17. Piper

17

PIPER

JANUARY 1, 2:00 A.M.

The drive home is quiet. I half-heartedly offer the aux, and Vivian puts on a Taylor Swift playlist that doesn't help—just makes it feel like we're in the world's most tonally confusing music video, underscored by the Jester's threat playing in my head on loop.

Stop digging, or I'll show everyone just what you've been hiding behind those pretty masks of yours.

What does he think we've been hiding?

And then the other question, an awful little whisper underneath: Why am I afraid I already know?

"It's right here," Vivian says, nodding at the house on the corner and snapping me out of my spiral. It's small, compared to a lot of houses Uptown, but pretty, with a bright periwinkle front door and an old porch swing. I pull over to the curb.

"Meet up tomorrow morning?" I ask. "We could go to the levee. It shouldn't be too crowded."

Maybe I'm being paranoid, but after tonight, it can't hurt. If April's right about Margot—which I'm still not convinced she is—then the stakes just got a whole lot higher than they already were.

Vivian nods. As she reaches for the door handle, her eyes catch on the Jester's envelope, shoved into the glove compartment, and I wonder if she has a guess about what it means, too. Or April, who's been steadily winding her camera strap around her wrist like a boa constrictor.

Maybe we all have secrets we'd rather not dig up.

"Yeah," Vivian says. "See y'all tomorrow."

I drop April off next, and it's not until I get home that the exhaustion fully catches up with me, settling deep in my bones.

I do my best quick-change in the back seat, heart pounding as every second feels like another chance for the Jester to appear in the shadows. I stash the ball gown in the trunk like a body to deal with later, lock the car, and creep into the house.

There's a brief fifteen seconds where I think everyone's asleep and I've really gotten away with sneaking out. And then I see them.

Mom and Dad on the living-room couch. Waiting.

My blood rushes down to my toes, rooting me to the spot. They don't say anything yet. Mom just puts her phone down and looks at me. Dad closes his book, the same biography he was reading at the party, and it's not enough information for me to tell what kind of moods they're in, how bad this is going to be. They're waiting, I realize, for me to speak first.

"Hi." I try for sheepish, a daughter who snuck out of the house for perfectly benign teenager-on-New-Year's-Eve reasons. "I'm sorry. I was out with friends. I should have—"

"I want you to consider your words carefully," Mom says. "Because we know where you were. And you're too bright to lie to us, Piper. So we're giving you an opportunity to tell the truth."

Everything inside me tenses up into a tight tiny ball. They know. How do they know?

The Jester. The answer is obvious, hitting me a second too late. Dad just stares, disappointed behind his glasses, and my mind stutters. Panic mode. I don't know what to say. I always know what to say, but I also never get in trouble. I don't know how to navigate this.

Mom sits back on the sofa, like she's too tired to stay fully vertical. "How about a more direct question: Would you care to explain to us why you were out in the French Quarter tonight with Vivian Atkins and April Whitman, dressed up for some kind of ball?"

"I…"

"If you're thinking about denying it, don't," Mom says. "Mrs. Byron saw you from their family's apartment on Royal."

I should have known that I'd never get away with sneaking out, not when Mom is so well connected that she practically has eyes and ears all over the city. But a tiny part of me relaxes. Mrs. Byron is a family friend, not involved in Deus, and she definitely wasn't at the Pierrot. So Mom and Dad don't know—not where we really were tonight, and not about the other thing, what I've been thinking about ever since I read the Jester's latest message. This is bad, but I can fix this.

"We were just going out," I say. "It was stupid. And I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have snuck out, but I just…" I pause. "I thought maybe now that I got into college, I could loosen up a bit. Try to have some more fun."

The lie feels more laughable now than ever, because I can never take my eyes off the prize. Even if my family hadn't drilled that into me already, it would be clear as day from the Jester's threat. If he knows what I think he does, if he does something about it, then everything I've worked for the past eighteen years could crumble.

A line creases between Mom's eyebrows, like it does when she's focusing on a dress, trying to piece the thing together in her mind before it's real.

"I also heard from Betty Wilcox," she says.

Milford, you son of a bitch.

I blink, trying for innocent. "About what?"

"She says Milford came home after the party tonight soaking wet. Apparently, you demanded to know what he saw at the ball and then pushed him into the pool?"

Any chance of hiding my rage dissipates. Of course Milford would pull some shit like this. Even though we have that picture of him smoking, he knew how to get a leg up: tattle to my mom like we're in kindergarten.

"I didn't push him in the pool," I argue. "No one pushed him in the pool. He was wasted and he fell, which I'm sure he didn't mention when he ran to Mommy."

"Were you interrogating him?" Mom asks.

I open my mouth and then close it again. "We were asking questions," I say finally, because I don't think I need to include the water-in-the-face detail.

"We?"

"Me, April, and Vivian. We were trying to figure out what happened at the ball. Who ruined it."

It's close enough to the truth that I think they might buy it, but Mom's stare is still icy. "Well, I'm certain there are more subtle ways to go about it."

She looks to Dad for backup, and he sighs, a tired but gentle good cop.

"It's great that you want to help, peanut, but Lily's parents and Detective Rutherford are working on it. I know you like to solve problems, but taking this one upon yourself might actually do more harm than good."

"Lily's missing. " I know I should calm down, just apologize and deal with the fallout, but I can't. "What happened at the ball wasn't just some prank, and it doesn't seem like anyone's taking it seriously. And all the Margot stuff…" I watch her name hit Dad like a cold blast of air, and I instantly regret it. "Someone was clearly threatening Lily that night. I don't know why everyone thinks she just ran away. She's in real danger."

"No, she isn't."

I stare at Mom, stunned. "But—"

"We got an update from the LeBlancs earlier today," she explains. "They tracked down her debit-card activity. Lily withdrew several thousand dollars from an ATM the night of the ball. She ran away, Pipes. And they're trying to find her, of course, but she's not using her cards, and her phone has been turned off, so it's been difficult."

"But they'll find her," Dad says gently.

"Of course," Mom adds.

I'm too stunned to argue. All I can manage is "Lily took out cash?"

"Her parents told us in confidence," Mom says, "so I know you won't go sharing that around, but yes."

"But…" I wrack my brain for a way to finish that sentence. But the email Lily sent us. But her necklace, abandoned in the Den. But the Jester. The Pierrot.

Not that I can tell them about those last two.

And then I remember Lily's fight with Wyatt. What if she really did run away? Is that all it takes for a girl like Lily to fall apart?

No, shouts a voice deep inside me—but it's not loud or brave enough for me to say it, too.

"But what about what happened at the ball?" I ask instead. "The videos, and the blood."

"We're still working on finding who did it," Mom says. "But I think your instincts were right. It was probably another vandal like last year, trying to get their misguided point across." She sighs. "We do get people like this every year, you know. People who don't understand our traditions, who think we're ‘elitist.' I suppose they've just been getting more… reactive, lately."

I want to argue, but again, the words won't come out. Mom thinks it was a vandal. Two days ago, I was thinking the same thing, but now it feels so far from the truth.

"Aren't y'all worried about her?" I ask. "Even if Lily ran away, that doesn't mean she's safe."

"Of course we're worried," Dad says, placing a hand on Mom's knee.

"But we're also worried about you," Mom adds, her steel softening only slightly. "And Wyatt."

The texts I saw on his phone flash through my mind again, spiking my heart rate. Do they know that he lied?

"Wyatt?" I repeat. "Why?"

"His girlfriend is missing," Mom says. "And if something did happen to her, god forbid, then you know exactly where everyone's fingers will point."

It's what I thought when I first found the texts on Wyatt's phone, but hearing it out loud, it sounds all wrong. Wyatt lied about what happened that night, and I'm the one who's in trouble for trying to find the truth? I know I'm supposed to be careful, to be more delicate, but suddenly, I'm too pissed to keep biting my tongue.

"Did you know he lied about driving her home?" I snap. "I saw his texts. Wyatt left without her, but he told Lily's parents—"

"We know."

I stare at Mom, like maybe I heard wrong. "What?"

"Wyatt told us. It was our idea for him to stick to the story that he drove Lily home."

I'm too stunned—too enraged—to speak.

"We had to think about what's best for our family," Mom continues. "Not just for Wyatt, but all of us."

"So that's what's most important, then?" I explode. "Making sure we look good? Not the fact that another Queen is missing, one year after Margot—"

"Of course it's important." Her voice is glass, slicing sharp and clear. "We want what's best for Lily, too. We want her safe as much as everyone else. But we have to think about how this looks."

I cross my arms, feeling like a petulant child now, but I can't stop it. "Why?"

"Why?" Mom looks at me like she can't believe I'd even ask. "Because reputation is everything in this city. Everything. How else would your dad and I be doing well enough in our businesses to put a roof over your head and send you to Beaumont? How else would you have gotten into Vanderbilt? Because you work hard, you've built your reputation, and you know the right people. Period."

It stings like spice to the eyes, making them water—even worse because she doesn't know what I've been hiding from her, from everyone.

And she's right. I know she's right. But one Queen is dead, and now another is missing. How can our reputation be more important than that?

"Listen, peanut," Dad steps in. "I know you're only trying to help. You care about things, and that's good. It's none too common, these days."

Despite everything, his words soften my anger the tiniest bit.

"And I know you want there to be some connection here," he continues, "between what's happening with Lily and what happened to Margot. Hell, I did the same thing myself last year, looking for some kind of explanation for why…" He stops, shaking his head. "But I'm sorry, peanut. There isn't. Margot was a good kid, but she had a lot of problems. It's tragic, but sometimes, things like this happen. And Lily… I know it's hard, but she'll be home soon. I know it. We just have to let the right people do their job."

I want to argue, scream that he's wrong, but I can't. Because he's hit me with the one thing I can't ever ignore: logic.

If what Mom said is true, then Lily really did run away. Maybe she just changed her mind about meeting us at the Den. And the Margot stuff… it's like I told April: we don't have proof. The Jester threatened us, obviously, but that doesn't mean it has to do with Margot or Lily or some kind of murder cover-up at all. What if it's only because we're three girls someplace we're not supposed to be, getting our hands dirty with the secrets of powerful men? And maybe those secrets aren't as dark as they seem. Maybe it's only what we saw with our own eyes: men with younger women, men behaving badly. They do the same thing in the broad light of day, sometimes, unmasked and unafraid. It doesn't mean they killed anyone, or that they made a girl disappear.

Does it?

Dad gets up from the couch, pulling me into a tight hug.

"We love you," he says. "You and Wyatt are what's most important. And your mom and I, we just want you to be okay." He lets go, holding me by the shoulders. "So maybe you just give this thing a rest, okay? Try to focus on school, on getting ready for next year."

I glance at Mom, and I can see it in her eyes, too, even if she doesn't say it. It's never been as easy for her, the mushy stuff—it's where I get it from—but I know she loves me, even if her way of showing it is different: all hard protective edges to Dad's gooey middle.

And that's why I have to make them proud.

"Okay," I say.

Dad smiles. "That's my girl."

In spite of everything, a little ember of pride flickers in my chest.

"Now," he says, with a little clap. "I need my beauty sleep. How about we all get some rest, huh?"

I nod weakly.

He kisses my head. "'Night, peanut."

He starts toward their bedroom, and Mom follows, smoothing my hair as she passes. Her touch is gentle enough that I want to cry, but I tighten my throat, forcing myself not to fall apart.

"Good night, Pipes," she says. "Don't stay up too late."

With that, they disappear down the hall. I trudge up to my room alone, exhaustion mingling with a quickly growing certainty: Margot's death was an accident, and anything else is just wishful thinking, a desperate search for answers that don't exist. And Lily—this whole time, I've been thinking she was trying to tell us something important, that she needs us to find her. But that's ridiculous, isn't it? Because Lily would never want my help. Not after what happened last time. And especially not if she knew what I've really done.

The Jester was right. All we'll get from digging is a mess we can't clean up.

Flopping down on my bed, I check my phone. There are a handful of new messages in our group chat, the first from Vivian.

Everyone home safe?

And then April's response:

Yeah

Piper, you made it?

I press like on the message.

It occurs to me, as I watch the little thumbs-up appear in its bubble, that no one besides my parents ever sent me a "home safe?" text. And then, finally, humiliatingly, I start to cry.