarter, either. It was the perfect excuse.

I ducked my head, mustering up some sniffling noises, covering my face with my napkin as I pretend-dabbed at my eyes, willing some tears to well up.

I could feel the stares drifting my way. Good. Let them think I was making a scene at the table, let their embarrassment and discomfort give me the opportunity to flee.

“Excuse me,” I mumbled, still using the napkin to shield my face from the rest of the group.

I was possibly overacting a bit, but I figured I had years of painful history on my side. Everyone knew I’d gone off the rails when Matt had “died.” It wasn’t a stretch to imagine that I wasn’t over it, that bringing up what had happened to his father would only dredge up old wounds and memories.

I walked out of the dining room, my heels clicking against the hardwood floors as I lengthened my stride, ignoring the low murmurs behind me, relief filling me at the absence of footsteps trailing after me. Then I was bounding up the double staircase, heading for my father’s office on the second floor.

My breath hitched, my legs shaking as I neared my destination.

Focus. Keep it together. You can do this.

I strode past my bedroom door, then Blair’s, wave after wave of nostalgia crashing over me as I remembered the nights we’d stayed up in each other’s rooms talking and laughing while our parents were out at some gala. Or the times when I was older and they’d been out of town or simply absent, and I’d snuck Matt into my bedroom.

My father’s office sat at the end of the hall. My heart raced as I neared the door, each step taking me closer and closer to the point of no return. Was I really going to get away with this? I checked my watch, making note of the time, figuring I only had a fifteen-minute window before I’d have to explain my absence and someone might come after me. They’d been starting the main course when I’d fled, so hopefully they’d be distracted by the food and not pay much attention to how long I’d been gone.

So far luck hadn’t exactly been on my side, but a girl could hope.

My gaze darted back and forth, my fingers gripped tightly around the panic button, as I checked to see if anyone was upstairs. I didn’t know if their habits had changed, but as far as I knew my parents still employed Mrs. Tremaine, a live-in housekeeper who had been with us since Blair and I were kids, and that was it. She’d been responsible for cooking on nights that my parents weren’t entertaining, taking care of the house, and occasionally, child-rearing. We’d had a nanny when we were younger, but Mrs. Tremaine had been our favorite.

The hallway clear, my hand closed over the doorknob, and I was relieved when it gave way beneath my palm.

I stepped over the threshold, closing the door gently behind me, a chill sliding down my spine as I entered his inner sanctum. I remembered the day my life had changed, when I’d been on the other side of the door listening to my father and Matt’s discuss his unit’s ambush. This room contained my ugliest ghosts.

I fought back against the panic beating in my chest. I’d do a quick search of his desk and computer. I just had to focus, had to somehow ignore how my surroundings made my skin crawl. I took a deep breath, grabbing the tiny flashlight out of the other pocket of my dress, shining the beam in the direction of my father’s massive desk.

I began sifting through the papers stacked in piles, most of it correspondence that he needed to reply to. Another wave of nostalgia hit me as I remembered sitting at his desk when I was a little girl, “helping” him reply to letters. That was the hardest part of all of this—not all of my memories of my father were bad. But after everything that had happened, every memory I had seemed tainted, and I couldn’t decipher what was the truth and what was a lie.

I scanned each letter quickly, shoving the memories from my head. Everything looked to be perfectly normal, letters from constituents, nothing out of the ordinary or incriminating. I put the papers back in their stacks, not sure it even mattered since I feared he’d figure out that I’d broken in eventually, but trying my best to cover my tracks. James Bond, I was not.

Maybe Matt should have snuck in. I could have tried to figure out some way to get him into the house. He was likely way better at this than I was.

Fuck. I was running out of time.

Heart pounding, I went for the drawers next, rifling through the contents, the detritus of my father’s life. The computer taunted me, its presence a blinking light that said, “Try me.”

I abandoned my search of the drawers, checking my watch again.

Seven more minutes and then I needed to start heading downstairs. I couldn’t afford to arouse my father’s suspicion, especially if I came up empty. We hadn’t worked out a “plan B” yet, but I figured we were heading into the territory of needing one.

I turned on his computer, sucking in a deep breath at the sound of it whirring to life. The house was huge and there was no way they could hear the noise from the dining room downstairs, and yet each sound felt like a scream breaking through the air. My heart beat so rapidly I swore they could hear it downstairs, as though I was something out of an Edgar Allan Poe story, my organ somewhere under the floorboards of the house of my childhood that had never felt like a home.

The monitor lit up, the computer prompting me for a password.

My fingers hovered over the keys, wondering what someone like my father would have used for a password. I’d considered this possibility in the days leading up to tonight, and still didn’t have a clue. A random series of numbers? A birthday or anniversary? The year he was first elected to the Senate?

Fuck.

I searched around his keyboard, the monitor, looking to see if he was one of those people who kept his password written down somewhere close by so he could reference it in case he forgot.

Nothing.

Frustration filled me, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, ready to start trying likely combinations, figuring I had a few attempts before the computer would lock me out.

I froze. The sound of footsteps against the hardwood floors broke through the quiet night, sending ice through my veins. I held my breath, listening to them get closer, closer, praying that it wasn’t my father, that he wouldn’t come into his office. I was afraid to move, afraid to make a sound, wondering if I should dive down behind the desk, when all of a sudden the sound became quieter, and quieter, and then finally, disappeared.

I stood there for a moment, my body hunched over the keyboard, waiting …