15. Piper

15

PIPER

JANUARY 1, 1:30 A.M.

My first instinct is to laugh. Because of course —it's like we're in a bad horror movie, the masked bad guy showing up on cue, and for once, I don't even have my pepper spray.

And then he's moving toward us.

"Shit," I hiss, grabbing Vivian's and April's hands and yanking them in the opposite direction. We sprint as fast as we can in our heels, turning into a narrow hallway off the main room. It's lined with two doors on either side.

I pull on the first one I see, but it's locked. I try the next one. Same thing. I let out a stream of curses under my breath.

"Y'all?" Vivian is looking behind us, where I can just see the Jester pushing into the hallway.

There's nowhere to go but deeper. We haul ass until the path turns to another door, marked LES FILLES in curly golden script.

A dead end. Either we hide out in the bathroom or the Jester catches up with us.

I shove the door open, and once we're all inside, I twist the lock and press my back against it. For a moment, we catch our breath.

"I know they say we always go in groups, but this is a little much, don't you think?"

We all spin toward the girl standing at the sink, toweling off her hands. She's white, petite, and curvy, wearing a lavender evening gown that clashes with her hair, which is the kind of unnatural purplish red that can only be achieved via box dye. Her mask is off, the silver ribbon dangling off the sink counter, so it's even more obvious how young she is. If it weren't for the diamond stud glinting on her nose, which is against the Beaumont dress code, she could walk right into class with us and no one would bat an eye.

"It was unlocked," I blurt. "We didn't—"

"Relax." She leans against the sink, clearly unafraid of water stains on her dress. "Who's the lucky guy?"

"What?" I ask.

"The member you're here with. The one you're running from. Unless y'all have some seriously overactive bladders, I'm assuming that's why you barged in looking like you're regretting every decision that got you here."

Vivian starts to answer, but I cut her off.

"There's someone chasing after us. A man in a jester costume. Do you know who he is?"

"This place has a lot of guys in a lot of stupid costumes. Can you be more specific?"

Someone bangs on the door, three sharp knocks that make us all jump. The girl recovers first, putting on a cheery tone.

"One minute!" she calls before looking back at us, returning to a whisper. "Okay, y'all need to get out of here."

"Wait," April blurts.

I glare at her, but she doesn't seem to notice. April's stare is fixed on the girl, determined, and I know what she's about to ask before it even comes out of her mouth.

"Did you know Margot Landry?"

All at once, the girl's face changes from confusion to outright dread. Then, like she's realized she let the tough mask slip, she frowns, crossing her arms.

"Who's asking?"

"We knew her, too," April says, the words coming out rushed. "We went to school together. And we've been trying to figure out what happened to her. We think it might have something to do with this place." Her eyes turn desperate. "Please. We need to know."

"Okay, yeah," the girl says finally. "I met her here a few times last year. But if y'all go to that rich-kid school, too, then you're really not supposed to be here."

A chill crawls down my spine. Margot was here. For a moment, the discovery makes me forget my panic.

"Why aren't we supposed to be here if we go to Beaumont?" I ask.

For a second, she's quiet. "They don't like it when girls from their own circle find out about this place."

My stomach twists, but I press on. "What about you, then? Why are you here?"

The girl gives me a look I don't like at all—like I don't understand, and it amuses her. "It pays better than serving coffee to whiny out-of-state Tulane kids, I'll tell you that."

Before I can demand an elaboration, there's another bang on the door.

"Sorry," the girl calls again. "Almost done."

She looks back at us, but before she can tell us again to get lost, Vivian asks, "Was Lily here? Lily LeBlanc."

The girl frowns. "I don't think I know the name, sorry." Then something flickers on her face. "Wait, there was another girl who came around here a couple weeks ago, asking about Margot. She was young, too. Blond, blue-eyed, real tiny?"

"That's her," Vivian says, even though she doesn't need to. I can feel us all holding our breath.

Lily was here, too. She was here because of Margot.

I have so many more questions, but this girl has made an impeccable point: we need to get the hell out of here.

As if to remind us, the knob starts to rattle, someone twisting from the outside.

"Not to cut this lovely chat short," I say. "But can we circle back to the whole getting-out-of-here thing?"

The girl's eyes dart to the lone bathroom window. Quickly, she pushes the thick curtains aside and then curls her fingers under the bottom, pulling. With a scraping sound, the window opens. She sticks her head out and then turns back to us.

"How do y'all feel about balcony-hopping?"

"I'm sorry, what ?" I crane my head to look outside. There's a small balcony, clearly not well used: the painted wooden floor is chipped, the railing rusty. Directly to the right is another balcony, part of the next building over. They're pressed together in that classic French Quarter style, almost close enough to…

"No," I say. "Negative. Absolutely not."

"Do we have any other options right now?" Vivian asks.

"Better than falling to our death ?"

Another bang on the door.

"Just a second!" the girl calls, giving us a time is of the essence look.

"We're only on the second story, right?" Vivian whispers, but she doesn't sound too convinced.

The girl nods. "I've done it before. It's not that bad."

I take another look outside. The balconies are basically touching, the railings low enough that we could swing a foot from one to the other, but I don't like it. I'm about to argue again, but Vivian is already pushing past me and crawling out onto the balcony. She bunches up her dress and slides one foot over the railing, testing her weight and then pushing herself up. For a moment, my heart is in my throat, and I'm convinced I'm about to watch her fall to her death. But then she leaps over to the other balcony.

"See?" Vivian says. "Not dead."

"Good." Behind me, the girl exhales, relieved. "Because I've never actually done that before."

I turn to gape at her, but April's already climbing out onto the balcony. She hauls herself over the first railing safely, and I know I have no other choice.

I swallow my fear and put on my best Johnson face, chin up, as I maneuver through the window. Once I'm out, I turn back to the girl.

"Thanks," I say.

"Anytime." She reaches to close the window behind me. "But if I were you, I wouldn't come back."

She slides it shut. I risk a glance down, and my stomach lurches. We're only two stories up, but the asphalt looks impossibly hard and far away.

"Hello?" Vivian waves. "Any day now."

April's already on the other balcony, too, but I'm suddenly frozen.

Vivian crosses her arms. "Piper, you got into a school that accepts less than ten percent of people who apply. I'm pretty sure the chances of you falling are, like, a fraction of that."

I swallow, trying not to look at the ground below. "It's five point six percent."

"The chance of you falling?"

"No, Vanderbilt's acceptance rate."

"Great. Then buck up and climb over, genius."

She says it like it's that simple, and I guess it is—or it has to be. I slide off my shoes and hand them carefully to April on the other side. Then I hike up my dress and grip the railing, swinging one leg over. Vivian reaches out to steady me as I pull myself to the other side. For a nauseatingly weightless moment, I'm suspended—and then, finally, I touch solid ground.

"Hell yeah!" Vivian claps, and I can't ignore the little fizz of pride in my chest. "Now let's get out of here."

The victorious feeling fades quickly as I realize I'm still barefoot on a random French Quarter balcony. Sliding my shoes back on, I try not to think about the multitudes of diseases no doubt crawling on every surface and focus instead on the building we've escaped to. This balcony is long, wrapping around the side of the building. Another bar, I'm assuming, from the low lighting and live music pulsing through the open door.

We hustle inside and toward the stairs, past a few patrons who throw us vaguely interested glances before returning to their drinks. It is the French Quarter on New Year's, I guess—three terrified girls dressed for a masquerade, and we probably don't even crack the top five weirdest things these people have seen today.

As we descend, the music gets louder. There's a band on the first floor, cranking out jazz standards to a crowd who's probably been this drunk—and vocal —for hours. We push our way through, and I nearly collide with a woman as her partner spins her around, her hot-pink wig nearly tipping off her head.

"Happy New Year's, dawlin'!" Her New Orleans accent is as thick as the bunch of silver beads around her neck. She takes one off and hands it to me, and I close my hand around the charm emblazoned with the new year. "Y'all look gorgeous!"

I manage a thanks as we hustle past and toward the door, the word catching in my throat. It's such a typical New Orleans interaction, carefree and a little ridiculous, that it makes the rest of tonight feel even more wrong by comparison. Even as we step out into the street, the air feels too hot and close.

The Jester isn't just a name on a message anymore. He's someone who followed us. Chased us. And that place… I thought I knew how to operate in a place like the Pierrot—somewhere women are meant to be quiet and pretty, to follow orders with a smile. My mom taught me how to turn it into a superpower: how to swallow down the anger and shape it into a sugarcoated bless your heart. How to follow the rules so well, the assholes in charge don't even notice when I've made them work in my favor.

But we still weren't safe in there.

Was Margot?

Was Lily?

We all know how hard it is to keep a body underground in this city.

The Jester's threat reverberates through my head as we walk, and with every click of my heels on the grimy street, I'm more afraid I know the answer.