Iris, who had taken her usual spot in the passenger seat, shrugged apathetically. “I’m not surprised Tripp lives here,” she said. “You have to have a lot of cash to afford The Preserve.”
“Are you sure Tripp lives here?” Emily asked as they passed a white stone house with a miniature version of it for a mailbox. When she’d picked Iris up at the King James that afternoon, Iris had announced that she’d discovered where Tripp, her old crush, lived, and that they were going to track him down that very night. Luckily, his house was only on the other side of Philly, in a pretty New Jersey suburb that looked a lot like Rosewood. Still, there was something about this neighborhood that made Emily feel uneasy. The houses reminded her of the Crestview Manor ones, except even more soulless and spooky. In fact, this neighborhood reminded her of the big, impersonal, oddly generic neighborhood Gayle Riggs lived in when Emily had met her.
“I researched it,” Iris said snootily, gazing at a notepad on her lap. “His family is listed on four-one-one.” Then she pointed to a country club parking lot. “Let’s park here and walk the rest of the way. I don’t want Tripp to see a car at the curb and run.”
Emily shrugged, then did as she was told. Things between her and Iris were back to being tense again. Iris had created an itinerary of stuff for them to do this weekend that wasn’t even on her bucket list, the activities stretching long into the night. It was like she was purposefully keeping Emily away from prom—if Iris couldn’t be happy, then Emily couldn’t, either.
They headed down the quiet neighborhood sidewalk, which was swept clean of leaves and eerily unblemished by sidewalk drawings. The whole place almost felt like a movie set. “It’s the next house on this block,” Iris said, giving a tight smile to a passing woman walking her dog, as if she was the one who wasn’t supposed to be here.
Finally, they stopped in front of a large brick-and-stone structure with a long strip of windows across the top level. MAXWELL, it said on the mailbox. Rolling back her shoulders, Iris marched up the front walk and rang the bell. Emily remained at the curb. A woman Emily could only assume was Tripp’s mom opened the door, and Iris’s voice rose. The woman frowned and shook her head. A second later, the door shut. Iris knocked once more, but it didn’t reopen.
Iris stomped back down the walk angrily. “Tripp doesn’t live here anymore. That stupid bitch kicked him out.”
“Did she say why?” Emily asked.
Iris angrily yanked a daffodil from the flowerbed by the mailbox and twirled it between her palms. “Tripp always used to say his mom was a hard-ass.”
“Where could he have gone?”
Iris tossed the flower onto the lawn. “She said with his father. I asked where that was, and she said she didn’t know.” She set her jaw. “Then I said I was his old girlfriend, and that made her even angrier! She slammed the door on me!” She stared fixedly into the street. “Do you think he said bad stuff about me? Why would she have done that?”
The garage door rose, and they turned toward the house again. A silver Mercedes backed out of the driveway. Iris pulled Emily behind a huge shrub so Tripp’s mom wouldn’t see them. The car backed into the street and zoomed away, the garage closing quietly in its wake.
“Well, I guess that’s that,” Emily said.
Iris clutched her arm. “Are you kidding? Tripp might not be there, but I bet some of his stuff still is. If I’m not going to find him, at least I want something to remember him by.”
Emily placed her hands on her hips, a sinking feeling in her stomach. “And let me guess. We sneak in and steal it?”
“Aw, you know me so well!” Iris pinched Emily’s cheek. Then she pirouetted toward the house. Emily followed a few steps behind, considering just leaving Iris here to do this by herself. But then she thought of Iris getting stuck inside, Tripp’s mom finding her, Iris telling everyone that she’d been kidnapped . . .
Iris circled to the back of the property and climbed onto a multitiered patio. She tried one sliding glass door, then another. Then she spied a dog flap set into the French doors off the kitchen. “Yes.”