The possibility that the cough syrup had been a coincidence—an attempt at curing an illness—now felt slimmer. I narrowed my eyes. Who—or what—did she think she was dealing with? A child?
I crossed the room to study her handiwork. I tested the edges with my fingernails. The tape was stuck tight. No matter. I went to the dresser to retrieve the keys to the car.
Only they weren’t there.
I searched the nightstand, a gym bag nearby, blankets bunched on top of the mattress. Nowhere in sight.
I was beginning to get anxious. I felt cooped up. Trapped. I always got out of this place, her place, as soon as possible. Where were they?
I began to seethe. I went into the closet and began tearing clothes off the hangers, rummaging through the pockets. All of them were empty. In a fit, I emptied the contents of all the bedroom drawers. I didn’t find the keys. I tore through every purse she owned without hearing the jangle of metal.
As a last resort I dropped to my knees and peered under the bed. There, I found the clump of keys hidden farther under the four-poster frame than I could reach. It was a spot they couldn’t have fallen accidentally.
She had placed them there.
I shimmied on my stomach until my fist clenched around them. My hollow insides were transforming into a bubbling pit of anger. How dare she? My teeth ground like a mortar and pestle. She’d tried to stop me. She’d attempted to affect what was mine. Stupid, stupid girl.
A computer sat dark-screened and opened, still warm. I swished my fingers over the mousepad. It came to life. In a window onscreen was an invitation to an e-mail address for Cassidy Hyde.
Hello, Cassidy.
A party. Now that could be interesting. I liked having a good time. I liked parties. And it was clear that Cassidy needed to lose her privileges. This is why we can’t have nice things, Cassidy.
Swinging my feet over the side of the bed, I stripped off the flannel pajamas she’d put on in favor of black jeans and a tank top. I shoved my feet into a pair of boots and laced them up to my ankles.
By the time that I’d stretched and shaken out the tension in my wrists, the spiderweb threads of Cassidy had been shed and it was go time.
The drive to Paisley’s house was short. Nearly walkable. I pulled up to a three-story pink house with white shutters. I’d never seen something so large and pink before and the sight of it made me want to tear off the siding and burn it in a fire.
Instead, I parked. My boots made scraping noises against the brick walkway that led up to the house where I rang the bell glowing softly beside the little blue door. Several seconds passed. Commotion behind the door. Then a girl with short blond hair appeared. This girl’s face appeared more than any other in the photographs on Cassidy’s dresser. She was sharper and a bit meaner looking in person and I hated her instantly. A laugh died on her face the second she saw me.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. She was even more petite than she seemed in pictures.
I walked straight past her into the foyer, where I stopped and stared at her home. Porcelain plates were affixed to the wall as decoration. I ran my fingers around a few of the smooth edges. “You seem surprised to see me.”
She still hadn’t closed the door. “I—we—you said you weren’t coming.”
My boots looked too thick and military against the clean marble. “Why?” I turned my attention from the china plates and waited expectantly while she seemed to decide what to do about that door.
At last she made a choice. The door clicked into place and she slid the lock. “Are you okay?” When she frowned she looked like a pouting doll. “You seem … off.”
I raised my eyebrows. Good. This was a start. Time to teach Cassidy and her band of playthings a lesson once and for all. “Never felt so alive,” I said.
“All righty then. Well, we’re all in the upstairs game room.” I decided the conversation wasn’t worth it as I followed her through a kitchen large enough to feed a full restaurant’s clientele and up two flights of steps. My boots pounded the stairs too loudly.
The game room was outfitted with two thick-cushioned leather sofas, a real live pinball machine, and Skee-Ball. How spoiled did a kid have to be to need their own pinball machine? French doors opened onto a balcony overlooking a shimmering blue-green pool underneath.
I noticed that my boots were tracking light footprints of dirt into the carpet. And just because I had the urge, I ground them in a bit deeper until I was sure to leave heftier smudges.
In the room, I found ten kids my age playing video games and nursing beers. The conversation fell to a hush when I entered and I had the not-so-sneaking suspicion that the room’s occupants had been talking about Cassidy before I’d come in.
“Look who’s here,” the blond hostess said, by way of introduction. I stared at everyone. They all stared back at me like a bunch of lazy dairy cows in a field. Too stupid to keep from being tipped over.