Soon I’ll be in Vegas, and I’ll find out what Lizzy is hiding.

* * *

My mood plummets as I pack. My iPhone’s calendar alerts me at exactly four o’clock that it’s time to take an ovulation test. If I were going to ovulate this month, my doctor thinks today would be the day. Actually, I can’t believe I haven’t taken the test already. It’s a testament to how scattered I am lately. For the last six months, since I’ve been working with an expert OB-GYN in Beverly Hills, I haven’t ever forgotten to take the test on O-Day. Of course, there hasn’t ever been an O-Day, so maybe I forgot today because I’ve finally given up.

My reproductive system is a lemon. I’ve got two ovaries, but they don’t release eggs monthly. I got my period for the first time when I was sixteen, and I had it until I turned nineteen, when it disappeared, never to return.

I drop a strapless bra and a blouse into my suitcase and trudge into the bathroom, where a quick test confirms what I already knew: I’m not ovulating today.

Woohoo.

Most months, I spend hours obsessing over what this means for me; what this meant for Adam and I. Today, I just don’t have the energy.

I toss the test in the garbage can, push my purse onto my shoulder, hoist my hang-up bag over my other shoulder, and drag my rolling suitcase to the elevator.

Arnold gives me a ride to my family’s airport, not much more than two hangars in a giant field between Napa and the valley. On the way, I make like Adam and pop the cork on a bottle of Pinot Noir. Stupid Clomid. Stupid all the other drugs I’ve tried. Stupid Dr. Haynes. Stupid ovaries.

I guess it’s a good thing I’m single now. I’m never going to give any man children.

I shut my eyes and take a few deep swigs straight out of the bottle. And when we arrive at the airport, I stuff the bottle into my purse—probably just like Adam, too, if he carried a purse.

I focus on the feeling of my legs moving as they carry me from the limousine to the blue and grey Boeing Dad bought when I was in high school. I pay attention to my arms as they clutch my luggage. I clench my stomach underneath my shirt. I think about my ovaries below my stomach.

What’s wrong with me? So far, nobody knows. Maybe I don’t care, I think as I hike up the plane’s fold-out stairs. Maybe I’ll be an old maid with a hundred cats. Or dogs, because cats are just difficult.

Even the thought of a hundred darling dogs depresses me, and as soon as I see our family’s long-term flight attendant, Esmerelda, I realize that, just like at Julian’s earlier, I must be wearing my mood all over my face. She throws her arms around me and leads me to the most comfy, recliner-style seat on the jet, and starts a movie on the flatscreen right in front of me: Finding Nemo.

“You need something fun today,” she declares.

I just nod, because really, what else can I say? Nemo is perfect. He’s got the little fin; I’ve got the broken ovaries.

“Would you like a drink?”

I must look like shit. I laugh and pull out the bottle of Pinot Noir from my Belkin bag.

She laughs, too. “Oh, so it’s a bad, bad day.”

I nod again, feeling too tired to think of anything to say, and she takes the bottle and brings me a glass filled with the crimson liquid.

For the next two hours, Esmerelda refills my glass…a lot of times. Every time I finish, she refills it. I toss them back just like Adam, and watch the little orange fish swim around the screen with a strange, dull feeling—like I’m living inside an empty aquarium.

When we touch down at the private airport behind the Wynn Casino, in downtown Vegas, Esmerelda laughs at me, and ruffles my newly styled, short hair. “I never seen you drunk, Suri Dalton.”

I blink blearily at her. “I don’t ever get drunk.”

“I didn’t think you did.” She squeezes my arm. “Would you like me or Lonnie—” that’s the pilot— “to walk with you?”

I shake my head, feeling the plane tilt around me. I wonder if we’ve landed yet. “Um, no. I’m fine.”

“If you’re sure,” she says.

Apparently, the plane is landed. I catch a glimpse of lights outside the window, then point weakly to the bags, and Esmerelda nods. “We’ll get them to Mr. West’s room. Don’t worry.”

“Thank you.”

As I float toward the plane’s door, she says, “Go have some fun!”

I tell her I will, and hold on tightly to the railing as I make my way down the stairs in my sexiest jeans, red Lanvin ballet flats, and a flowy white Marc Jacobs blouse I got last time I went shopping on Rodeo Drive.

I wander toward the glossy-looking high-rises with only my purse on my shoulder, and it’s then I realize I have no idea where I’m going. I’ve only been to Hunter’s penthouse once, and in my drunken state, I can’t seem to understand how the trees and grass around me will lead me back there.

I look around. I’m past the airport now and on a…golf course? I giggle. This is not good. I suck at golf. I can’t see Hunter West in a golf shirt. Pretentious Casual—that’s what I’ll call his style. Lizzy sold her clubs when her dad left so she can’t play, either. Golf sucks! I twirl around. There are palm trees strung with lights. So many lights! They make me dizzy!

I ended up sitting on one of the greens, but a rescuer arrives! A golf cart is here. There’s a man in a suit. He’s saying, “Can I help you?”

I blink up at him and grin. “My prince charming!”

We strike a deal, and he says he will take me out of the palm tree forest, to the Wynn.

“And you work here?” I ask him for the first—or second?—time.

“Yes, miss. I’m a ball boy.”

I giggle. Balls.

“Golf balls.”

He chuckles. “Golf balls.”

He presses the pedal, and I get dropped into the rabbit hole. Lots of lights and pools that glow and other lights, and umbrellas and stuff hanging over gardens, and I see some dancers wearing feathers on their butts and I think I saw a waterfall peeking through the brush.

There’s this lighted path, and we drive down it, and then we’re standing in front of this Zen-ish garden place, and there’s a bunch of tropical trees and a stone path and tables with candles where people are eating stuff that smells good, kind of like tuna, and my guide is biding me au revoir. I’m out of the cart, standing along a tree-lined path. My legs feel shaky.

“Wait—but what do I do now?” I turn around. My guide is gone. I’m by myself.

Oh, God.

I’m not sure how I make it to the penthouses. I’m on the 46th floor, and the view from the back of the glass elevator makes me dizzy. I step onto the shiny chocolate marble, under big, round, gold chandelier things, and I have a hazy memory of tipping someone pretty generously and mentioning Hunter’s name.

But uh-oh. There’s a problem. This hallway, where the elevator dropped me off, only has one door, and it’s guarded by a solid gold lion. I blink my bleary eyes and try to see it in a different light, but I know décor, and this does not say ‘Hunter’ or ‘Lizzy’ to me. Not at all.

I sink down against the wall, stick my cold hands into my bag, and give my fine motor skills a challenge by searching for my makeup. I giggle as I pop open a compact and refresh my lipstick—see, I don’t look drunk!—and stumble as I get back to my feet. I drop the makeup back into my purse and fish my iPhone out. I dial Lizzy’s number, still smiling stupidly, but when it goes to voice mail, my stomach starts to feel sick.

I’m lost.

I’m lost in a big casino. Not just a casino. A casino wonderland, with an Alexander McQueen boutique and waterfalls and flashy lights and steam and marble and glittery diamond lamps.

“Where is Lizzy?” I whisper to myself.

I’m back at the big, brass elevator, repeatedly banging the ‘down’ arrow. The doors open a couple seconds later, and I ride to the main floor, where I’m dizzied again by the sights, sounds, and smells of the casino.

The décor is glossy and rich, with bold, bright colors, varied textures and fabrics, gazillion-foot ceilings, and expansive, art-lined corridors. If I’m not mistaken, Roger Thomas did the last remodel, and I think it’s…amazing. I’m scrutinizing his extravagant potted plant choices when it dawns on me that I should try to call Lizzy again.

I do, and it’s the same as last time: no answer after several rings, then voicemail.

I pick a comfortable looking, bumblebee yellow couch and sink down onto it. “Lizzy,” I hiss into the phone, “I’m down in the casino, and I need you. Where are you?”

I hang up, feeling tears burn in my eyes, and decide I’m not going to be some drunk girl crying in a casino lobby. Maybe I can walk off my buzz and figure out how to get to Hunter’s penthouse.

Figure it out?

I should just go ask!

Du-huhhh.

I cut through a few private casino rooms filled with people doing special things—oops—and finally make it to an information desk, where I ask a stern-looking middle-aged guy about Hunter West’s penthouse.

He frowns at me. “Ma’am, we don’t give out our residents’ information without prior resident authorization.”

“But…can’t you just call him?”

“I suppose I can try.”

No dice.

When he hangs up the phone, I’m feeling desperate. “You’re sure?”

He nods.

I narrow my eyes at the man, then press my lips together and lean forward a little. Lower my voice, in case bad people are around. “Sir…I don’t mean to be a diva, but…I’m not a bad person. I’m not a criminal. That’s what I mean.” I’m floundering. I stand straighter, throw my shoulders back. Pretend I’m not drunk. “My father is Trent Dalton. You know, the computer guy?” I raise my eyebrows.

“I know who Trent Dalton is, ma’am. Everyone does.”

I smile a little. “Okay, so, then, it’s okay to let me into Hunter West’s room. Up to his room, I mean. Up to. Not into.”

“I’m sorry ma’am. Not without prior resident authorization.”

I nod a few times before turning away.

I call Lizzy two more times without success.

“This is a bad day,” I murmur to myself. “Bad night. This is a bad month.”

A few minutes later, I’m dawdling near a vast room decorated like the pages of a Japanese manga and filled with slot machines, when a bulky man in a staff suit grabs my elbow.

“Ma’am, may I help you?”

I shake my head, removing my elbow from his presumptuous grasp. “No, I don’t need anything.”

He frowns at me, looking suspicious, and I sigh. “I’m looking for some friends, but I’ll find them eventually. Maybe.”

His eyebrows—dark, I notice—scrunch like fuzzy caterpillars. “Ma’am, are you intoxicated?”

I blink, surprised by the question. “Is that abnormal? This is a casino!” I hate to be terse, but I don’t appreciate his manner.

His hand grasps my elbow again. “Please come with me, Miss. We can get this sorted out at the security station.”

“Is this a joke?” I tug against his grasp, trying to wrap my addled mind around what he’s telling me. “Did I get paged or something?”

His fingers, locked around my wrist now, are almost crushing. “Come with me now, Miss. We’ll get this sorted out when we get there.”

I bite my lip, looking him over as he walks half a step ahead of me. My eyes dart all around the hall, crammed with thrill-seekers of every nationality, gender, and age. I can’t find anyone dressed in a uniform like this man’s, and I’m too buzzed to remember what the other employees were wearing.

All my mother’s warnings play in my head like a recording stuck on a loop. All the things she’s told me about being kidnapped. Dad’s wealth is notable. And I told them who I am!

With my heart pounding, I jerk my hand away. “I’ll need to see some ID, sir.”

With my heart pounding, I jerk my hand away. “I’ll need to see some ID, sir.” I back away from him, already glancing around for somewhere to run if he acts shady.

Time seems to hang in place, the bright, loud scene around me freezing as my heart gallops.

The man rushes forward to grab me, looking meaner—more sinister—than he did before, and that’s all it takes. I turn and run.

3

MARCHANT

When Jenkins stops the Bentley at the doorway of the Wynn, I’m still working on my blunt.

“Hey dude, we’re here,” Jenk calls over his shoulder. He’s got some new tracks thumping, and with his tortoiseshell glasses and his toothpaste commercial smile, he looks a little ridiculous: my 20-year-old chauffeur. The deal is, I pay for his college and he drives me around to shit like this. Call me crazy, but I need it to be someone younger than me. I feel like hell every time I see an old guy driving someone. Shouldn’t he be fly fishing or watching Andy Griffith or some shit?