An odd shift in topic, and not exactly the response she’d been hoping for, but Cassie went with it. “Yes. Someone shared the information with one of the executives.”

“Hmm.” Lizbet kept fiddling with her suit, tugging on each sleeve of her jacket and delicately flicking her fingers over the fabric as though ensuring no lint had dared to touch it. “That’s a big event. It’ll be hard to narrow down who might have said it. And that’s only if you can get your hands on the guest list.”

She snapped to attention and zeroed in on Cassie as though she’d been jolted by a thought. “You know, now that you’ve got a man with deep pockets, maybe you can afford a trip to the lady who makes my custom suits. She’s a costume designer like the ones who work those masquerade balls. I’ll bet she could even make a skinny thing like you look like you’ve got curves.” She winked then sauntered toward the door, full of attitude. Opening the door, she paused for a last look at Cassie, a silent message behind her eyes. “Good luck.”

The wink.

It hadn’t been a sassy one, but a pay attention one.

She’s a costume designer like the ones who work those masquerade balls.

And she’d made sure to bring up the Midnight Masquerade. If a costume designer did a ton of work on a masquerade, surely they’d be included on the guest list.

Cassie slipped her phone from her back pocket and opened her browser.

Costume Designers in New Orleans

Cassie clicked the first one—a man located near downtown. She hit the back arrow and tried the next.

A carousel of images featuring all manner of parties and costumes took up the bulk of the home page, but the address at the bottom showed Canal Street.

Fell on hard times and had to branch out or something. She’s over on Canal Street.

Yes!

She punched the Bio link in the top right-hand corner and the designer’s image filled the screen. Behind her, a multitude of colorful costumes lined the wall on prime display, but those full lips and turned up nose were unmistakable.

It was Lizbet’s source. And the woman she’d seen in the coffee shop. And at André’s. The only difference between the three were hairstyles and clothes, but as a designer she’d know all kinds of ways to alter her appearance.

In the corner of the image, a slick blue and red costume stood out among the others. Not something you’d expect at Mardi Gras or a formal masquerade, but more in line with a superhero movie.

No.

One resounding thought that ricocheted through Cassie’s head and made her blood turn cold. Evette and Emerson were going to a designer at noon—one who Evette had hoped to have make Emerson a Halloween costume and who’d specifically reached out to them and volunteered her work.

Bolting from her seat, Cassie jerked the bathroom door wide and took off at a run down the hallway.