Given her seeming urgency, I expected the giant to scurry into a stall, but instead, she meandered over to one of the sinks and turned on the faucet. For a moment, the only sound was the steady hiss of water streaming over her hands.

“Lovely night, isn’t it?” she said.

“Just gorgeous,” I muttered.

The giant quickly washed her hands and dried them, before throwing her used paper towel into the silver trash container. I’d thought she’d go back out to the party, but instead, she turned to look at me again. She stared at me for another second before smiling and leaving the bathroom. The door shut behind her, once again not quite closing the way it should.

Well, that had certainly been odd. But since the giant hadn’t pulled a gun out of her pants pocket, come at me with clenched fists, or otherwise tried to end my existence, I put her out of my mind and turned back to the mirror.

I was staring at my reflection and brooding once more when the door opened again a few seconds later. Only this time, it wasn’t the giant who stepped through—it was Jillian Delancey. Of course. Because that was just my kind of luck.

Jillian stopped when she saw me standing in front of the mirrors. I wondered if she was as offended by the fact that we were both wearing the same dress as Finn was, but I decided not to be rude and ask.

“Oh,” she said. “Hello again . . .”

“Gin,” I said, when it became apparent that she didn’t remember my name. “Like the liquor.”

“Gin. Right.”

Jillian walked over and put her small black beaded clutch down on the counter. Even though Finn had made me buy a purse to match my dress, I hadn’t bothered bringing it inside the museum. I had my knives. That was all I needed.

Jillian opened up her clutch and pulled out a tube of scarlet lipstick, along with a small compact so she could touch up her face.

I washed my hands again, just to have something to do, and I took my sweet time drying them off. Finally, Jillian finished with her makeup. She put everything back into her bag, snapped the top shut, and headed toward the door. But just before she reached it, she turned around and faced me.

“So,” she said. “Do I need to be worried about you and Owen?”

“Me and Owen?”

She hesitated. “When I came over to the two of you earlier, it looked like you were both . . . involved in something.”

I didn’t know that we were involved, so much as feeling awkward with each other, but I could imagine how we must have looked to her, each one of us staring at the other, pain and tension glinting in our eyes.