Page 61 of Played
"Okay." The word comes out before I can stop it. "I'll do it."
Colleen's eyes well up. "Thank you. God, thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." I pull my hand back, anxiety already creeping up my spine. "I haven't actually pulled it off."
"You will." She swipes at her eyes. "I know you will."
I sip my latte, the foam bitter on my tongue. Another bad decision to add to the growing list. But what choice do I have? Colleen's been there for me. And if there's even a chance Dylan knows something about where Claudia is—
I couldn't live with myself if I didn't try.
“We’ll hold on to the phone just long enough for your tech guy to clone it or whatever he does." She pulls out her phone to show me his picture again.
I stare at the screen. "I don't know if I can do this."
"You just need to show up looking hot. Flirt a little. Get him distracted." Colleen's fingers drum against her cup. “Go later in the evening, after eleven. You'll blend in better when people are already drunk."
"What if I mess it up?"
"You won't." She reaches across and squeezes my hand. "Liza, you're smart. You're beautiful. You can handle this."
"I really don't think—"
"You're the only person I trust with this." Her voice cracks. "The police don't care. No one cares. My niece ismissing, and this asshole might know where she is."
Guilt floods through me. Colleen's always been there—when I needed a friendly face, when Daniel was suffocating me, when I had nowhere else to turn.
"Okay." The word comes out before I can stop it.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." I nod, even though my hands are shaking. "Send me the address."
She forwards it immediately—847 Dorchester Street. Then the photo of Dylan.
"Just get his phone. That's all we need." Colleen's eyes glisten. "Thank you. Seriously.”
I down half my latte in one burning gulp.
"I'll figure something out."
But as I leave the café, Dylan's dead-eyed stare burned into my brain, all I can think of is how spectacularly this is probably going to blow up in my face.
The curling iron singes my fingers, and I curse, dropping it on the vanity. My hands won't stop shaking.
I stare at my reflection. The sparkly bronze eyeshadow catches the light, my lashes curled to perfection. The tight low-waisted jeans hug every curve, and the pink top—cropped just enough to show a sliver of skin—rides up when I lift my arms. I look hot. That's the point.
But beneath all the polish and the careful styling, I can see it—the fear threading through my eyes, the tension pulling at the corners of my mouth despite the gloss I've carefully applied. I look terrified. Absolutely terrified.
My phone buzzes. Julian's name lights up the screen.
"Hey." I wedge it between my shoulder and ear, reaching for the curling iron again.
"Hey, yourself. What are you up to?"
The lie forms on my tongue—just watching Netflix, nothing special—but I can't do it. Not to him.
"I'm getting ready to go to a party."
