Hartley laughs loudly. “And that’s more believable how?”
“She climbed up there to have a smoke and fell off. See, you make her look bad by having her admit to the smoking thing so no one questions the rest of the story.”
It’s more devious than I would have thought Farrah Weir-Montgomery capable of, and I’m slightly impressed.
“I live in an apartment building,” Nikki manages. “No roof access.”
Shit.
I tap my fingers on the steering wheel. “Okay, what about this? She was out for a joyride with a boy on his motorcycle. He took a hard turn, and she fell. He took off because he didn’t want to get charged. We saw and picked her up.”
No one says anything for a minute. Then Farrah says, “Well, it’s not worse than any of the other ideas.”
So it’s decided.
“Does this mean you’re pulling out of the game, then?” Hartley asks Nikki.
“Insensitive much?” Farrah says.
“What? It’s an honest question, and you all were thinking it.”
But a glance in the rearview mirror tells me that Nikki’s not even paying attention. Her eyes are squeezed shut, and there’s a sheen of sweat on her forehead. She doesn’t look good.
Before long Tulane Medical Center comes into view. I pull the car into the roundabout outside the hospital. Lyla jumps out before I’m fully stopped, gets a wheelchair from the lobby, and brings it to the car. Hartley helps her get Nikki into the chair, and then Lyla’s wheeling her through the automatic doors. We all watch in rapt silence as she exchanges a few words with a nurse in green scrubs, and then she’s walking back out through the sliding glass doors.
“What did you say?” Farrah asks as soon as Lyla’s ass hits the leather seat.
“That we saw the accident and took her here. Just like we planned.”
“Did she fall for it?” Farrah’s slumped ridiculously low in the seat. All that she’s missing now is a pair of glasses with a fake nose and mustache attached.
“I don’t know. I think so,” Lyla says, retying her ponytail.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Farrah mutters. “This isn’t good.”
“So long as Nikki sticks to the story, there’s no way for anyone to know what really happened,” Hartley says. “And even if she did say something about what really happened, where’s her proof? You just need to relax.”
“Easy for you to say,” Farrah says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Farrah shakes her head and bites her manicured nails as she peers out the window. “This whole thing was stupid.”
And for once I agree with something Farrah says. This time when Hartley starts flicking her lighter, I don’t bother telling her to stop.
I turn off the headlights before I slip back into the Iberville Rentals parking lot, even though Mom’s blinds are closed and cars come and go from our apartment at all hours of the day and night.
The events of the night are so twisted I can hardly believe they actually happened.
I snuck out of the house.
Stole Mom’s car.
Went into an abandoned warehouse.
And jumped off a freaking roller coaster.
Sure, my chest is a little tight and I might pay for this tomorrow, but I don’t feel sick right now. I feel…good. Incredible. Alive.
All at once I remember the way Nikki looked, broken on the pavement, and sober up. It’s not the time to be elated. Besides, it’s not over yet. I still have to get inside.
My guts are a mess as I carefully climb the metal stairs. My legs tremble, and I’m fairly certain I could puke at any moment. The door snicks as I open it and edge inside, but the house is as still and silent as ever. I don’t breathe as I shut the door behind me and ease the keys onto the rack. Then, heart pounding, I slide the bolt back into place and race down the shadowed halls to my bedroom. Once safely inside, I lean against the door to catch my breath.
I did it.
But when I open my eyes, someone is sitting on my bed.
I gasp and fumble for the doorknob behind me.
“Shhh. Wouldn’t want to wake Mom.”
“Jenny!” I press a hand against my chest, trying in vain to slow my racing heart.
“Sneaking out?” she asks. “My big sister is growing up.”
I suck in ragged breaths. This is the part where Mom would force me to sit down and take my inhaler, and the whole conversation about where I was would be derailed, at least for a little while. But Jenny stares at me resolutely. That’s when I notice she has a box with a huge red bow curled over its top in her lap.
“What is that?” I ask.
“I’ll give it to you if you tell me where you were.” She’s teasing, but she’s also serious. I remember Farrah’s advice: keep it close to the truth, and the lie will sell itself.
“I—there was a party tonight at Tucker St. Clair’s.”
“Liar.” She shakes the box. “Well, wherever you were, someone left this for you. It was on the bed when I came in.”
“What?” How is that possible?