Dangerously Dark Read Free Page A

hung with industrial-chic Edison bulbs, all of them dark for now. At the edges of the pod, tall oaks and graceful Japanese maples swayed in the breeze, playing host to what sounded like a whole Hitchcock movie’s worth of birds.
    Birds. I shivered and kept moving.
    Birds and I don’t get along. Maybe because of that aforementioned (terrifying) Hitchcock film. (Speaking of which . . . do you know what creepy old Hitch used as a stand-in for blood in Psycho ? Chocolate sauce. Yep. What a waste, right?)
    Anyway, I don’t like birds. Maybe that’s because I’m a city dweller at heart, used to seeing pigeons and seagulls for what they are: rats with wings. Either way, those birds put a crimp in the whole sunshiny springtime vibe I’d been enjoying.
    I could feel their beady little eyes on me as I wandered toward the cart pod’s inner courtyard. Their avian shrieks sounded like warnings. But that was probably just me, feeling easily (and unreasonably) spooked after Maison Lemaître.
    I was fine. Everything was fine. It was fine.
    Hoping to assure myself of that, I texted Carissa that I’d arrived, then distracted myself by exploring the pod further. I watched as a few vendors began setting up for the day. I was interested to see how their various carts unfolded and opened (Transformers style) into mobile kitchens and service areas. One by-product of my vocation is that I’m curious. Just then, I was curious about Carissa’s work at Cartorama with Declan.
    She’d been playing it coy so far. But if I’d guessed right, my old friend’s new career likely involved something social, uncomplicated, and fairly frivolous. Something like advising the cart entrepreneurs on installing fab new décor. Or writing a gossip column for a local blog. Or doing PR. Carissa would have been good at any (or all) of those things. She’d always been outgoing. Popular. Able to talk anyone into anything.
    Even me. I was there in Portland instead of cornering Travis in Seattle for some one-on-one time, wasn’t I?
    â€œHayden!” someone yelled from nearby. “Woooo!”
    I recognized that unmistakable feminine squeal. Carissa. I turned to see my old friend bustling toward me, all toothy grin and long auburn hair, dressed in ankle boots and a boho-cool, direct-from-Etsy ensemble, with her arms outstretched. A few dainty footsteps later, she engulfed me in a hug. “Hiiii!”
    Simultaneously, the scents of her hair products and perfume engulfed me. So did a jolt of girlish exuberance. My friend was nothing if not excitable. And strong. Freakishly strong for a woman so thin. I hugged Carissa warmly, complimented her cute boots (girlspeak for “Hello” —I could do it, I just didn’t indulge often), then extricated myself long enough to catch my breath.
    Seeing her hurtled me back to my college days. Not that it was that long ago, but a lot’s happened to me since then.
    â€œOhmigod! Look at you!” Carissa marveled at me, her face pretty and pale behind her geek-chic tortoiseshell glasses. “I love your hair! And your jacket! And your Chucks! I’m all about that nouveau-retro look. Hey, you cut back on the eyeliner!”
    I grinned and shook my head at her reference to my short-lived emo past. “When you’re backpacking through Kazakhstan, a face full of L’Oréal doesn’t cut it.” These days, I tended toward lip gloss and (maybe) mascara. Combined with my shoulder-length brown hair and (aforementioned) Converse sneakers, it made for a low-key look—one that traveled as well to Beijing as it did to Thessaloniki. “Congratulations on your engagement!”
    That incited a fresh squeal. Carissa thrust her left hand forward, then waggled her fingers. “Thanks! See? Isn’t it fab?”
    I dutifully examined her engagement ring. But when you’ve gotten up close and personal with the Crown Jewels at the Tower of