10. Piper

10

PIPER

DECEMBER 31, 8:30 P.M.

So far, this party is going exactly as expected. Or should I say, so far, so drunk ? Which is, for all intents and purposes, a good thing. Drunk people are more likely to tell the truth. Not that my target ever really gets wasted—Aiden Ortiz is far too responsible for that, which would be more relevant if I could actually find him.

I check the living room, dining room, and the sunroom at the back of the house, where Dad is stationed with a thick Alexander Hamilton biography and a glass of whiskey, tuning out the group of Deus dads reminiscing about their time as Dukes way back in the day. Seeing me in the doorway, he lifts his glass in a weary salute. I give one back before swiftly extracting myself.

On my way back down the hall, Vivian comes out of the kitchen, so quickly I stop in my tracks. Seems like I startle her, too, because she visibly flinches.

"How's it going?" I ask, trying not to linger on the fact that she's so clearly unhappy to see me.

"Fine," she says. "Nothing new from Jason. I'm heading to the bathroom."

With that, she speeds away. I'm about to demand more details when I clock my target in the living room—charming a cluster of moms, of course, like he deliberately placed himself there to piss me off. Gritting my teeth, I make my way over, catching the word "Stanford" at least twice as I approach. Maybe if someone says it a third time, a Silicon Valley billionaire in a T-shirt and sandals will appear in the reflection of their champagne glasses.

"Hi, Mrs. Fontaine. Mrs. Kimball. I hope y'all are enjoying the party," I say, flashing a smile as I dig my fingers into Aiden's arm. "Can I steal him for a second?"

"Of course, dear. Don't let us monopolize him." Mrs. Fontaine gives Aiden an adoring wink. "Tell your mom she's done a wonderful job, as always."

"Thank you, I will. And Eugenie looked gorgeous last night. She's a perfect model for Mom's dresses." I grin, just like Mom did at her from across the ballroom, moments after calling her husband an insufferable ass.

I haul Aiden through the living room without releasing his arm.

"Are we on The Bachelor ?" he asks.

"What?"

"‘Can I steal him for a second?' It's a classic line."

"I'm sorry, do you watch The Bachelor ?"

"I contain multitudes."

"Yeah, multitudes of shit."

We're stopped in the foyer now, which is practically empty.

"Okay, so why'd you drag me over here?" Aiden asks. "Because I was really winning those moms over with my charm and witty repartee."

"I need you to tell me about the ball," I say.

We've wasted enough time. Might as well get to it.

Aiden frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Did you throw the blood at Lily?"

He tenses, all of that irritating ease suddenly gone from his posture. "Whoa, what? I told you before, I didn't—"

"If it wasn't you, then who was it? I know you saw something."

I'm going a little too hard with this interrogation, and it doesn't seem to be working. Lines crinkle around Aiden's eyes, and I'd almost think he was concerned, if I thought him capable of the feeling.

"Piper, is something else going on?"

I cross my arms. "Lily's missing."

He lets out a breath, eyes falling to the floor. "Yeah, I heard."

"Whatever happened to her, I think it has something to do with what happened at the ball. Whoever was in that Jester costume. And I know it's one of the Dukes, so—"

"You think something happened to her?" Aiden's stare snaps back up to meet mine.

"You have a lot of irredeemable qualities, Aiden, but a lack of deductive-reasoning skills isn't one of them. That stunt at the ball was obviously some kind of threat, and now Lily's missing. What else are we supposed to think?"

He sighs, pulling a hand through his hair. "No, you're right. I just…"

"What?"

For a moment, he's quiet, like he's weighing his words. "You're good at solving problems," he says. "Personally, I think it's one of your least irredeemable qualities. A pretty good one, actually."

There's a little flicker of something low in my stomach, and Vivian's stupid Pride and Prejudice thing worms its way into my head. I remind myself this is a perfectly reasonable response to being complimented. Scientific, even.

"But?" I press.

"But I don't think it's smart to get all mixed up in this. I'm sure the police and Lily's family are on it, and the LeBlancs…" Aiden looks over his shoulder, like he's making sure no one else is listening in. "They practically run the whole city, and digging around in their business, even with the best of intentions…" He shakes his head. "All I'm saying is, families like theirs always have skeletons in the closet. Things that tend to come out when something like this happens. And I think it's dangerous to be the one who finds them."

He seems genuinely worried for me right now, and even worse, I know he has a point. Aiden and I both come from wealthy families, same as pretty much everyone at Beaumont, but there's a stark difference between being a Johnson or an Ortiz and being a LeBlanc. They're the people with politicians and police in their pockets, whose daughters are Queens instead of Maids—they're royalty, and we're just lucky enough to be in their court.

Still, I can't help hearing echoes of Marty in Aiden's words.

"So you think we should do nothing," I say. "Just sit back and hope they find her."

"No, I—" He frowns, but then his gaze softens again. "I just… I think you should be careful, Piper."

For half a second, there's that stupid warm feeling again, but it's quickly hammered down by annoyance. He doesn't want me to be careful because he's worried about me—it's because he thinks I can't figure this out on my own. Because he thinks it's not my business.

"Sure," I say. "Thanks for the tip."

"Wait, I didn't mean—"

"Do you have any helpful intel about last night or not?"

Aiden watches me for a second. Then he shakes his head. "I'm sorry, but I really don't know anything else. I wish I did."

"Fine," I tell him. "Thanks anyway, I guess."

I turn around and head back into the living room. So Aiden was a bust. I should have expected that. But at least I can still grill Milford.

Only, finding him might be a challenge, too. Our house is packed with kids from the ball and older Deus members, everyone decked out in their festive-casual finery. I scan the room for everyone my age, all clustered with drinks, bent over their phones—probably planning their next move, because this party is so obviously only a pregame for them, a way to get plastered for free before heading out to one of the grimy college bars near Tulane. One thing I'll never understand: the desire to be anywhere with a sticky floor on purpose.

I spot April in the corner, watching the party with an uncomfortable look on her face. I wonder if I should go check in with her, but then someone tugs on my arm. Jason. I flinch.

"What?" I snap.

"This is Wyatt's," he says, holding out a phone.

I take it, and the screen lights up with his background photo: him and Lily, his arms wrapped around her after one of her soccer games.

"He left it by the beer," Jason adds, lifting his own fresh bottle in explanation. "I'd give it back to him myself, but he's in a hell of a mood. Fair warning."

Before I can ask what that means, Jason is lumbering away.

"Shit," I mutter under my breath. The last thing I need tonight is Wyatt on his worst behavior.

I scan the room but don't see him, so I spin around and march down the hall. I'm just passing the staircase when I get an idea. Glancing around to make sure no one's watching, I type our birthday into the passcode keypad.

The phone unlocks.

Classic, I think. He might as well make it "1234." But if we want information about what happened at the ball…

Before I can talk myself out of it, I climb the stairs, heart thudding all the way up to my bedroom, where I lock the door behind me.

It's for his own good, I think. Right now, all we know about the hours leading up to Lily's disappearance is that she was texting someone and Wyatt was pissed about it. And if he insists on sulking all day instead of telling me what was actually going on, when Vivian and April probably think he's our prime suspect, then someone's going to have to clear his name for him, and it might as well be me.

I open his messages, scrolling to find his conversation with Lily. When I see it, I wince. It's a parade of texts from Wyatt to her, all unanswered, starting that night at 11 P.M.

Did you get home ok?

Ten minutes later:

I know you're mad but can you at least answer

Did you get a ride home?

Half an hour after that:

Lily come on I'm sorry

Don't do this

Hello??

And then, at 12:30 A.M. :

Fuck this

I'm done

Lily's read receipts show she saw all of them except for the last two. The most ominous two.

And then it hits me. I scroll back up.

Did you get a ride home?

Why would he ask that if he was the one who drove her?

The answer is unbelievably simple: because he didn't.

But Lily's parents said he did, didn't they? Did Wyatt lie to them? To Marty? I shut my eyes and try to think logically. Even if he lied, Wyatt obviously didn't have anything to do with Lily's disappearance. I know this, as well as I know the periodic table or the exact schedule of alarms he sets every morning to get up for school, the third one always ringing at precisely seven forty, when I'm dressed, packed, and passing his room to go down for breakfast.

But I also can't ignore the very real truth in front of me.

Like I said, I'm someone who respects the evidence—and right now, all of it points to my brother.