Page 5

For fake purses.

Like they were storming down a cartel, instead of a bunch of cul-de-sac queens with color-coded calendars.

Someone near the kitchen starts crying.

Josie whispers, "Audra… are we going to jail?"

"I—I don't know," I whisper back, even as another laugh escapes me. I clap a hand over my mouth, but it's too late. The adrenaline hits like good tequila straight to the bloodstream. My pulse races. My skin feels electric. And suddenly—God help me—this is the most alive I've felt in years.

An agent approaches our group, his expression somewhere between annoyed and exhausted. Josie's grip on me tightens.

Helena is already being pulled away from the table, her leopard blouse looking absurdly glamorous between two armored officers. The agent stops in front of me.

"Ma'am. Hands behind your back."

My heart is beating so hard I can feel it in my throat. This should terrify me. It doesn't. A third bubble of laughter rises inside me so suddenly that I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop it. Because this is insane. Because this is ridiculous. Because something that has been dormant for six years is stirring.

I turn slowly and place my hands behind my back. The cold metal clicks around my wrists. Instead of humiliation, I feel heat. I press my lips together to keep from smiling. This is so not me. At least not the version of me I've been pretending to be. The old me would have howled with laughter. Would have bowed dramatically. Would have asked if the cuffs came in gold. The agent's hands are efficient. Impersonal.

Annette sobs as she's cuffed beside me. "I can't go to jail. I can't go to jail."

I stare straight ahead, biting my lower lip so hard I taste blood. The thrill coils low in my stomach. Adrenaline hums through my veins. I feel light. Alive.

Lynn keeps repeating, "My husband's a dentist." "My husband's a dentist."

They guide us toward the front door in a neat little line of well-dressed criminals. Neighbors are already outside, phones raised. I should be mortified. Instead, I lift my chin. Because somewhere inside me, the girl who used to dance on bar tables is standing up and stretching after a very long nap. And she's having the time of her life.

We're led towards several large full-sized vans with blacked-out windows. The sharp smell of rubber and something industrial envelopes me. We're packed onto two narrow benches inside the transport van, knees bumping, hands cuffed behind our backs like actual criminals.

Someone is sobbing openly. Lynn, I think. Annette sits across from me, mascara streaks down her cheeks, and her perfect blowout is already deflating.

"This is insane," she keeps repeating. "This is insane."

The van lurches forward. Annette straightens suddenly, fury cutting through her panic. "I want my lawyer. Do you hear me? I want my lawyer."

No one answers her.

Josie sniffles beside me. "My husband's going to kill me."

I look around at all of them, silk blouses, diamond studs, trembling hands. If someone glanced at me from the outside, they might think I'm detached. Cold. In shock. But I'm not. Not even close. My pulse is racing. My skin feels tight, electric. Every bump in the road vibrates through me. I'm more alive than I have been in years. I press my lips together again to keep fromsmiling. This is insane. This is reckless. This is so far outside the careful, color-coded boundaries of the life I built.

Pete is going to be mortified. The thought twists my stomach, not guilt exactly. More like… anticipation. I can picture his face already. The crease between his eyebrows. The tight smile he uses when he's trying not to panic.

Audra. What were you thinking? He won't yell. He never yells. He'll handle it. Calmly. Efficiently. The same way he handles everything. Later, he'll probably ask me if I knew that this party was illegal, why I didn't tell him, and if I had considered the risks before going. Not an accusation. Not really, but enough to make me feel like I should have known better. And I should have, but I did it anyway.

Across from me, Annette shakes her head violently. "Erwin is never going to forgive me."

Her voice cracks on her husband's name. I swallow down another giggle.

It's funny. No, it's not. It's downright pathetic. All of us, sitting here, scared of disappointing men who never once cared what it took for us to begood. Men who will later laugh about it and tell their golf buddies over drinks,My wife got arrested.Like it's a punchline.

The van turns sharply. Metal rattles. Annette starts crying again, softer now. I lean my head back against the cold wall. It vibrates faintly with the engine, a steady hum beneath the muffled sobs and frantic whispers.

Pete saved me from this once. From the version of my life that would've ended exactly here, except not in silk blouses and wine-stained laughter. In something darker. Louder. Less forgivable.

If not for him, I might have ended up in the back of a van like this years ago. Only it wouldn't have been a joyride. It would've been a fall.

The van jolts over a pothole, and Lynn yelps. I press my lips together to stop another smile. Because this still feels like a joyride. An absurd, adrenaline-soaked detour from the careful map I've been following for six years.