BREE WAITED A FEW HOURS BEFORE SHE APPROACHED HER mom. She’d been rehearsing the speech in her head since Sergeant Callahan left: It’s Dad’s fault we’re both trapped here; it’s Dad’s rules that are keeping us cut off from everyone. Wouldn’t it be an epic “ fuck you” to Daddy if you let me have my phone back?
She needed to get in touch with DGM. It was a matter of life and death.
Bree’s mom was in the library, manhandling a cocktail shaker in an earsplitting cacophony of ice and metal like she was the lead maracas player at the Copacabana. She watched silently as her mom cracked open the shaker and poured a long stream of clear liquid into a martini glass. She took a quick sip, wrinkled her nose, and then added two olives from a crystal bowl on the tray. The second sip proved more satisfactory, and her mom closed her eyes, inhaling deeply as the liquor began to take effect.
After a few seconds, she seemed to notice that Bree had entered the room. “Oh,” she said. “You frightened me.”
“Sorry.”
She stared at her daughter for a moment, as if unsure how to proceed, then took a seat in a wing-backed leather chair near the bay window and crossed her legs, ready for an audience.
“So,” her mom said, balancing the martini glass on her knee. “Are you, um, having fun?”
Fun? Bree was a prisoner in her own house, guarded by a semiliterate muscleman who referred to himself in the third person. It was like San Quentin with a more comfortable bed and better food.
“Sure,” she said instead, trying to sound upbeat. She needed her mom in a good mood.
“I know being stuck in the house with Olaf and me isn’t your idea of a summer in the Hamptons . . . ,” her mom began, punctuated by a dainty sip of her cocktail.
Bree had never experienced a summer in the Hamptons, but she took her mom’s word for it.
“But this is only temporary,” her mom continued. “Soon we’ll both be back where we belong.”
“Back where we belong?” Bree blurted out. What are you doing? Don’t antagonize her. But she couldn’t help it. “Don’t you belong here? With your family?”
Her mom looked genuinely taken aback. “I have family in France, too.”
“Really?” Bree planted her hands on her hips. “Are you a bigamist now? Do I have more siblings I don’t know about?”
Her mom waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t be ridiculous. I mean—”
But Bree didn’t wait to listen. “Fuck you, Mom. You hear me? Fuck you. Go back to your beach and your massages and your cabana boys. I don’t want you and I don’t need you.”
She didn’t care about her phone or DGM or Christopher Beeman. As she stormed out of the room, hot tears began to pour down her face, and all she felt was anger.
Olivia headed to Mr. Cunningham’s office after class. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on the opening-night video of Twelfth Precinct, and hoped she could convince her drama teacher to ask the police for a copy of it. They’d been lulled into a sense of safety while the killer had been planning something even more sinister. Maybe the next attack would be on her home. Or Margot in the hospital. She couldn’t waste a single moment. That video might hold the key to the entire mystery.
She rounded the corner, and collided with someone coming out of his office.
“Peanut!” Olivia cried.
Peanut jumped and let out a sound somewhere between a squeak and a gasp, then seemed to choke on her own saliva and doubled over into a coughing fit.
Olivia slipped her arm through Peanut’s. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Peanut sputtered, as she straightened up, face still flushed pink from coughing.
“I wanted to talk to Mr. Cunningham,” Olivia said.
“He’s not here,” she said quickly.
“Then what were you doing in his office?”
“Nothing!” Peanut squeaked.
Olivia arched an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”
Peanut took a deep breath, then the words tumbled out of her mouth, one on top of another. “Sorry. I, um, guess I’m not feeling very well. My mom has me on a cleanse and the lack of calories is making me a little cray. She thinks the stress of what’s been happening at school has knocked my third and eighth chakras out of whack, so I need to purge the toxins from my blood.”
Olivia had always been skeptical of Mrs. Dumbrowski’s alternative medical practices, which seemed only slightly more scientific than bloodletting and leeches. “Does that work?”
“Dunno, but if I lose some weight in the process, it’s a bonus.” She shook her arm free of Olivia’s grasp. “So I have to go. See you tomorrow!”
Olivia stared after Peanut as she practically raced down the hallway. Well, that was more like the Peanut she knew and loved—spacey and confused.
With a quick laugh, she turned toward the theater, hoping Mr. Cunningham would be there. Instead, she saw John storming down the hall toward her.
“You want to explain to me,” he said through clenched teeth, “why you threw me at Amber?”
Olivia smirked, remembering the look on John’s face as Amber led him to drama class. “She’s single, you’re single. What’s to explain?”
John’s face hardened. “I am not single.”
Olivia remembered Bree, sacrificing herself for their safety, and felt instantly guilty. “How is she?”
“Don’t know,” John said. “I only saw her for like twenty seconds before a gorilla named Olaf dragged her back inside the house.”
“The Deringers have a gorilla?” She knew they were rich, but that seemed excessive.
John blinked. “No.”
“Oh.” What was he talking about? Had John been hitting the pipe with Shane White and his burner friends?
“Look,” John said. “Can you just tell me what the hell is going on? I’m pretty sure Amber thinks we’re dating now. She even forced me to give her my cell number.”
Olivia sighed. Clearly, he wasn’t just going to play along without asking questions like she’d hoped. “Fine. But you have to do something first.”
He looked at her sidelong. “You’re not going to hit on me too, are you?”
Ew. “No.” Then with a quick exhale, Olivia thrust her hand forward. “Grab my wrist and repeat after me.”
“Am I going to have to give up my firstborn?”
She so didn’t have time for this. “Just do it!”
Without another word, John grasped Olivia’s right hand with his left, and then she did the same, creating a two-person version of the DGM square.
“I, Olivia Hayes, do solemnly swear, no secrets—ever—shall leave this square.” She squeezed his wrist. “Your turn.”
John grinned wickedly. “Do you guys seriously do this?”
“It looks cooler when there are four of us,” Olivia said, narrowing her eyes.
“I believe you,” he said. “Just having a hard time picturing Bree holding hands.”
The fifth-period warning bell rang. “Hurry up!”
“Sorry.” John cleared his throat. “I, John Baggott, do solemnly swear . . .” He paused. “Um, what was next?”
“No secrets—ever—shall leave this square.”
“No secrets—ever—shall leave this square,” he repeated. “Happy?”
“Thrilled.” She dropped his hand and took a step closer. “Amber and Rex were with Ronny the night he died.”
“What?”
Olivia pressed her finger to her lips. “Shh!”
“Right.” John shook his head, as if dumbfounded by the news. “Why haven’t you gone to the police?”
“Um . . .” That was a longer story than Olivia was prepared to explain. “We don’t have any proof,” she said instead, “that Amber and Rex were involved in his death. We don’t even know for sure what they were doing with him that night. Just a guess.”
John inhaled deeply. “Which is where I come in.”
“Exactly.” Thank God John was on the ball. The less she had to explain, the better. “I’m pretty sure they were trying to bribe Ronny with one of Amber’s dad’s fancy Rolexes. If we can find out where the watch is now, we might have the evidence we need to prove Bree’s innocence.”
“So you think if I make goo-goo eyes at Amber, she’ll spill her guts to me?”
It sounded so much lamer when he said it. “I’m hoping.”
“I’ll do it. But only because this is going to help Bree.” He began to walk away, then paused and turned back. “Speaking of, any message you want to send to her? They’ve confiscated her cell phone and I’m guessing she doesn’t have internet at the moment.”
Olivia caught her breath. “You’re going to see her?”
“That’s the plan.”
“How are you going to get past the gorilla?”
John patted his backpack. “You leave that to me.”
As Olivia grabbed a piece of paper she wondered what, exactly, John had in his bag. Bananas? Tranquilizers?
She folded it in thirds, and handed it to him. “Don’t read it.”
“I won’t.” John raised an eyebrow. “Will you be expecting a response?” he asked formally.
Olivia sighed. “I certainly hope so.”
