11. April

11

APRIL

DECEMBER 31, 8:45 P.M.

Nearly an hour into this party, all I've accomplished is making a catalog of the best methods of escape. The cleanest would be an Irish goodbye, followed by texting Piper and Vivian that I've been hit with a sudden and severe stomach flu. Both seem like unattainable fantasies, though, because there's too many damn people here, and even an escape through the back door would mean running into people from school, which means risking confused stares or, worse, small talk.

Currently, I'm back in the dining room, wondering if the window in here opens and, if not, what would happen if I simply took a running leap through the glass.

"'Scuse us." Coach Davis gives me a polite smile as he edges toward the appetizer table, a pretty blond woman at his side.

I shove another cracker with crab dip into my face and step aside, watching him load up his plate. I'm not sure if he recognizes me, seeing as I avoid organized sports like the plague, but I remember him sitting with this woman at the ball. For a minute, I listen for anything that might be useful, but all I get is Coach Davis improvising a song about how much he loves the cheese puffs while the woman looks on, mildly embarrassed.

Drifting toward the dessert table, I glance at my phone again. No updates from Piper or Vivian—which is fine, because I have nothing to report. Probably because I am, you know, hiding.

This detective mission is going about as well as I expected.

"I just can't possibly imagine," I hear a woman croon to another. They're stationed next to the spread of petit fours and mini Doberge cakes that no one seems to actually be touching. I make a mental note to pocket some once these ladies move on.

"It's terrible, isn't it?" the other woman whispers in the kind of scandalized tone that suggests it's not really all that terrible. "And after what happened last year…"

"The vandalism?"

I freeze. Already, it's like I can sense what's coming.

"Well, of course, but also what happened to… you know."

You know. Like she's just an afterthought. Like Margot's life and death are hardly noteworthy compared to some fucking floats getting destroyed.

The first woman balks. "Oh, but you don't think…?"

"No, no, of course not. Lily's a good girl. It's quite a different situation."

"Well," says the woman. "They'll certainly be in my prayers."

Suddenly, even the idea of Doberge is more than I can stomach. I pull my camera strap up my shoulder and march out of the dining room, taking quick, quiet breaths to stave off the panicked heat burning all over my skin.

New Orleans is the biggest small town in the country, and news spreads quicker than disease, especially among the present company. But I can't stand the way they were talking about it just now, like some kind of salacious true-crime story, thoughts and prayers and a steaming pile of nothing else. And the final, obvious blow: It's quite a different situation. As in, something like that could never happen to Lily. As in, Margot had it coming.

The bar table appears in the living room, and before I can think too hard about it, I walk over, pour a glass of champagne, and down it quickly, the bubbles burning.

Screw it. It's time to do some detective work.

It's not long before I catch a flash of bright-red hair moving out of the living room and into the hallway.

Milford.

I move before my anxiety can catch up with my legs, trailing him as he ambles to the back of the Johnsons' house. Drunk, I'm pretty sure. I swallow the lump of panic in my throat. This is good. Maybe I can talk to Milford if he's drunk, if I can tell myself he won't remember.

"Maybe" being a generous term, but now's not the time to overthink it.

Milford passes into the sunroom at the end of the house, and I hang back. A bunch of the dads are congregated there, trading raucous laughter and firm slaps on the back. Milford gets a few as he heads toward the back door.

"Milford Wilcox! What are you getting up to back here?" one man asks, like he hopes it's something illegal.

"Nothing much," Milford says. "Just want to commune with nature."

The man gives a barking laugh. "Hey, your old man coming out tonight?"

"Nah, he has to work."

"Industrious old bastard! Well, don't worry, we won't tell on you. Right, boys?"

The man holds out his hand, which Milford claps before stepping through the back door and into the yard.

God, these men are drunker than the teenagers at this party. I recognize most of them from Les Masques, I think, but none of them are close friends with my parents. They probably won't even acknowledge me if I walk past, because that's the nice thing about being the quiet girl: in the right circumstances, you develop the power of invisibility.

Taking a deep breath, I clutch my camera tightly, hunch forward, and walk toward the door.

"What's up, Annie Leibovitz?" one of the men booms as I pass.

I give my best attempt at a smile, but it's more just pressing my mouth into a flat line, not making eye contact.

"Hey, you chasing after our buddy Milford?" another asks. "Don't take anything he does personally. He takes after his old man."

The men laugh. I rush outside, resisting the urge to flip them the bird as I shut the door behind me.

Outside, the cool air is welcome on my face. Milford has made his way over to the pool, standing next to a magnolia tree. He reaches into his pocket and pulls something out. A joint, I realize, as he sticks it between his teeth. Smoking weed anywhere near Piper's mom feels like a death wish, but Milford doesn't strike me as the type who cares. He pulls out a lighter next, big and silver. Almost like…

Recognition seizes me, digging its fingers into my skin.

I reach for my camera. No time to think about it. Milford is cupping the lighter close to the joint between his lips, and I have to know. I press the shutter, instantly regretting using my camera instead of my phone. It was instinct, but now, I can't be sure if I got it clearly. I start to reach for my phone, thinking maybe—

"Uh, did you just take a picture of me?"

Shit. Shit.

Milford is squinting directly at me through the dark, and I should have leapt out the Johnsons' window when I had the chance. But no. I have to step up and do this. How hard is it to be a functioning social being for five minutes?

Do it for Margot, I think.

"Your lighter," I force out. "It's cool."

To my surprise, Milford laughs, high and whiny. He lifts it up, examining it in the light, and stumbles slightly, like the change in perspective was too much for his brain to keep up with.

"You smoke, June?"

"April," I correct him, almost inaudibly. He literally escorted me around a ballroom twenty-four hours ago. How does he not remember which month I'm named after? "And I don't really—"

I stop myself. I don't smoke, not since the time I tried it with Margot and spent an hour convinced the statues in her backyard were watching me. But if I get Milford talking…

"Yeah," I say. "Sometimes."

I walk over to him, surprised at how calm I suddenly feel. For once, I feel like I have the upper hand.

Milford takes an overly indulgent hit before handing it over. "Another fucking party, am I right?"

I have only the vaguest idea of what Milford means by this, but I nod anyway. It's an opening. "I guess it's weird to be here," I say. "You know. With the Lily stuff."

Milford goes quiet, staring at the pool. Then he nods, like he's found enlightenment in the rippling surface. "Y'know, she might be smarter than all of us. Just saying screw it. Getting away from all this bullshit."

"You think she ran away?"

Milford shrugs, reaching for the joint again. I hand it back without taking a hit. He brings it to his lips, apparently uninterested in continuing this conversation, but I have to keep trying.

"Can I see the lighter?" I ask.

Milford snickers. "You a pyro, or something?"

I don't laugh. My heart is pounding too wildly. He digs into his pocket and pulls it out anyway, opening his palm for me to see. Some part of me already knew, but still, it's like everything falls away except for that engraving.

The sad clown. It's the same picture that was on the Jester's invitation—on Margot's lighter. I'd seen it a hundred times. In her pocket. On the levee.

In her hand on the last night of her life.

"Where did you get that?" I breathe.

Milford flicks the lighter open and sparks it, the flame dancing in the dark.

"Top secret," he says with a slimy smile.

I reach for it, and he snaps it closed. "That's hers," I say. "That's Margot's."

"What?" Milford looks genuinely confused, even through the daze of weed and alcohol. He takes an unsteady step back, toward the pool. "Margot Landry?"

"Where did you get it?"

"It's mine," he says. "What are you even—"

"Milford," I demand, stepping forward, " where did you get it? "

And that's when he loses his balance and goes sailing backward into the water.