Olivia swallowed, her throat constricted. This could be it. The break they’d been waiting for. “What did you see, Logan?”
Logan took a deep breath. “I know this is hella stupid, but there are these two dudes—brothers—who work at the place where I get my board waxed, and I’d been telling them about the play because they used to go to Bishop DuMaine. I invited them to see the show, and they laughed and said there was no way in hell they’d ever be caught dead on this campus.”
Olivia’s hands were tingling. Brothers who worked at a surf shop and used to go to Bishop DuMaine? It couldn’t be. “Maxwell and Maven Gertler?”
Logan’s eyes grew wide. “You know them?”
Olivia shook her head. “Not really.”
Logan looked disappointed. “Oh. Well, anyway, I guess there was some trouble when they were at school here, and they got kicked out. Or arrested. I forget which.”
Trouble was an understatement. DGM had busted the Gertlers for selling topless photos of their classmates to a Russian porn site. After DGM outed their anonymous username, they’d spent six months in a rehabilitation camp in lieu of juvie, and their parents had settled out of court when they were sued by the victims’ parents. It had been the ugliest DGM fallout.
Until Ronny turned up dead.
“I kind of remember that,” Olivia lied.
“Yeah, well, after laughing in my face, they were the last people I expected to see in the theater opening night.”
Olivia blinked. Could former DGM targets have really been at the show that night? “Are you sure?”
“Totally. I saw them hurrying down the aisle during the finale.”
“And Sergeant Callahan didn’t take you seriously?” Olivia couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Wouldn’t he want to follow up every possible lead in this case?
“Not really,” Logan said. “Guy’s kind of a prick. He said I probably couldn’t see clearly from the stage with all those lights in my eyes.”
“But you can see the first eight rows perfectly,” Olivia said. She knew that theater better than anyone, its sight lines and its blind spots. If the Gertlers had been in the first few rows, or leaving the theater after exiting through the stage door, Logan could easily have spotted them.
If only there was some way to see what was happening on stage during the finale. Like a photo or a video . . .
Olivia caught her breath.
“What’s wrong?” Logan asked.
“The video,” she said, her voice trembling. “The opening-night recording. Mr. Cunningham has every single opening performance videotaped so we can watch them later.” Why hadn’t she thought of that before? If she could get her hands on the recording, she might be able to see who had attacked Margot.
“Come on.” Olivia ran up the aisle to the back row, where Mr. Cunningham sat in the first seat by himself, flipping through pages on his ever-present clipboard. “Mr. Cunningham!”
“Miss Hayes. Mr. Blaine. Is everything all right?”
“Fine,” she said, her voice breathless with excitement. “We were just wondering about the recording of opening night.”
“The video recording?” he asked, his British accent sounding more prim and proper than ever.
Olivia nodded eagerly. “I’d love to see, er, how the finale turned out with all that choreography.”
Mr. Cunningham sighed, his eyes rolling back in his head in ecstasy. “Ah, yes. It was a glorious sight. One which we absolutely must watch in class.”
“When?” Logan asked.
“Alas,” Mr. Cunningham sighed, “I know not. The police have confiscated the camera, and though they’ve promised to give it back to me in due course, as of yet, I’ve had no word.”
Dammit. She had to get her hands on that recording.
“Mr. Cunningham,” she began, laying on her sweetest voice and widening her eyes. “Do you think you could call Sergeant Callahan and ask when it might—”
“Miss Hayes! There you are.”
Olivia turned and saw Fitzgerald descending the steps stage right. Behind him, the entire class was walking around—chests raised, arms in a ballet first position—trying not to bump into one another. Dammit. She hadn’t been paying attention and now Fitzgerald was going to think she was a diva.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Conroy,” Olivia said, hurrying toward him. “I was asking Mr. Cunningham about the video of opening night and I didn’t hear your instructions.”
Fitzgerald waved his hand dismissively. “No matter. This isn’t really an exercise you need.”
Olivia smiled at the compliment, proud that he’d noticed her command of the stage.
“Mr. Blaine, however . . .” Fitzgerald jutted his thumb toward the stage.
“Right,” Logan said. “Sorry.” He cast a backward glance at Olivia as he scurried up the steps.
“I was hoping I could speak with you after school today,” Fitzgerald continued, as soon as Logan was out of earshot. “To discuss the details of your internship this summer?”
Olivia froze, all thoughts of the Gertlers momentarily forgotten. Fitzgerald had mentioned the internship on opening night. He came up onstage during the final bows and kissed her hand, then said, “You’d make an excellent addition to our company at Aspen.” But she hadn’t had any sort of formal offer. This was it. The beginning of her professional career. Working with a director of Fitzgerald Conroy’s caliber would put her on the map in theatrical circles, not to mention the lifetime’s worth of stage experience she’d learn from him. For the first time in days, she forgot about the killer she was hunting, and thought only of herself.
“Of course,” Olivia said.
“Meet here in the theater?”
Olivia nodded eagerly.
Fitzgerald winked at her as he turned back to the stage. “I shall see you then.”
FOURTEEN
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.”
FIFTEEN
BREE WASN’T SURE HOW LONG SHE’D BEEN CRYING. HER chest had continued to heave for what felt like forever as the uncontrollable sobs overwhelmed her.
If her mom didn’t want a daughter, then Bree didn’t want a mom.
Only she did. Desperately.
In the back of her mind, Bree had always blamed her dad for her mom’s prolonged absence. It wasn’t exactly a secret that he was a cold, determined man, and Bree could count on one hand the number of times he’d actually hugged her with any real affection. It made sense that her mom would want to leave, to get as far away from him as possible.
But what didn’t make sense, what Bree couldn’t ignore anymore, was that she’d leave her youngest child behind to fend for herself.
Tap. Tap tap tap.
Bree hastily wiped the tears from her cheeks and rushed across her room.
“John!” She threw open the window, never so happy to see
anyone in her life. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m Luke Skywalker,” John said. “And I’m here to rescue you.”
“Huh?”
John smiled. “I think Leia’s line is actually ‘You’re who?’ but I’ll take that in a pinch.”
Bree’s tears began to flow afresh. She couldn’t help it. All the pain and sadness of the last few days, and here was her best friend who, with one quote from Star Wars, reminded her that someone cared.
John’s smirk vanished. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Bree sniffled. “I’m just happy to see you.”
“Aha!” John said. He dropped his backpack into the gravel and unzipped it. “Well, if the mere sight of me brings you to tears, maybe I’d better not show you this.” With a flamboyant magician’s flourish, John yanked what appeared to be a tangled mass of rope out of his bag.
“What is that?”
“Stand back,” John said. “And I’ll show you.”
Bree stepped away from the window. She heard John grunt, and then there was a thud, as if something soft had hit the side of the house.
“Dammit,” John said, his voice muffled.
Another grunt, and another thud. This time, Bree could hear him swearing under his breath.
“Would it help if I got out and pushed?” Bree said, smiling at her own Star Wars quote.
John’s voice drifted up through the window with the expected response. “It might.”
A third grunt, and this time the end of a rope soared through the window. Bree grabbed it before it slipped back down.
“Pull it up!” John instructed.
Hand over hand, Bree drew the rope up the side of her house. It was heavier than she thought it would be, and she had to brace herself against the wall to haul it in. After ten feet, two metal hooks appeared over the windowsill, and suddenly Bree realized what John had brought.
She secured the hooks on the sill and stuck her head out the window. Below her, a rope ladder descended to the gravel path.
“Nice thinking,” she said, impressed.
John looped his backpack over his shoulders and grasped the bottom rungs. “Okay, wish me luck.”
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