I glance at the time as Nate shifts beside me, still working his hand on me, in me. It’s only eight. Too early. Before I put my phone back, I click into Twitter, just to see if there’s anything interesting trending. Immediately, I see a sea of RIP tweets under one of the hashtags and retweets of a TMZ story that just broke two hours ago. “Oh, my God,” I say, grabbing Nate’s hand.

He chuckles into my skin. “Already?”

“No,” I say, the blood cooling within my body. “Stop.”

His arm is slack when I move it away and push up to my elbows, clicking the link that brings me to the full story. “‘Breaking news: Fashion titan Simon Van Doren found dead in his Nassau County compound early this morning.’”

“What?” Nate grabs my phone and reads it for himself. “Damn.” His eyes flick over to me, but I don’t know what to say. I’m still trying to process this.

I take my phone back and skim the rest.

Van Doren was taken to Lenox Hill Hospital, where doctors pronounced him dead on arrival. An official statement has not yet been released by the family.

I don’t know what or even how to feel, so many thoughts ricocheting inside my head at once. I knew this was going to happen, but somehow, even after all the anticipation, it still feels so unexpected, like the world has stopped spinning.

Nate’s hand touches my leg, and I flinch.

“Hey.” He waits until I turn to face him. “Maybe it was the cancer. Don’t freak out about this, okay? Not until we know more.”

But I already know.

I don’t know how, but I know, with unwavering certainty, that Taylor murdered her father, and that absolutely terrifies me.

17

TAYLOR

I don’t know how I expected to feel. Happy? Relieved? Triumphant? I don’t know. I don’t know what I feel. It’s a certain kind of numbness that feels almost like nothing, but it’s something—something I know I’ve never felt before, like there’s been a hollow space carved in my chest. A void. I don’t know if it’s a good thing yet. I’m still trying to get used to it.