I arch a skeptical brow. “Wait. You’re a venture capitalist and you believe in juju? Do you believe in voodoo too?”

She scoffs. “Please. No. Just juju. And we are going to turn your juju around. Also, once you get rid of the dress, you can date again,” she says, bright and cheery, like she’s dangling gummy bears before a child in the woods. Follow the trail of candy now. Come a little closer. They’re so very tasty. “You could even consider answering some of the knocks or pings or pokes you get online.”

I shudder. “No way. I met Ray online. Not going there again.”

“Be that as it may, I bet a date or two would take your mind off the whole work situation. Let’s kill two birds with one stone. Come to the masquerade gala my firm is sponsoring. It’s a charity fundraiser and a great way to get you out in the world of the living again.”

“It’s not as if I’ve been sulking. Work did keep me busy,” I say, because I didn’t go full hermit when Ray ditched me at the altar. More like full office, burying myself in story after story, in investigative piece after feature piece after news article. I took it all on, hungry for every single distraction.

Now I have none.

“Let’s find you more work.” Courtney waggles her blond brows and says my new favorite word. “You can network.”

My ears prick. “Network? Don’t get me excited.”

“It turns you on, doesn’t it?”

I laugh. “Yes, the prospect of paying my bills is quite arousing.”

She presses her hands together in a plea. “Come with me to the party. A ton of tech publications will be there.”

Before I can answer, the sound of heels clicking across the floor with purpose greets my ears. A voice shrilly shouts, “No.”

My spine straightens.

“You.”

A chill runs over my skin.

“Go.”

I spin around to find a woman with jet-black hair, a gypsy shirt, and bangles up one arm. “You with your French braid and the barrettes in your hair.”

I point at myself—who, me?—but there’s no one else she could be referring to.

“You brought that cursed dress into my store this morning,” she says, her voice wobbling, as she covers most of her mouth with her hand. My dress is draped over her other arm. She must be Sasha.

“Are you okay?” I ask, because . . . she reeks of Crazy with a capital, bolded, and underlined C.

Sasha raises her other arm, the one with my dress in its garment bag draped over it, and brandishes a jagged pink fingernail. “Today alone, I broke a nail.” She turns her wrist in my direction. It’s covered in Band-Aids. “And my cactus tried to kill me.”

“You have a homicidal plant?”

Note to self: murderous plants might be an interesting feature story for a consumer magazine. A warning sort of piece. Wait, that’s more Dateline.

Sasha drops her hand from her mouth, baring her teeth.