Chapter Fifteen Piper

Chapter Fifteen

Piper

Now: Saturday, 7:05 AM

By the third shriek, it's clear something is very wrong. I bolt out of bed and my shoulder wrenches painfully in my sling. I massage it with one hand as I move downstairs. Ahead of me are multiple sets of heavy footfalls. The whole house rushing downstairs, more screams rising to meet us.

Willa, Eden, and Camille are circling the couch when I reach the main-floor landing. Delaney arrives one step ahead. She surges forward to see what the fuss is about, but soon stops in her tracks with a gasp. Before I can push through to see for myself, Wyatt explodes.

"Oh my god! Oh my god!" He rakes fingers through his curly hair, tugging hard on the ends. Then he locks eyes with a shell-shocked Liam, standing numbly at the couch's center. "Is he fucking dead?"

"Why are you asking me?" Liam responds with a flinch. He stumbles back a step, calves hitting the coffee table hard.

But Wyatt insists. "You're premed, aren't you?"

"That's a college major, not a medical qualification," Liam retorts.

"You don't need a medical degree to know he's dead!" Delaney snaps. "Look at him!"

At each utterance of the word dead, Eden unleashes a high-pitched wail.

And, finally, I do get a look at him. Declan. Dead on the couch.

I spin away, avert my eyes, but the image remains imprinted on the back of my lids. Pale and waxen. Exactly as I've always imagined a dead body might look and also nothing like that atall.

Sometimes when I'm listening to a particularly grisly MurderGals case, I do a Google Images search out of morbid curiosity. But I never turn off SafeSearch. I get hoax images and profile pics attached to news articles. Maybe a pixelated close-up. Google isn't the dark web; I know I'll never see anything I'm not readyfor.

But this is uncensored. Someone I know.

Knew.

The front door flies open with a bang, letting in a snap of frigid air. We all whip around to confront the source: our oddly chipper chaperone.

"Oh good, you're all up! I was worried I'd have to clang pots and pans to get you out of bed. We have a long day of activities ahead—" Silva cuts herself off at the full sight of us. Seven slack faces, an edge of hysteria pulsing around us.

She turns stern, and her attention darts to the dining room table. To the seat at the head of the table where she held court last night. There's a twitch at her temple, like a memory is trying to break through. Something amiss between her last recollection of dinner and waking up in her bed this morning with nothing in between. What did Eden call it? Ambienesia.

"What's going on?" Silva asks. "What are you hiding?" We give way to her forward advance, none of us saying a word.

With one glance at Declan, she scoffs. "Very funny, guys. I don't like stupid pranks, and you better not be filming this. Did you secretly keep a phone or something?"

None of us answer or move. Ms. Silva scans the crowd, no phone in sight. She frowns. "Declan, get up."

"It's not a prank," Camille says in a voice so sad and small, she sounds like a little kid. "We found him like this…. He's dead."

On cue, Eden wails, and all the blood drains from Ms. Silva's face.

"Oh god," she chokes out. "How long has he…Has someone tried CPR?" Her voice rises to a screech. "Called someone?"

"We don't have our phones, remember," Camille bites back. At the same time Liam says, "He appears to have been dead awhile. There's no point in performing CPR."

"Thought you weren't a doctor, bro," Wyatt deadpans.

"Hush, you two," Silva interjects sharply. I expect her to do something then. She's the adult. She should take charge. Someone should take charge.

Instead our chaperone crumples onto the bottom step of the staircase, muttering to herself, "What I am I going to do ?"

So we turn on each other.

"Who was the last person to see Declan last night?" Delaney asks as Liam confronts his roommate. "What time did you go to bed?"

But Wyatt isn't listening. His eyes are glued to the floor beside Declan's body.

"Is that vomit? That looks like vomit."

"Why didn't anyone check on him?" Camille demands.

They're excellent questions. But no one is answering. They're fighting and bickering and crying instead. It doesn't matter anyway. They're the wrong questions. The last person to see Declan is obvious: his killer. The more prudent question is who was the last person to see him alive.

My stomach turns at the thought that it might have been me. But then I remember Eden and Wyatt in the hot tub. Declan was still snoring when I left.

I clear my throat.

"Hey! HEY, STOP!" Seven sets of eyes swivel to me. "Ms. Silva, didn't you say there's a landline here?"

She flinches at her name. Furrows her brow but, after a pause, nods. "In my room."

"Go call for help," I direct Silva, then turn back to the group. "Liam, why don't you go upstairs to the linen closet and get some sheets to cover him. Everyone else, go back to your rooms and calm the hell down. We should all get dressed and packed."

"Packed?" Willa asks.

"We can't stay here," I say. "Obviously."

"Who died and put you in charge?" Camille says. Then hisses a curse. "I didn't mean that—I…you're right. I don't want to stay here either." And she stomps up the stairs, a sobbing Eden close behind. Everyone disperses, and I know I should follow my own advice and get changed, but I can't leave. Shock and adrenaline thrum through me. I'm too keyed up to do anything but wait until Silva reports back that she's reached town and someone's coming.

They have to come.

I'm drawn to the windows. Last night's snow has blotted out the landscape, rendered both nature and man-made structures amorphous, sparkling white. Even the hot-tub lid is domed over with accumulated snowfall. And the flakes streaking down will be sure to cover it entirely by the afternoon.

"Mmwwreor?" comes a trill from over by the stairs. It's a large, fluffy black cat with slanted green eyes that bore into mine. The cat does a hop-jump, rubbing its body against the slatted wood stairwell, chirruping at me all the while. It leaves a faint black streak in its wake, evidence of a favorite spot against which it yeets its body.

"Are you talking to me?" I ask, then repeat the phrase with a De Niro twang. The cat stares at me like I'm an idiot.

But it's a nice distraction. I poke around in the kitchen and find a supply of cat food in the pantry. After setting down a bowl of the fishy wet mix, I'm rewarded with a head butt and a bone-rattling purr.

"You're welcome." I massage between its ears, then catch myself. What kind of Airbnb comes with a cat? "You're a mystery," I say. "That's what I'll call you. Mystery."

Much like the body to my right.

I want to look at him again, a morbid pull. It's why I love true crime and horror: a part of me craves that taste of death. But this is real. I stay in the kitchen and try to clear my head. Even if the ambulance leaves town now, it will take at least a half hour to get up the mountain. We're going to need supplies.

I move to busy myself, setting up some fuel for the road, arranging a mini buffet of granola, yogurt, bananas, and toast across the kitchen island.

"Is this good?" Liam startles me to attention, and the spoons I had in my hand clatter onto the counter. "I wasn't sure how much we'd need, so I grabbed a few sets." He's clutching a laundry load's worth of white sheets. While he attempts to wrangle a fitted sheet into a square, I line the spoons on a cloth napkin, then go over to help. On instinct, he tries to pass over a set before remembering I'm currently short one hand. Still, I'm not useless.

"Use the flat one," I instruct, grabbing one end so we can tent it over Declan's body.

Once it's in place, he frowns down at the shroud. "Do you think we should move him? Or do we have to wait for the police?"

A loud creak on the stairs alerts us to new company. Eden appears in a cozy-but-glam bodysuit, an oversized sweater, and a pout. "Why would the police come? We didn't do anythingwrong."

Eden may look like a million bucks, but her voice is trembling and thin. It's strange to see her so vulnerable. Very off-brand.

And it's even stranger to see Camille blotchy-faced and blubbering—and in her glasses, no less.

"Of course the police will come. Someone's dead," Camille says bluntly. "They come for accidents same as they do for murder."

"Whoa, wait, bro—murder?"

And there's Wyatt trundling down the stairs after the girls. He bounds straight over to the breakfast spread and shoves two mini muffins into his mouth in short order.

I catch Liam's lips pressed into a thin white line.

"It isn't murder!" Delaney appears from nowhere. "It has to be an accident. Has to." Dread weighs down her pretty face, though her eyes linger on the couch. "I don't understand. He was fine when we left him last night."

I spot Liam shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.

"Spit it out," I say, and everyone's eyes swivel toward me, then to Liam.

"Foaming at the mouth indicates it was likely something he swallowed," he lets out in a rush.

I can already see Wyatt ready to question Mr. Premed, but Eden lets out a shriek. "Poison?"

"God, no!" Liam backpedals. "More like an allergy."

"Fuck." Wyatt's eyes go wide in realization. "He wouldn't have been stupid enough to eat nuts…."

I'm not so sure. Declan was really drunk last night.

"Doesn't he have an EpiPen?" I ask.

"Yeah, of course. His backpack's over here." Wyatt grabs Declan's navy Fj?llr?ven from under the coffee table, pausing only briefly as he sees his friend's shroud.

"Shit," he hisses under his breath before resuming his mission. Wyatt rifles through the bag, calm but determined at first, then frenzied. He checks the pockets once, twice, three times, as if each new round will magically produce his quarry. But there's no EpiPen.

We search the floor, under the couch, between the cushions.

"He must have forgot it," Wyatt says quietly.

"Could it be in his suitcase? Upstairs?"

But Wyatt shakes his head no at me. "His mom drilled it into him to keep it close at hand."

The word mom sends a shock through my body. Declan has a mom. Because of course he does. Someone's going to have to tell his family. My gut roils at the thought.

"How did he even get nuts in the first place?" Eden demands. "Silva made sure there were none in the house. It doesn't make sense."

My gaze sweeps across the conspicuously clean living room, last night's liquor selection nowhere to be seen. But I have a good memory.

"Did Declan drink any of the Al'more last night?" I ask, but no one is listening to me. They're watching Wyatt search the backpack one more time. He pulls out condoms, a near-empty handle of Jack, a vape, a sweater. But no EpiPen.

I clear my throat, try a bit louder. "Al'more amaretto. Did Declan drink any last night?"

Delaney blinks tear-logged lashes up at me. "What?"

"There are nuts in it," Willa practically whispers, eyes now firmly downcast to the warm red brick of the fireplace base. She rubs her forefinger and thumb over the black crystal hanging from her neck. "I mean, technically, not nuts. Almonds are drupes. But we think of them as nuts, of course. My mom gets itchy if she has cashews, pistachios, almonds—not a serious allergy, but she can't have amaretto. I remember she got a bottle as a gift through work and had to give it away. I've never heard of that Al'more brand, but the label said amaretto."

I think about last night. Declan was definitely throwing back Jack and Coke. Eden, Delaney, Camille, and Willa had more than a few drinks too—Cherry Coke and amaretto after the Malibu ran out. If Declan was already drunk, he could have picked up one of their cups by mistake and not noticed the almond flavor mixed in with cherry. Silva checked all the food items she brought, but she clearly didn't check the pantry. First Eden found wine, then Camille the Al'more…. Declan's deadly allergen was here the whole time.

"Are you telling me Declan died because of some small-batch Italian amaretto and being idiotic enough to forget his EpiPen?" Delaney screeches.

I'm with Delaney. What a horrible, stupid accident.

"Ms. Silva!" Willa is alert now, bolting up from the fireplace at the sight of our chaperone emerging from the basement. "Are they on their way? Are we going home?"

Ms. Silva's face is pale and slack, a dullness behind her eyes. "The phone lines must have been knocked out by the storm. There's no Wi-Fi or cell signal either," she says shakily. Then she comes closer, scans our worried faces, and breaks like a dam. "No one's coming. We're trapped."