I didn’t know that. I assumed Yafeu was using charity work like most wealthy people do—to enhance his status and connections. I didn’t realize he had such a personal connection to the issue. It actually makes me feel sorry for him. For a moment, at least.

Simone looks around the party with renewed focus. “What now?” she asks me. “What do we do?”

“Well . . .” I haven’t seen Kenwood anywhere yet. “I guess I want to snoop around his house. Try to find his office, or a laptop or iPad. See if I can access it, or steal it and have somebody smarter hack into it.”

“Alright,” Simone says nervously. I know she wants to help me, but this is where we cross the line from party-crashers to criminals. She’s probably never broken the law in her life.

We climb the wide, curving staircase to the upper floor. All the lights are off up here, probably to dissuade partygoers from coming up. I have to yank Simone into the nearest room, to avoid a guard prowling past.

There are guards all over this place. Unless Kenwood hired extra security for the party, he’s pretty fucking paranoid. Which means he has something to hide.

Simone and I start to search the rooms. She keeps watch outside the door, while I look through each space in turn.

Kenwood has all kinds of weird stuff up here.

First, we find a massive billiards room with fifty or more taxidermy heads on the wall. They’re all exotic animals, some that I couldn’t even name. Their glass eyes look down blankly over cheetah-printed chairs and zebra-striped chaises.

Next to that, a room that appears to be an exact replica of the Star Trek Enterprise bridge. I don’t know what purpose it serves for Kenwood. I can only assume he comes in here and sits in the captain’s chair, and stares at the wall painted to look like outer space.

“That’s just creepy,” Simone whispers, peering through the doorway.

“What?”

She points. There are hidden cameras in two corners of the room. In the next room as well. Probably all over the house.

“We better hurry up,” I tell her. “He might have spotted us already.”

Simone follows me further down the hallway. We haven’t seen anything that looks like an office yet. Just a guest room, a bathroom, and another guest room.

“Come on,” I mutter to Simone. “Let’s check the doors at the end of the hall.”

She’s right next to me, not touching me, but walking so close that I can feel her body heat on my bare arm. It’s colder on this upper level than it was downstairs. I can hear the air conditioner whirring. And I can see Simone’s nipples poking through the shiny silver material of her dress. I look away quickly.

“Wait here,” I say to her as we reach the double doors at the end of the hall. “If you hear anyone, come find me.”

I slip inside what looks like Kenwood’s master suite.

I walk across an acre of carpet. Kenwood’s room looks like it was designed by Liberace. His bed is up on a raised circular dais, bookended by hanging curtains and two massive vases of hothouse flowers. I can smell their heavy perfume from here. Everything is tasseled, gilded, or mirrored. The whole ceiling is a mirror, as well as several of the walls, which gives the room a creepy funhouse feeling. I keep catching glimpses of my reflection from different angles, and it makes me jump every time, thinking there might be someone else in here.

I start searching Kenwood’s nightstand and drawers, looking for an extra phone, tablet, or laptop. I look behind the paintings for a safe. I’m not as good at cracking locks as Nero, but I might be able to get a safe open, given enough time.

Over in the sitting area, I see a whole wall full of photos of Kenwood shaking hands with famous people. He’s got mayors, governors, senators, and presidents, all giving him that weird shoulder-clapping handshake they seem to love.

Then dozens more pictures of Kenwood with actors, singers, models, CEOs, and athletes. He’s even got a shot with an astronaut, signed and everything. I doubt Kenwood is actually friends with all these people, but it’s obvious he’s a collector. Obsessed with shining bright by standing in other people’s spotlights.

When I come to what I think is Kenwood’s closet, I get a surprise. Behind the door is a little room with a single chair. The whole wall is stacked with monitors, and each monitor shows one of the camera feeds from the house. There are cameras in every room, except the one I’m occupying currently. That includes the half-dozen guest rooms scattered throughout the house.

I’m assuming the guests aren’t told. Because right now, I could watch several different couples fucking, or the threesome currently taking place in the hot tub. If I was a lecherous fuck like Kenwood.

I’m guessing that’s how he gets his jollies—sitting here watching the girls he hired servicing his wealthy friends. Or maybe he uses the footage for blackmail. That would explain how he managed to wiggle out of the charges brought against him by the Freedom Foundation and the Chicago PD.

The computer connected to the monitors is encrypted. But I could grab the hard drive. I know plenty of people who could break into that thing, given several hours and the right financial incentive. Hell, I bet Nero could do it.

I unplug the drive and tuck it in the front of my jeans, under my t-shirt. It’s not a great hiding spot, but it’ll do for now.

I head back to the doors, wondering if I should tell Simone I got what we came for, or if we should keep snooping around.

But when I slip back out into the hallway, Simone is nowhere to be seen.

She’s completely disappeared.

31

Simone

While Dante searches the master bedroom, I keep watch outside, making sure that guard doesn’t circle back around.

Keeping guard is pretty boring. At first, I’m distracted by the fear of getting caught and the guilty sensation of sneaking around someplace you’re not supposed to be. Once that fades, I’m just standing in the dark, listing to the distant thud of house music. I saw the DJ out in the backyard—I’m pretty sure he’s the same one who played at Ryan Phillippe’s birthday party in Los Angeles.

Sometimes I go to celebrity parties, when Ivory drags me along. She loves that kind of thing. That’s why she got into modeling in the first place—she loves the attention, the feeling of being special.

For me, the attention only makes me feel more lonely. People think they love Simone Solomon, but they don’t actually know me. All their compliments mean nothing, because they’re directed at the persona I created. That Simone is just a product. She doesn’t really exist.

I know what it felt like to be loved by someone who actually understood me. Dante loved me not like my parents do—because of what they want me to be. He loved me exactly the way I was.

Serwa did, too. But she’s gone now.

And Dante, though he’s only a few meters away on the other side of that door . . . he might as well be a thousand miles away. I lost his love forever when I ran away from him.

At least I have Henry.

I’m afraid, though. Afraid that by making Henry the center of my world, I put too much pressure on him, just like my parents did to me. It’s not right to put all my happiness on him. He shouldn’t have to carry that burden.