Parker frowned. He shouldn’t have brought up her dad. The topic made Ruby sad. Even before her father left town, it’d made Ruby sad. “I always wanted to protect you,” he admitted.
“I wanted you to protect me,” Ruby said, startling him with the sound of her voice. “I thought I needed protection, back then. Now I think you’re like the gun my mother bought after my father disappeared. A powerful symbol, but meaningless. What’s the point of a gun if you don’t shoot it?”
“So shoot it, Ruby. Take out the gun and—”
“That’s the other problem, isn’t it? If I pull out the gun, what happens if you turn it on me? Who’s going to protect me then?”
“Shane Ferrick?” he spat, and he wasn’t even sorry. He hated Shane Ferrick. Even now, he hated him. Maybe more, because Ruby hadn’t had the chance to get tired of the guy. To toss him aside, like she had with Parker.
“Don’t you ever—” she began, her face as red as it had been that day in the parking lot. Flushed with fury this time, rather than excitement. Her hand twitched, and she clutched her purse to her chest.
“I’m sorry, Rubes,” Parker said. “I didn’t mean it. Just . . . seeing you again—”
“You see me every day at school,” she spat, still clutching her purse. Holding it close, like she loved it.
Parker wanted to rip it from her hands. “I see you, and you look through me.”
“I do,” she agreed. “I see through you now. I see through the illusion.”
“What does that mean?” Parker slammed on the brakes as a yellow Jaguar zipped past them, almost sideswiping the car. They both jumped, then shook their heads. They knew who the driver was.
“Do you think he’s going where we’re going?” Parker asked, watching the car weave between lanes. The Jaguar, which had been a gift from Parker, was covered in dents and dings.
Ruby shrugged. “It makes sense. Brett had a boxing scholarship. Brett quit boxing—”
“And lost his scholarship. He has to get out of here somehow.”
“What about you?” She leveled a gaze at him. “Can’t your daddy pay for school? How many families did Jericho Addison’s big-box chain put out of business this year? Surely some of that money has trickled down to you.”
Parker didn’t even flinch. He was used to people being jealous of his family’s success. “You don’t get rich by turning down free money, Rubes. A fifty-thousand-dollar scholarship is a big deal.”
“You don’t even need it!”
“You do. Hey, I have an idea. If I win, I’ll tell the foundation I want to split the money with you.”
“You’ll split the scholarship?” she asked, casting him a sidelong glance.
A shiver danced up his spine. He knew she was setting him up for something, but he didn’t know what. “Of course I will, Rubes. You know I—”
“Who are you trying to fool?” Ruby flashed a wicked grin. “Parker Addison doesn’t share.”
They spent the rest of the drive in silence. Parker was fuming, gripping the steering wheel the way he wanted to be gripping Ruby. He wanted to be holding her, kissing her, making her remember how it felt to be completely connected.
Ruby stared out the window, saying nothing.
As they neared the long, twisting driveway that led to the Cherry Street Mansion, Parker’s gaze drifted to the bag in the back of the car. His invitation had asked him to bring a rope to the party. And if anyone tried to stop him from winning back the love of his life, Parker would take that rope and get creative.
4.
MEAT HEAD
Brett Carmichael hated his life. He knew it, with startling clarity, as he neared the Cherry Street Mansion. The estate was guarded by a pair of wrought-iron gates, and when they swung open, Brett envisioned one of the spires sliding into his stomach. Ending it all. Over the past year he’d had thoughts like this quite often, and while he wouldn’t call them fantasies, there was always a moment of pleasure, followed by a moment of panic. Harsh and hot, like flames licking his body. And in that moment of panic, he knew he wouldn’t be climbing the gate and impaling himself.
He wanted the darkness to come, but he wouldn’t be the one to beckon it.
It wasn’t fear, exactly, that was holding him back. It was that tiny, shriveled person that still lived inside of him, and it wanted to survive. It screamed, voice muffled under layers of sadness, layers of guilt, to fight, fight, fight. But Break-Your-Neck Brett had been fighting his entire life, attacking guys in the boxing ring and playing bodyguard to Parker Addison. Fighting had gotten him into this mess.
It couldn’t break him out. Brett knew that now, as the wrought-iron gates closed behind him. There was no way out; only further in. And so he drove, past the garden of topiary creatures, the scent of chlorine tingeing the air. The smell made Brett’s stomach turn. In the back of his mind, he envisioned a boy sinking to the bottom of a swimming pool, his face purpling as his hands scrabbled for purchase. It must have been terrifying to barely escape the depths only to be taken by the flames.
Brett put the car in park. Climbed out. Took a deep breath. He just had to get through this party, win fifty large, and get the hell out of this suffocating town. Sure, he’d been offered a boxing scholarship last year, but after that party up in the hills, he couldn’t turn people into pulp anymore. Couldn’t mash up a boy’s face with a smile on his own. Unfortunately, with boxing off the table, paying for school was damn near impossible. Brett was a straight-C student, and that was thanks to the pity of his more understanding teachers. He’d honed no other talents, learned no other skills. Destruction was his only ability.
That’s why he was going to win this scholarship, he thought, hurrying up the path. He’d go to any school that would take him, as long as it was far away from here. And yeah, even in his desperation, Brett knew the arrangement was odd and the Ringmaster was playing a tricky game. Why else would his costume require brass knuckles?
This murder mystery dinner had a jagged edge.
The house came into view, and it was jagged as well. Brett tilted his head back to take in the sight. The structure was pale stone with black roofing on the turrets. A black arching door. Back in the 1920s, the mansion had been the site of many a lavish party, but as the era of Gatsby bled into the Great Depression, the house had fallen into ruin. Since then, the mansion had changed hands several times, finally landing in the clutches of a wealthy philanthropist who owned more houses than fingers. Mr. Covington Saint James rented the mansion out for a number of events, determined to reclaim its former glory.
But some things couldn’t be reclaimed. Yes, the mansion was breathtaking, but it was also crumbling in more places than it was whole. The ebony door desperately needed a new coat of paint. From Brett’s vantage point, it looked like every room was lit by chandelier, but that light only served to illuminate the house’s flaws.
That was something Brett could understand. From a distance, his face looked cherubic, with rosy cheeks that could rival a porcelain doll’s. He kept his hair shaved, for practical reasons, but that only added to the baby-doll aesthetic. Still, the closer people got to him, the better they could see his flaws. The tooth that had been chipped during his first boxing match. The scar on his stomach. His bright hazel eyes had a feral look to them, as if Brett were a wolf who’d realized his leg was in a trap. Should he gnaw it off or wait for the hunter to find him?
Brett always felt this way, trapped between giving up entirely and destroying a piece of himself to survive. He’d felt it before Dahlia Kane’s Christmas party, even before he’d taken up boxing. But if he could get away from this town, maybe he could get away from that feeling and start fresh.
Now the doorway loomed over him. Brett felt small, like a boy approaching the house of a fabled giant. He’d expected a heavy door knocker, maybe a lion’s head made of polished brass, and the sound of his knuckles against the wood seemed insignificant. He was about to ring the bell when a voice called out to him. Brett spun around,
his heart springing to life. There, striding up the walkway, was the only person in Fallen Oaks who made him feel alive.
“I hoped you’d be here,” Parker Addison said.
5.
LONE WOLF
Gavin Moon watched from a distance. He felt more comfortable there. Back in his younger days, he’d wanted to step out into the open, to walk beside the rulers of Fallen Oaks High. It wasn’t some generic cheerleader-jock brigade. Parker Addison would never get down in the dirt (that was what Brett was for), and Ruby Valentine couldn’t shake a pom-pom without knocking herself out with her own boobs. No, the Fallen Oaks hierarchy was ruled by the best and brightest in all categories. That was what made Gavin so mad. Not only was he a prolific writer, his guitar solos could give you an out-of-body experience. In spite of all this, Gavin had never been welcomed into the fold, and so he got used to living on the outside.
He used to hate it, but now he understood that distance could give you a broader perspective. As he ambled up the walkway, he could see the makeup Ruby used to hide the dark circles under her eyes, and the way Parker’s fists tightened in her presence. Meanwhile, Brett kept his fists tucked into his pockets, probably to hide the feeling of blood on his hands. Juniper Torres was the only clean person among them, and even she had a secret.
All of them did.
Maybe that was why she was fretting about the scholarship. “Did you guys apply for this? Like, did you actually fill out paperwork?” She glanced from person to person, brow furrowing.
“I did,” Parker said before anyone else could speak. “Well, the guidance counselor submitted me, but that’s kind of her job. I even suggested some names to her when she told me the scholarship was open to everyone.”
“You did?” Ruby looked at him, biting her lip. “Who did you suggest? All of us?”
Parker shook his head. “Just you and Brett. But I saw the list of names she was considering, and I’m pretty sure Juniper’s was on it. Hers, and that kid who’s always hanging around—”
“Hey, guys,” Gavin called, cutting Parker off. He jogged up the porch steps, giving Juniper a casual, confident nod. Super cool. Totally suave. At least, that was how he hoped it looked, but the second his eyes met Parker’s, his jaw tightened. “Are we doing this or what?”
“Nobody’s answering,” Ruby said, toying with her hair. Something about that crimson dye job made her look alien, her blue eyes peering out of an eerily pale face. “Maybe there’s a back door?”
Gavin smiled, tilting his head. “Maybe there’s a back door? To a house? Good work, Veronica Mars.”
Ruby gave him a withering stare. “You know what I meant. Maybe the back door’s open. I’ll go check.”
“I’ll go with you,” Parker said, offering his arm. He had a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and Gavin couldn’t help but wonder what was inside it.
“I’m going alone,” Ruby snapped. Then she was gone. She seemed unusually bold, Gavin thought, as she clutched her purse and looped around the stranger’s mansion. But maybe she’d just do anything to get away from Parker. He couldn’t exactly blame her for that. Nowadays, he thought Ruby Valentine was the only person in the world who hated Parker as much as he did.
Of course, Gavin hadn’t had to date the guy to learn the truth.
Ruby wasn’t gone long. Five minutes after she’d left, she returned, her purse swinging at her side. “Back door’s open. You’re welcome,” she added for Gavin’s sake, flashing a haughty little smirk that made his blood boil.
The group traveled around the house. Ruby went first, then Parker and Brett, with Gavin and Juniper bringing up the rear. It was obvious that Juniper wasn’t used to walking in heels, and when her shoe skidded across the icy ground, Gavin offered his arm.
“Here. Let me . . .”
“Be my escort?” Juniper suggested, sliding her arm through his. “I swear to God, I’m taking these off as soon as I can.”
“You should. I’d hate for you to go plummeting down the stairs. Then we’d have two murders to solve.”
She laughed, but it sounded forced. “I like your costume,” she said after a minute, shifting the focus from herself. Typical Juniper.
“Oh, this? I had this in my closet,” Gavin quipped. The three-piece suit was a ridiculous getup, but fitting. Gavin was a reporter in real life. Or rather, he was going to be, after he graduated. For now, he worked on the school’s newspaper and ran his own blog.
“Yeah, well, it suits you.” Juniper set his hat at a slant. The fedora was mustard brown, just like his suit, with a little PRESS card poking out of the side.
“The suit suits me,” he said, playing with a Brooklyn accent. “You got a way with words, you know that, doll face?”
Juniper grinned. It was a gesture that was fleeting with her, these days. Here one moment, gone the next. He wanted to keep her smiling, so he said, “And you, well. Look at you, kid. Mermaid-chic is the next big thing.”
“I doubt that,” she replied, shuffling along in her blue sequined dress. Or maybe it was aqua? Gavin couldn’t get a read on the color in the near darkness, until they reached the mansion’s back patio and came across an Olympic-size swimming pool.
Ruby noticed it too. “You match,” she said, gesturing to the water, which matched Juniper’s dress. Like, perfectly matched. In response, Juniper hugged the edge of the mansion, staying away from the pool.
“You’re all right.” Gavin guided her around a potted plant. The gnarled, thorny branches held no blossoms, but one of them must’ve snagged Ruby when she’d come around before. A single red sequin sparkled in the dirt. “Nobody’s going swimming tonight,” he promised.
Juniper nodded, leaning into him. Her wavy, shoulder-length hair tickled his neck, and her skin was warm against his. For the first time in a long time, Gavin was happy.
Then he wasn’t. The group had arrived at the back of the mansion, and Gavin sucked in a breath. There was nothing particularly foreboding about the sight. If anything, it was inviting, the glass double doors leading into an elaborate dining room. The walls were a deep ebony wood, and the furniture was too, but all of the accents were gold. Gold pillows on the high-backed chairs, gilded mirrors on the walls. A chandelier so large, the room sparkled with light.
“It’s like a Golden Age starlet got her hands on a castle,” Ruby gushed, reaching for the doors. They opened with little resistance, and the group stepped inside.
“This place is dope,” Parker agreed, sliding his fingers over the dark, polished wood of the table. No dust clung to his fingertips. Gavin was surprised. He’d half expected the house to be covered in cobwebs, it felt so . . . abandoned. Like a palace preserved by a spell. Still, someone living must’ve come through in the recent past, because a black candelabra sat in the center of the table, holding freshly lit candles. The gold tapers were dripping only the slightest bit of wax.
There were six place settings at the table—six, Gavin noted, not five—and at each setting was a wineglass and a folded card. Parker immediately opened the bottle of sparkling cider on the table, and with the help of Brett’s pocket flask, he doctored up his drink. Ruby stood by, amused. Meanwhile, Juniper untangled her hand from Gavin’s and sat down in a chair. But she must not have been paying attention, because she sat at the head of the table, in front of the card labeled Ruby Valentine.
“I think you’re supposed to be here,” Gavin said, pointing to her spot.
Juniper nodded but didn’t rise from her chair. She looked dazed, like she’d walked into a fun house only to realize she was being chased by murderous clowns. After a minute of staring, she shook herself, saying, “Where’s the Ringmaster?”
“What?” Parker’s head snapped toward her.
“Our guide for the party. Didn’t you get instructions?” She opened her peacock-blue purse and unfolded a sheet of paper. “Mine came with my costume.”
“Mine, too,” Ruby said, reading over Juniper’s shoulder. “For the duration of the murder myste
ry dinner, you will play the characters, accompanied by your guide, the Ringmaster. With his help, you will discover the victim, uncover the clues, and solve the mystery.”
“Right. So, where is he?” Juniper pressed.
“Maybe he’s hiding?” Ruby’s eyes lit up. “Oh! Maybe he’s the victim. That’d be a good twist.”
Juniper hunched over the table, reading the instructions again. At least, that was what Gavin thought she was doing, until he realized she was texting under the table. When his phone vibrated, he slid into his chair, reading her message: I’m right, aren’t I? We shouldn’t be here alone.
Definitely, he wrote, keeping his gaze above the table. Maybe Parker’s pulling a prank on us? He’s got the money, and he’s making a freaking cocktail while we figure things out.
Juniper snorted, glancing at Parker. He was swirling his drink around, taking little swigs, as she sent her next message. I doubt it. I’ve been researching this scholarship for days, and I didn’t find anything shady. I emailed the foundation and got back a pretty quick response. I even found blog posts from previous winners!
Not a Parker prank, then, Gavin wrote. Unless he really—
A voice, female and vaguely robotic, drifted through the air. Gavin stopped typing in mid-message. Scanning the dining room, he located a pair of speakers above the patio doors.
“Please hand over your cell phones,” the voice intoned.
“Uh. What the hell?” Parker spoke first, because that was Parker’s job. To speak before thinking. “Hand them over where?”
“It’s not a person,” Gavin said, using the slow, patient voice of a kindergarten teacher. “It’s a recording, probably set to a timer.”
Parker flipped him off. Behind them, Brett was searching the room, happy to solve Parker’s problem and get a doggy treat. God, Gavin despised them. And he realized that the sooner he gave up his lifeline to the outside world, the sooner the competition would begin.
He rose from his chair. There were two entryways in the room, one leading to a dark hall, the other leading to a kitchen. Gavin headed toward the latter, glimpsing something on the tiled floor. “Here. Guys?”
This Lie Will Kill You Page 3