12. Piper

12

PIPER

DECEMBER 31, 9:00 P.M.

I hear the splash before I register where it's coming from. I rush to my bedroom window, and looking down, I see it: Milford crashing through the pool's surface, gasping for air, while April stands at the edge.

Goddammit. You take five minutes to yourself to try to process what you found on your brother's phone, and suddenly, the meekest member of your detective trio is drowning guests in your backyard.

I ditch Wyatt's phone in his empty bedroom—he'll find it eventually—and run down the steps, through the house, and to the sunroom, where I push past the cluster of dads and out the door.

"Okay, so this is not what we discussed," I hiss at April as I approach.

She stares back at me, wide-eyed. "I didn't…"

Milford climbs out of the pool, dress shirt and khakis clinging to his bony frame. He shakes his hair out like a wet dog.

"All good. Just fell." He points at April. "She's scary."

He's slurring, which can hopefully be attributed to drunken ness, because a concussion is quite literally the last thing we need right now. I glance back toward the house, but none of the Deus dads seem to have noticed. Good. I need to fix this before Mom sees and has a conniption.

"Come on." I grab Milford's arm and yank him toward the small guesthouse in the back of the yard. "Let's get you dried off."

April trails behind me like a guilty-looking ghost, wringing her camera strap in her hands. Inside, I instruct Milford to stay put as I march to the bathroom and return with a towel.

"Here." I shove it toward him. "Don't touch anything until you're dry."

He wraps the towel around himself with a fraught expression.

"What?"

"I don't feel so good."

Oh no. "Like…?"

Milford nods, a little green, and I fight back the many expletives that I want to throw his way. Instead, I direct him to the bathroom. He scurries inside, shutting the door behind him with a loud slam.

"Just—if you're going to puke, do it in the toilet!"

No answer.

I groan. "Goddammit."

"He didn't hit his head," April says, barely loud enough to hear. "I saw. He's just drunk."

"I'm aware," I snap.

She flinches, looking down.

I let out a breath. It's not April's fault that Milford's an uncoordinated drunk. She was just doing her job.

"It's okay," I tell her, more gently. "He'll be fine." And then I realize. "You talked to him."

She nods, a smile flickering.

"Hell yeah, you did!" I clap, feeling a little like the proud owner of a bird who just learned to recite Nietzsche. With a glance at the bathroom door, I lower my voice. "Did you get anything out of him?"

The smile disappears. "Yeah. I—" She stops midsentence, closing her eyes like she needs to steel herself. "He has Margot's lighter."

"Wait, what?"

April unfolds her fist, and there it is, engraved with a picture I recognize. My breath catches.

"That's the clown from the Jester's message," I say. April already told us it was on Margot's lighter, but still, it sends a chill down my spine. "You're sure it's hers?"

"I'm not positive, but it's identical."

I take it from her, turning it over. A lighter isn't exactly a smoking gun, but right now, it's something. The only clue we have, actually. And handing it back to April, I feel a rush of relief—because whatever this means, it has to be more important than Wyatt's lie about driving Lily home.

I whip out my phone. "I'm calling Vivian. We should fill her in."

As the tone rings in my ear, Milford groans from the bathroom. I wince.

"Hello?" Vivian answers.

"Guesthouse," I say. "Now."

"But—"

"No buts. We found something."

I hang up quickly, so she doesn't have a choice. A few minutes later, she walks in, looking annoyed.

"Okay, this better be good," she says. And then, when Milford groans again, "Uh, please tell me this hasn't become a hostage situation?"

"What? No. Who do you think we are?" I ask.

"Just checking." Vivian holds up her hands in surrender. "But seriously, what's going on?"

I nod for April to hold out the lighter.

When Vivian sees it, her eyes widen. "Is that…?"

"Margot's," April confirms.

"Where'd you find it?"

I swing an arm at the bathroom. "Milford."

"And he's…?"

"Drunk," I say.

"Wet," April adds.

"But not concussed," I finish. "Probably. April talked to him."

"Really?" Vivian looks impressed.

April reddens, but she nods.

"Nice," Vivian says, like a coach after a good play. "Okay, but wait. Why does Milford have Margot's lighter? He's not, like… the Jester , is he?"

"That's what we need to find out." I walk over to the kitchenette, where I grab a glass from the cabinet and fill it with water.

Another moan from the bathroom.

Vivian quirks an eyebrow. "Pretty sure he's not in any state to be interrogated right now."

"So we speed up the sobriety." I hold up the glass.

Vivian stares. "I hope you mean by hydrating him."

"In a sense."

"Wait, we have to be careful," Vivian tries. "We can't just—"

The door unlocks, and Milford swings it open.

"Feeling better?" I ask.

He nods. "Yeah, I think it passed."

"Did you puke?"

"No."

"Good."

I throw the cup of water in his face.

"Jesus! What the—"

"Why do you have that lighter?" I demand.

"What the actual hell," he grumbles, wiping his eyes and shaking the water off his fingers.

"Keep it in the bathroom. The rug out here is an antique," I order, stepping inside with enough force that he has to move back. I turn to Vivian and April. "Y'all coming, or what?"

"Jesus H. Christ," Vivian mutters, but she follows me inside. After a brief moment of inner conflict between staying out there alone and taking her chances with us, April comes, too.

I lock the door behind us and point Milford to the toilet. "Sit."

"But—"

"Now."

Milford plops down on the closed seat, scowling. "God, you're like a miniature version of your mom."

I catch April and Vivian staring at me in the mirror. They look both shocked and impressed, and I shrug. Sometimes, all it takes is an authoritative, vaguely parental tone for a guy to listen to you. Probably something Freudian in that, but now's not the time for psychoanalysis.

"Why do you have Margot's lighter?" I ask again.

He groans. "I don't know why y'all keep saying it's hers. I got it at a bar."

"What bar?"

He clamps his jaw shut like a little kid.

Calmly, I refill the water glass. "What bar, Milford?"

He doesn't answer. I hold up the glass.

"I can't tell you, okay?" Milford explodes, covering his face so I don't splash it again.

You know, there might be something to this, like spray-bottle training for cats.

Vivian leans against the door like a bouncer. "Why?"

"Because I'm not supposed to talk about it," he says. "It's, like, a ‘Carnival secret.'"

Milford puts quotes around it, like he thinks the phrase is silly. I catch April making a face, too. But it's a real thing. The Krewe of Deus has plenty of secrets, like the King's and Queen's identities, which are always closely guarded until they're finally revealed on Mardi Gras Day. Even the Les Masques Queen is supposed to be a secret until the night of the ball, but we all knew it was Lily. Who else would it be?

But clearly, whatever this secret is, Milford takes it seriously enough not to tell.

"So it's, like, a secret bar?" Vivian asks, like that's the most ridiculous thing she's ever heard.

"Is it a Deus thing?" I add. "I've never heard anything about a secret bar. If it's Deus, I would know."

Milford laughs. I grip the water glass tighter, and he stops.

"Care to share why that's so funny?"

"Sorry." He shrugs, sarcasm dripping from his words. "No girls allowed." He stands. "Now can y'all let me out of here before I tell everyone that you kidnapped me?"

I block his path. "Not until you tell us about the bar."

Milford pushes past me, but Vivian is still standing guard at the door. She's pretty good at this, actually.

"Come on," he says. "Move."

But he's clearly a little intimidated. Vivian's got a few inches on him—because while Milford may have been born into unbelievable wealth, height was not part of the deal.

"Sorry," Vivian says. "You've still got some questions to answer."

"Or what?" Milford snaps.

April lifts her camera. "You were smoking weed," she blurts. "I took a picture."

Her face floods crimson as Milford turns to her, narrowing his eyes. "And? It's decriminalized in New Orleans."

He's putting on an unbothered air, but I see where April's going with this. It's kind of brilliant, actually.

"Right," I say sweetly. "But I'm not so sure a picture like this would go over well with your dad's mayoral campaign, will it?"

Milford freezes. We've all seen the ads on TV. Mr. Wilcox is clearly pandering to the family values, tough-on-crime demographic. Milford's even been in a few, looking wooden in a polo shirt, hand in hand with his mom and little sister, walking through Audubon Park like gingerbread cutouts of real people.

He stares at me, and I stare back, a battle of wills.

"Fuck," Milford groans, wiping his hands over his face.

"We won't say a word," I tell him. "As long as you tell us about this bar. Seems like a fair trade, right?"

Milford's eyes dart between the three of us.

"We won't tell anyone we heard it from you," Vivian adds genuinely. "We promise."

I'm not sure how I feel about this gentler approach or a promise being made on my behalf, but apparently, it works.

Milford sighs, flopping back onto the toilet seat. "It's called the Pierrot," he says. "It's just, like, this secret gentlemen's club."

I cringe. "Like a strip club?"

"No, like—I don't know. Just a club for guys in Deus to go to."

"And that's where the lighter came from?" Vivian asks.

Milford nods. "They make branded ones for members."

"Then why did Margot have one?" April speaks up. "If it's men only?"

"I have no idea."

"Bullshit," I say.

"Seriously, I don't. It's like I said: it's just Deus guys. None of the girls are supposed to even know about it."

I feel a twist of uneasiness. Sure, the debutante stuff has a pretty patriarchal history, but it's not meant to exclude women. It's supposed to celebrate us.

"So you've been?" I ask.

A dark look passes over his face.

"Just once," he says. "If your dad's a member, you can join when you turn eighteen."

Has Wyatt been, then? Is this something he and Dad do together, their own secret locked away from me and Mom? The Johnsons are a unit. We don't keep secrets from each other.

Or so I thought. Wyatt's phone flashes through my mind.

"But I didn't join," Milford says quickly. "And I haven't been back. Now can I please leave?"

I don't miss the shift in his tone. Milford hasn't been back because for some reason, he doesn't want to.

And I have to know why.

"Sure," I say. "On one condition: you get us in."

"What?" Milford whines. "To the Pierrot? Did you hear anything I just said?"

"Hey, April, how soon can you get that picture to the news?"

"Y'all are insane," Milford mutters.

"Or better yet, you're good at editing. Think we can turn that joint into something more incriminating?"

"Fine!" he shouts. " Fine. They're doing a New Year's thing. It's late tonight, like one A.M. , in the French Quarter. If y'all can get there, I can try to get you in. But no promises. And you need masks. No one can know who you are. Okay?"

He watches us, desperate, as we exchange glances. April looks anxious, Vivian uncertain, and even I'm not sure this will work. Still, no one argues. I can tell we're all in. This is our best lead—our only lead—and if there's a chance the Pierrot is somehow connected to Lily's disappearance, then we can't pass this up.

"Great," I say. "Where do we meet?"