“Just a catering alert,” I said.

“The florist wanted to confirm the white lilies for the entryway on Friday.”

Derek stopped on the third step, squinting in the dim light of the hallway.

His breath smelled faintly of the scotch he had been drinking earlier.

“If this party isn’t perfect, Monica, you will regret it,” he whispered.

The threat was quiet, almost casual, but it made my stomach churn.

“I understand,” I said, keeping my voice even.

He looked down at my arm, a sneer curling his upper lip.

“Hide that ugly thing under a wrap when the guests arrive.”

“I don’t want my colleagues asking stupid questions about your clumsiness.”

“I will,” I said.

He turned and walked back up, his bare feet slapping softly against the hardwood.

Only when his bedroom door clicked shut did I let out the breath I was holding.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket to check the message.

The burner number read: *Ten tomorrow. 4th Street.*

It was Annika.

***

The next morning, a bitter winter wind howled against the windshield.