“Such a buzzkill, Whit.”

“Shut up, Karma.”

Emmy’s eyes practically light up. “You two are just precious. My audience will love hearing about how Whitney Rango gets along with her family.”

“How big of an audience?” Karma takes a step closer to her.

Instead of replying, the woman produces two business cards and hands one to Karma before shoving one at me. “Emmy Richards. Daily Post. I would love to talk to you, Whitney. I think your side of the story would be of great interest—”

“I’m not interested.” I start to turn away, but she slips the card between my hand and the papers.

“You don’t want to set the record straight? Tell everyone how you’ve been crucified in the press for causing Ricky’s suicide when there’s another reason he could’ve done it?”

“What other reason?” Karma asks, fanning the flames of this woman’s ego.

“Don’t you need to go watch your kids?” I ask my cousin, shooting a look toward the girls where they’re both dipping their toes in the water.

“Leave my kids out of it. I want to hear what Emmy has to say.”

“You’re clearly the smart one in the family.” Emmy speaks directly to Karma as if I’m not even here.

“Obviously.”

“Did you know there’s a rumor going around that your cousin’s husband had a mistress and he really killed himself because of her?”

Mistress? I knew Ricky was cheating because of the STD, but I assumed it was some random skank and a backstage hookup . . . not a relationship.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I demand.

Emmy turns her attention back to me. “I’m just saying that it seems like there was a lot more going on with your husband than you thought, Whitney. What if you could redeem yourself? Make his fans hate you a little less? Wouldn’t that make life easier? I can help you do that, if you let me.”

A tiny shred of my soul is tempted by her offer, but I know enough not to trust her or anything she says. “I’m calling security.” I look at Karma. “You might want to take the girls back to the room so they don’t have to see this.”

She says nothing, just fingers Emmy’s card and glances at me. “How much would you pay for a good story?”

“You can’t be serious!” I step toward her and rip the card out of her hand.

“I’m not the one with a billionaire boyfriend. I’ve got two little girls to feed.”

Emmy pulls another card from her purse and hands it to Karma. “Call me. We’ll talk.”

Fuck. Now my cousin is going to sell me out to the press.

Thirty-Three

Lincoln

The past

The funeral for Mr. and Mrs. Gable was a fraction of the size of my father’s, even when it should arguably have been double, especially in a town named after their ancestors.

I saw Whitney dressed in black, walking into the church between her brother and her aunt. Even with her summer tan, her face looked pale, standing out against the dark dress.