CHAPTER 4
A WEEK AND a half passed, and the frequency of my phone checks had waned to every two hours. Not a peep from Mr. Midnight, but someone had given Gregory Fitzgerald my number, and he’d messaged to say how much he was looking forward to the party this evening. Or at least, somebody using his phone had messaged me—I wouldn’t have put it past his mother to step in again.
“The hairdresser will be here in two hours,” Angie said. “How’s the editing?”
“Done. Finally.” I’d typed “The End” on The Dark Night, and usually that would free my mind to turn one of the hundreds of ideas floating around inside my brain into a tangible plot line. But not tonight. No, tonight all I could think of was how Mother’s last soirée ended—with me bent forward over a chair while Mr. Midnight ploughed into
