Okay, so that’s not exactly how it went. But still. It was obvious she’d been brainwashed by someone, and she wasn’t concerned Paige was gone.
“It’s not at her house,” I say.
“How can you be sure?” he asks.
“I looked around after Mrs. Abernathy told me about the music school.”
During tea—that part actually happened—Mrs. Abernathy had broken the news to me that, due to a medical emergency with another student, Paige had been accepted late to the fancy-schmancy music school she’d applied to. Her mom didn’t seem the least bit disturbed about the fact that she’d left in the middle of the night, on a weekend, midterm.
“Think Leo took it?” he asks. “You know, since she’s supposed to be at this music school.”
“Too much foresight for a grunt like him,” I mutter.
“Hmm,” Bishop says. “How ’bout her locker at school?”
“That’s if she even has a locker anymore. She transferred, according to the school administrators. They might have emptied it already.”
“Can you check?” he asks.
“You mean go to school?”
“I know. I hate to suggest such a torturous plan,” Bishop chides.
I groan. It feels like centuries since I’ve been to school. “Well, I guess Aunt Penny’s going to make me go anyway. She started talking about my grades slipping and me not getting into college like I actually care about that right now. God, she’s impossible.”
“Yeah, what a bitch,” he says without any real heat behind it. “So you get the violin, and I’ll get the other stuff ready. Pick you up after school?”
“Sure.”
Then there’s this awkward pause that’s been happening a lot lately. We’ve been dating for less than a month, but sharing a bathroom and running for your lives together tends to make a couple close. A simple goodbye doesn’t seem like enough. Finally, I mumble a goodnight and end the call.
I pull my body up to sitting and catch a glimpse of Paige’s bedroom window glaring back at me accusingly through a break in my curtains. I cross over to my window.
All my life, Paige has lived so close I could reach out and touch her house if I wanted to, but instead I listened to Bianca when she’d said I couldn’t afford to be friends with a loser. I wasted all those years pushing away the only real friend I’d ever had, and now she was gone.
The lampposts on Fuller Avenue flicker on, and I realize the sky has become the blue-gray color that comes just before full dark. My eyes are gritty and heavy with exhaustion. I know every minute counts, but I’m just so tired. I haven’t been able to get in more than fitful naps since the night of homecoming—how could I, when Paige was out there somewhere, in danger?—but now it’s almost impossible to stay awake.
I wake up sweat-soaked and gasping for air. I blink my eyes open into the damp pillow, the image of Mom from my nightmare—of her bound to a chair under the spotlight of a single bulb, a steady flow of thick blood oozing out around the knife buried in her temple—seared into my brain. My heart gives a painful twist. I do everything in my power not to think about Mom’s gory death during waking hours, but it always finds me at night.
I wordlessly reach for Bishop, but all I find are cold sheets. It takes me a moment to realize I’m not at his house. And that something woke me.
The floorboards under the carpet creak behind me.
“I was sleeping,” I say, irritated. Though I’m actually relieved to be woken up, whether or not it’s for another sob session with Aunt Penny. My alarm clock flashes 1:26 a.m. in bright blue numbers; I probably could have slept all night. That’s just unacceptable when Paige is missing.
Aunt Penny doesn’t take the hint, though, and I need her to go away so I can sneak out. Growling, I roll over onto my back. “Can’t this wait, I’m really—”
My words die in my throat. It’s not Aunt Penny.
2
I scuttle up against the headboard, my heartbeat rapid-fire in my chest. The figure, much taller than my aunt, remains in the shadows, leaning against the wall opposite my bed.
Watching me.
“Who are you?” I demand.
It’s silent a moment, and all I can hear is the sound of my heart thumping in my ears.
Then: laughter. Not a menacing snicker, but genuine, belly-clutching giggles.
Confusion gives way to indignation, and I gain enough sense to flick on my bedside lamp. Jezebel clamps a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter, which only seems to get louder when I give her a venomous glare.
Jezebel’s been MIA ever since the swamp debacle sixteen days ago. Not that I tried to find her or anything (I make it a point not to reach out to my boyfriend’s hot exes, especially when they’re as bitchy and self-centered as Jezebel). But apparently she hasn’t been suffering too badly. Jezebel looks like she just stepped off a catwalk: a vision of high cheekbones, enviable curves, and shiny auburn hair falling in perfect curls over her shoulders. The hooker even makes jeans and a tank top look cutting edge.
I don’t know what the hell she’s doing in my room, but something tells me it isn’t because she wants to paint my nails and have a pillow fight.
After a few minutes, she finally gets control of her laughter and straightens up.
“Done?” I ask.
She wipes tears from the corner of her eyes. “God, you should have seen your face.”
“I’m glad you found that amusing. You do know the last time someone broke into my bedroom it was Frederick, and that he kidnapped and killed my mom?”
The smile drops off her face. “Right, forgot about that. Sorry.”
I’m sure.
“What are you doing here anyway?” I demand.
“Just came to see how you’re doing. You look like shit, by the way.”
I cross my arms, hyperaware of my puffy, bloodshot eyes and snarl of curls. “I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to visit my stylist since my best friend went missing.”
Jezebel shrugs.
“So where have you been?” I ask.
“None of your business.”