God.

Chase passed a hand over her eyes, squeezing them together as if she could erase what she saw. Erase the bad decisions she’d made. The ones she couldn’t seem to stop making. Why did she keep doing this to herself?

She had no answer to that question. Her intentions were always good. Every time she went through rehab, went before a judge, got a second chance . . . or fifth . . . she swore she would get herself together and walk a straight line.

But she didn’t.

Jordan had given up, flopping onto his stomach, burying his head under the pillows with a groan that jarred Chase into action.

Okay, first she needed to find her phone. Then she could Uber back to her place with no one the wiser. She could call her parole officer and tell her that the battery was dead. But wait. Social media. Someone had probably posted pictures of her last night. She was busted. No way around that.

Shit.

Leaving the bedroom, she made her way down the floating staircase, clinging to the iron handrail, focusing on where she placed her bare feet so she wouldn’t take a tumble. She didn’t want to end up in the hospital. Because that meant dealing with her mother and her manager . . . who happened to be one and the same.

Lorna had drawn a line in the sand after the last screwup, and Chase really didn’t want to deal with the fallout when she felt like warmed-up cat barf. If she could find her shoes and phone . . . wait, had she brought a purse?

Maybe that’s where her phone was. What had she brought with her last night? The Fendi crossbody. Yes, the pink-and-brown one.

When Chase reached the bottom of the stairs, she noted five other people sprawled on the white linen couches, all in various states of undress. More liquor bottles and drug paraphernalia were scattered across the large stone coffee table. A wall of windows allowed the late-morning or early-afternoon California sunshine to flood the place, which now looked vaguely familiar.

Had she been here before?

Chase tiptoed over to the group of people, noting she didn’t know any of them. Where were Margot and Jenni? They had promised they would make sure she only had a few drinks and went home safely. That was the deal when she’d handed over her credit card. They’d promised, pinkie sworn, made blood oaths—they would get Chase London home and keep her nose clean.

She raised a hand to a nose that felt raw and scratchy.

Well, that hadn’t happened. Obviously.

“Looking for this?” someone said from the open area that led to what looked like a kitchen. Chase couldn’t make out the features of the woman against the blinding light pouring into the airy space, but she knew the voice.

“Lorna?”

“That would be correct.” The blobby shape holding her Fendi bag disappeared. “Come on into the kitchen.”

Chase stared at the spot where her mother had stood, trying to make sense of what she’d just seen. Lorna? In this house? How had her mother found her? Probably Life360. But Chase had disabled that, hadn’t she?