I swallowed the ache that had been lodged in my throat for days—the same ache I’d been trying to dislodge with a hot cup of coffee and a stroll through the park on the way home from my mother’s apartment until Elis Brooks had happened.

A frown formed instantly when I thought of how his eyes had cut me up and down as if they held invisible swords. He’d been vicious, not that I should have been surprised.

What had surprised me was that he was the Vigilante Artist, a silly name Page Six had taken to calling him. The coffee shop idiots in Brooklyn had already made a Warhol-inspired poster of one of the first works of graffiti attributed to him—a giant silver ring, easily two stories tall, and where the sparkling diamond would usually be nestled, a smiling poop emoji sat in its place.

The worst part?

He’d painted his sparkling poop emoji ring on the front side of the white wall of Tiffany’s.

The Tiffany’s.

He’d caused quite a scene the next morning. I remembered seeing the local news crews when I’d walked by that morning to meet my dad for one of his radiation sessions. He’d cracked a smile when I’d told him I’d seen the ridiculous piece of street art firsthand, and then he’d dozed off in his chair, tubes and wires attached to him in every direction.

I’d had to laugh then, or I’d cry.

Pretty much the same way I felt now.

I flopped back on my pillow, watching the silver moonlight chase the dark shadow from the corners of my room. Sighing, I rolled over, salty tears wetting my pillow.

I missed my dad so much, mostly because he was the only one in my family who’d ever understood me—maybe the only person who ever would.

Before I could cry any more tears, I rolled back out of bed, swiped my phone off the table, and headed for the bathtub. I may not get any sleep the night before my father’s visitation, but I could at least soak in the bathtub and relax with some friendly online stalking.

I had Elis Brooks on my mind.

Chapter 3

Elis

The entire walk home, my fists were clenched to my sides, and the cool air did nothing to alleviate the hot rage pumping in my veins.

It’d been five years since I’d last seen her. She still looked as beautiful and just as shallow. Devlynn Price, the poster girl for the perfect-looking New York City socialite. Queen Fucking Bee. I hated her and everything her world stood for, but I also couldn’t shake her.