Map of Fates (The Conspiracy of Us 2)

He ran his hands up my arms and then pulled away. “Wait here a minute,” he said.

He loped across the garden to a bush heavy with pink roses. He plucked one and ran back, offering it to me. “Tonight, when Colette and Elodie are out doing reconnaissance, let me take you out. A proper date. We’ll have to go somewhere far away from the action, where no one will recognize us, and it won’t be anything fancy, but—”

I was sure I looked skeptical. Really, now? Of all times?

“I’m serious. We never got to go on the date I asked you on in Minnesota. I meant it then, and I mean it a thousand times more now, and everything’s such a mess I don’t know that there’s anything holding us back anymore. Avery West, may I take you on a date?”

I took the rose. This would be good for us. Get things back to normal, if there was such a thing anymore. “Okay. Yes.”

I jumped when a door opened on a balcony at one of the houses next door. A woman swept outside in a red bikini. She was wearing a wide-brimmed white hat, but her long, wild, curly hair and thick winged eyeliner was instantly recognizable. Miranda Cruz, who had won the Best Actress Oscar last year. She leaned out over the balcony, looked around, and saw us looking at her. I ducked back behind Jack, just in case.

On cue, Elodie opened the patio door and gestured for us to come in. “I was looking for you,” she said. “What part of everyone here will recognize you didn’t you understand? Don’t go outside. For two days. Even you can handle that.”

I followed her back into the crisp air-conditioning. “I didn’t go from being the Saxons’ prisoner to being yours. I’ll wear sunglasses or something, but I’m not hiding inside. In fact, why don’t I just wear sunglasses and hide out near the festival tomorrow so I can at least be backup? I’ve been checking the news. All they’re saying is that I might be questioned. It’s not like they’ve put out a most-wanted bulletin. Random locals aren’t even going to notice me.”

“Like sunglasses are going to do anything—” Elodie protested.

“We could disguise her,” Colette said. “I do it all the time. Sunglasses aren’t enough, but you can get away with a lot by changing your hair and clothes. I’ll wear a wig and a huge coat, and I almost don’t even need the glasses. It’s like people don’t see my face when the rest of me isn’t what they were expecting.”

“So that’s what I’ll do,” I said. I looked down at my long, wavy dark hair falling over my shoulder. “I’ll cut my hair.”

“She said a wig,” Elodie said. “The dramatics are unnecessary. Though you do have a lot of hair, and fitting it under a wig . . .”

I touched the piece of hair that had been cut at the wedding. It brushed my collarbone.

“Could use it as an excuse to do something fun,” Colette said with a sad smile. “Cut it off to that length. Dye it pink.”

I started to laugh, but stopped. “Not a bad idea. I could go hipster. Get me some pink streaks, some big glasses . . . This cut piece looks ridiculous, anyway. I’ve been meaning to do something with it.” I turned to Elodie. “Will you do it?”

• • •

When Elodie got back from the drugstore with hair dye, we left the boys and Colette in the main room and shut ourselves in the marble bathroom.

“Time to make you hip. Though that’ll take more than just a haircut,” Elodie said, tossing a pair of scissors and a box of hair dye on the counter.

I took one last look at myself in the gilded mirror and pulled at the ends of my long hair, then sat on the toilet seat. “Is there anything the rest of us can do while you’re at the red-carpet thing tonight?”

Elodie pulled a brush through my hair. “Sit here and be useless.”

I bit down hard on my lip. “Why don’t you like me?”

She smirked.

“I’m serious. I keep trying to be nice to you, and you still hate me. I just want to make sure you’re not going to shave my head right now.”

Elodie snagged a knot, and I flinched. “I don’t hate you. I think this whole thing’s obnoxious, and I kind of wish you’d never come into our lives. But I don’t hate you.”

“Um, okay. Thanks,” I said, not hiding the sarcasm.

She gave an exaggerated sigh. “It’s a compliment. I think you’re handling it okay. I hope you don’t hurt him, though. Jackie. He’s . . . good. Both of them are.”

Oh. So that was what the renewed animosity was about. I thought she’d looked at us all funny on the train this morning. “I thought we agreed we weren’t going to talk about this. Weird relationship stuff not conducive to serious clue following, remember?”

“Funny, you say that, but you keep leading both of them on, anyway.”

I turned so quickly, the brush yanked on my hair. “Ow. I’m not leading anyone on. I had a thing with Jack. Have a thing. Whatever. It’s complicated. End of conversation.”

“But you want to know what Stellan’s tongue tastes like.”

“Elodie!” I whipped around again, this time to the door to make sure no one had heard. I hissed through my teeth when the brush caught again, and I ripped it out of her hand and disentangled it myself.

“Am I wrong, though?” She took back the brush and clipped the top layer of hair tight against my head.

“Just drop it, okay?”

Mercifully, Elodie shrugged and gave the short piece of hair a tug. “You’re sure about this? You have such glamoreux hair. Short hair feels different.”

I shook my head a little and felt my hair tickling my skin. I’d worn it long since our first move. I’d never dyed it, never done anything. Was this crazy? Maybe. Was I sure? No. I glanced up at Elodie’s blunt bob.