I force that image out of my head and fall back into my train of thought. “So we fabricate emails that make her seem like some obsessed bitch who goes batshit on him when he gets engaged to some other chick.”

“Because it was supposed to be her,” Mei says, finishing my thought, and the edges of a smile find me.

“Exactly. She threatens him in the last one we write. He ghosts her. Then boom, a couple days later his heart stops.”

Jared stares at me, and I think I peep a twinkle of awe in his eyes. “I’m impressed. Your coldness is truly unrivaled.”

“She has a criminal record.” I shrug. “It won’t be that much of a stretch.”

I slip my head beneath the water for a few moments, then pull myself back up to the surface.

“I still think something’s missing,” Mei says, thoughtfully.

I frown at her, sweeping hair out of my face. “We have motive. Method. Pattern. What else is there?”

She thinks it over. “I don’t know. We need something to really seal the deal if we’re gonna go with the obsessed-lover trope. Emails are too basic.”

I sigh, realizing she’s right. We need something more solid. Undeniable.

We all go quiet. I dip back into the water.

Then I remember.

I break through the surface again. Smooth my hair from my face. “Jared, go get my phone.” He stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Just do it. You’ll thank me later.”

15

TAYLOR

I’m pretending to study a five-foot painting on the wall ahead of me that’s allegedly reminiscent of Salvador Dali’s work, but all I can think about is the Salvatore Ferragamo ankle booties that I saw earlier at Bergdorf’s. Even after three consecutive Art Basels and a personalized Louvre walk-through with my hot French professor, I still don’t get visual art, especially the old shit. All I see is random colors and abstract lines that don’t make sense. I don’t see a story. I don’t feel anything.

I’ve been here for over an hour and nothing has moved me yet. Nothing has even stirred me until a shadow looms over me from behind. I shift slightly. Jared gives me a small smile, a breath away.

I turn back to the painting. “So do you think it’ll work?”

He speaks close enough to my ear to send a shiver down my spine. “You know the password to your dad’s desktop, right?”

“Mom’s birthday.”

He scoffs. “Bastard. Did you finish the drafts for the emails?”

I reach into my purse and slip him a flash drive, keeping my hand close to my side. “Torch this when you’re done sending them.”

He lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses me there as he takes the tiny device from me, so smooth, and slips it into his pocket.