Freed from my grip, Maxwell closed in with slow, deliberate steps, his shadow stretching over me like a threat.
"Clara," he said coldly, "you’ve completely lost your mind."
His finger stabbed the air in my direction. "Tell me—which man gave you that necklace? You’d fight me for that?"
Colette glided up to him, her voice syrupy sweet. "Maxwell, let me show you something."
She unlocked her phone, swiped a few times, then held the screen out to him like she was handing him a loaded weapon. His eyes flicked down—and his face drained of color before hardening into rage.
He thrust the phone toward me so close I could see my own reflection in the glass.
"Dorian? He gave it to you?"
Dorian Keats—my neighbor’s older brother, my father’s colleague, five years my senior. The photo showed him passing me a small urn—the last of my father’s ashes—and resting a steadying hand on my head.
I opened my mouth, but Maxwell didn’t give me the chance.
"No wonder you ignored me all summer—you were with him."
He scoffed. "So you traded yourself for a necklace worth a few hundred? Tell me—how many times did you sleep with him for it?"