Barely two hours pass before the guard is back in my face, saying I have a visitor. It feels like magic that Nate got them the money already. I follow the guard to the visiting room, but stop dead in my tracks when I glance at the entrance.

Taylor. In a beige oversize suit, a matching crop top peeking through, so close to the color of her skin it barely looks like she’s wearing anything underneath. Her hair is bone straight and tucked behind her ears, giving her face a more severe look than usual. I take in her square-toe Bottega Veneta heels as she struts my way and I can’t believe I almost became one of them, the kind of people I hate. It seems impossible that only a few weeks ago I was on track to spend the summer in Milan, shadowing Simon for three weeks, sipping espressos with the VD team in centuries-old cafés, doing exactly what I’ve dreamed of for so long, and now I might be facing life in prison for something I didn’t do. I should have never accepted Taylor’s money or those gifts from Mei and Jared. I should have never lied to Nate.

Taylor sees me but when we lock eyes, her expression doesn’t change. When she steps closer and slides off her sunglasses, I’m struck by the redness of her eyes, the pallor of her face.

She picks up the handset.

“What do you want?” I snap into my end.

“This is all my fault,” she says, looking genuinely remorseful. The receiver seems to shake in her hand.

“I knew it. You did this. You kil—”

“I trusted you.” Her lower lip trembles and she swallows hard. “I’m to blame for Dad’s death just as much as you are.”

Her words throw me off. I was expecting her to be...apologetic. To admit it was her. For a moment I can’t decide if she’s crazy—or if I am.

My mouth drops open in confusion. “What?”

“Nate Cinderella’d you, squeezed you into that Givenchy gown and you managed to con everyone at the ball, including Dad. He felt bad for the poor little black girl from ‘the hood’ with big dreams.”

My jaw tightens at the emphasis she put on squeeze and her use of those stupid air quotes. I swallow a growl.

Taylor lowers her head, slumping in her seat, as if she’s truly suffering. When she straightens, she’s crying. Real tears. Thick, shiny tears. Her shoulders are trembling, but no sound comes from her mouth. She looks innocent, vulnerable. Legitimately in pain.