“Oh, yeah. Deja showed him no mercy.”
Linda peered into the shadows, where Deja stood, a silhouette with no face. Deja stirred, aware of Linda’s attention. Linda considered making a face at her producer—sticking out her tongue or giving her the middle finger—but that would only make Deja pick on her during the next outing.
Instead, Linda’s body relaxed into the idea of a day to herself. On her way to bed, trailed by Jazz, Linda crossed in front of Charity’s open door and peered in for a single second. Charity was sprawled out on her bed, her back propped against her headboard, reading some thick book. Even after her temper tantrums, the woman looked flawless, her short silky black waves never out of place. Her skin never seemed to betray her with a blemish. As a flush spread over Linda, she blamed it on the wine.
Linda had only paused at the doorway for a moment before moving on, so she was surprised to hear Charity’s faint laugh behind her, followed by the utterance: “Don’t spy.”
If Linda had been Marion, she would have returned to the door and engaged Charity in an argument. She would have advised Charity not to open her door if she didn’t want people to look into her room. She might have torn the book from Charity’s hands and read the coveted title. What was she always reading at night? The question had burned inside Linda for all the weeks that she had known Charity—or not known her, as was the more accurate description.
But because Linda was not Marion, because Linda was Linda, she stayed the path to her bedroom, where she settled into an uneasy sleep plagued by nightmares of the dead.
Chapter Two
Sabrina
“Bet you can’t guess where we’re going,” Tristan said as he swept Sabrina into an embrace outside the mansion’s gaping front doors. Sabrina couldn’t help but feel like a fairy tale princess when she examined the backdrop she’d been living against for the past six weeks.
“Bet I can’t!” Sabrina said, which was what she had said the first time they’d gone on the date, four days ago, unaware at the time that the cameraman had ruined the footage. Internally, she laughed. I know where we’re going, what we’re going to say, and how you will respond to everything. She didn’t mind. These recorded dates made her nervous, and knowing the outcome was a gift. During this go-round, she could relax into Tristan’s kisses. She could expect him to prove himself a decent man.
When Tristan offered his hand, she took it. Together, they strode out to the red Corvette parked in the drive. He opened her door for her. She slid across the cool leather seats. He offered her the radio dial, a formality since they weren’t allowed to play music, but she fiddled with it like it mattered while Leo, the cameraman in the backseat, caught every slip of small talk.
When they arrived at their destination, Sabrina peered out on the decorated field with renewed appreciation. The first time she’d gone on the date, she had been too nervous to take in all the details. The production team had strung colored gold bulbs from poles, creating a walkway of light that led to a golden circle altar hung with glittering glass shards. They caught the light as they spun in the breeze. Several chairs sat on either side of the altar, and red rose petals covered the ground.
“Wait a minute,” Sabrina said, repeating her line from the first date, “But we still have several weeks before you choose.”
Tristan took her hand. “This is a trial run.” He moved his hand from hers and placed his palms onto her shoulders, turning her to face another direction. “A dress rehearsal, if you will.”
Sabrina moved toward the gown that hung from the makeshift dressing room as though it called to her. She ran one hand down the cream fabric, and the shining pearl beads on the bodice tickled her hands.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
“It’ll be more beautiful when you’re wearing it.”
“And what will you wear?”
“That’s a surprise.” He winked as he gestured toward a suit in a bag. “See you soon.”
Sabrina dressed in the middle of a tent. Four days ago, she had tripped over the dress as she struggled into it, but this time, she slipped into it with ease. She emerged from the tent to find Tristan in the same Navy-blue suit he’d worn the first time.
“Wow,” he said, breathless, as he took her in.
“Wow, yourself,” she said.
He offered her his arm. “Are you ready?”
Down the aisle, a priest in a traditional collar waited. “As I’ll ever be.”
“Can we get that again?” one of the cameramen said, and Sabrina jumped at the sound of his voice. She considered the decorated field, reminding herself that they were surrounded by onlookers watching their every move. It was easy to forget. Sabrina had a lot of practice at forgetting.
• • •
Sabrina’s sister Morgan nominated her as a contestant on The Groom. Morgan didn’t tell Sabrina until after she’d been asked to audition, shoving the packet that contained the NDA and other information into Sabrina’s chest. Sabrina had returned from a long shift at the hospital and didn’t have the energy to consider significant life changes, so she melted into her mother’s old cozy chair, letting the cushions soak her up, and let the packet fall to the floor.
Morgan bent and picked it up, then slid out the paperwork and read it off.
“I don’t want to be on TV,” Sabrina said. “Right now, all I want to do is watch it.”
She leaned forward and grabbed for the remote, but Morgan snatched it away and shoved it into her bra. Behind her, another reality TV dating show blared: five women and five men humping on a dance floor in the middle of some island.
“If you win, you get all kinds of contracts,” Morgan said. “Money. More money than you make as a nurse.”
In the next room, Sabrina’s father coughed and wheezed as if on cue.
“You know we need that money,” Morgan said.
“You go,” Sabrina said. “You’re the one obsessed with this shit.”
Morgan scoffed and stood, pacing back and forth on the threadbare rug beneath her. “You know they’d never take me.” She stopped and leveled a jealous glare at Sabrina. “You got the looks, Sabrina. I got the brains. Thanks to Mom. You know that.” She knelt again at Sabrina’s feet. “Come on. White men love you. You’re a damn shoo-in.”
“But that’s the other thing. I don’t want to date some rando who just wants to be famous or whatever.”
“You mean a nice man? Face it Sabrina, your taste in men is awful. You know I can pick them better. You know you shouldn’t be trusted to find a man on your own.”
Sabrina massaged her temples as her headache intensified. She ran through a quick list of her last three boyfriends: a pothead who thought he could solve world hunger just by getting high, her superior at the hospital (bad career move), and a self-obsessed professional who never even tried to make her come.
“You’re right. I’m shit at dating.”
Morgan held out the papers, and Sabrina took them, looking them over.
