“This is a no-losers party,” she says. “So why don’t you scram.”
I wait for Bianca to come to my defense or at least say whatever she wanted to say, but she just gives a brittle laugh.
I give them my back again. I don’t need Bianca to apologize—just saying what’s been on my mind lifts a weight I didn’t know I was carrying from my shoulders.
We push through the crowds until we make it out the front door. I keep waiting for someone to complain about this strange guy carrying Brooke out of the house in her underwear, but no one does, which makes me even happier we aren’t leaving her here.
“I think that went well,” I say.
Bishop gives me a sweet smile as he lugs Brooke. “You did good. I’m proud of you.”
“I’m proud of me, too,” I say. “I really wanted to punch her in the face for a minute there.”
He laughs. “I would have liked to see that.”
I open the car door, and Bishop carefully lays Brooke across the backseat. Then the two of us look at her with our hands on our hips, as if we’re two maintenance workers assessing a job.
“So what are we going to do with her?” Bishop asks.
I lean into the car and give Brooke a little slap on the cheek. Her eyes flutter open.
“Wake up,” I say.
She groans.
“We need to know where you live.”
She goes back to sleep.
“Brooke!” I shout.
Nothing.
Great.
I notice a bulge inside her bra. Well, it’s not the strangest thing to happen tonight. I reach inside and am pleased my guess was right when I pull out a cell phone.
I feel like a jerk going through her personal stuff, but how else am I supposed to find out where she lives? I see an entry called Mom in her contacts. My finger hesitates over the Call button. Contacting her mom will get Brooke into some serious trouble.
Finally, I hit the button.
It rings three times before a tired-sounding lady picks up. When I tell her why I’m calling, she doesn’t sound the least bit surprised that her daughter is drunk. It occurs to me that Brooke’s lost her best friend too. That maybe this is how she’s been coping. If there’s one thing this strange night has taught me, it’s that I didn’t know Brooke like I thought I did. I’m not scared of her anymore—I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at her again and feel anything but sadness.
Her mom rattles off her address, and Bishop and I get into the car.
Despite telling Bianca how I feel, the night feels like one gigantic failure. We came here looking for answers, wasted all this time, and we’re still no closer to finding Paige than we were hours ago.
Hopelessness descends over me, the landscape outside the window blurring behind my tears. Bishop grabs my hand and gives a little squeeze.
We get to Brooke’s house twenty minutes later. She groans when Bishop hauls her out of the backseat.
“Where am I?” she asks, looking around confused.
“Home,” I answer.
“Oh no,” she says. “My mom’s gonna be pissssed.”
Bishop hoists her into his arms, and I lead the way up the path toward her house.
“I miss her,” Brooke blurts out. “I’ve known her since I was three. Did you know that?” Her head is lolled back on Bishop’s arm, but she lifts it to look at me with glassy eyes.
“I didn’t,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“You know who I really hate?” she asks.
“Who?” I say, humoring her.
The porch lights flick on, and Brooke’s mom appears in the doorway, pulling a bathrobe around her chest.
“The cops,” Brooke slurs. “I hate ’em. All of ’em.”
“Oh yeah, why is that?” Bishop says.
“They wouldn’t listen to me. I told them the woman was talking about sacrifice, but they said I must have misheard. I didn’t mishear.” She belches loudly, then laughs.
Bishop stops dead. I whirl on her, my heart thumping wildly.
“What did you just say?”
“I said Bianca’s a bitch. That was mean of her to talk to you that way.”
“No, about the woman and the sacrifice,” I say.
She swallows, wetting her lips. “They made me sign papers. They threatened my family if I told anyone.”
“Who?” I demand. “The cops? Who is this woman?”
She starts gagging.
“Not on the leather!” Bishop shouts. He practically drops her onto the grass. Brooke’s mom runs down the porch steps and falls to her daughter’s side, holding back her hair.
“Thank you,” she says to me, with a strained smile. “I’ve got it from here.”
23
I used to hate the attic of the Black Cat. It’s a tiny, unfinished space with exposed insulation for walls and a low ceiling with a single, flickering overhead bulb. Cobwebs are strung between the boxes that fill up the space, and it smells like moldy cardboard and cigarettes.
When Mom was alive, I did everything possible to avoid coming up here. But after what I’ve had to go through, a creepy attic is the least of my concerns.
Bishop is stretched out in front of a stack of boxes across from me, while I sit cross-legged with a giant tome open in my lap.
After Brooke’s little barf-fest in the front yard last night, her mom ushered her inside and practically slammed the door in our faces. And despite my calling Brooke so many times this morning it nearly bordered on harassment, I couldn’t convince her to tell me anything else. She even denied the whole thing about the cops threatening her, saying it must have been drunk talk.