38. Piper

38

PIPER

JANUARY 3, 12:15 A.M.

I pull harder, but the zip ties won't break. They just bite into my skin, stinging where it's already red and raw from Marty's grip as he forced me up onto the float. The King's Float, specifically, which feels ironic. It's the one that leads the Deus parade every Mardi Gras, and I can picture it perfectly as it rolls down the street: King Deus waving at his loyal subjects from his golden throne, sitting beneath a canopy of yellow and purple papier-maché designed to look like billowing fabric, the gold leaf glinting in the sun.

It's kind of funny, in a sick and twisted way.

"Something amusing you, Piper?" Marty asks.

April shoots me a warning look. She's on the opposite side of the float, tied to the other harness pole—the wooden posts the riders hook themselves onto during the parade so they don't have one too many beers, go toppling off, and get run over by their own tractor. Coach Davis stands guard, April's camera slung over his shoulder. I hate that he took it from her.

Fear burrows deep into my stomach, but I force my face to stay relaxed.

"Nothing," I say. "Just, when I was little, I always used to ask my dad if I could ride in Deus when I got older, and he said it was only for boys, so this is kind of a vindication for me."

Marty gives me a cruel smile, walking toward the throne and running his fingers over the dusty arms. In the parades, the throne has always looked regal and magnificent, something fit for a real king. Up close, though, it's decaying. The paint is faded, the gold leaf crumpled and falling to the floor like dead leaves. Still, I wonder if this cheap approximation of royalty looks as real to Marty as it once did to me.

"You really did look lovely at the ball," he tells me, almost sadly. "Agreeable. Unassuming. It's a better look for you than this headstrong act you insist on carrying out." He turns to April, his hand slipping into his pocket. "And you. Well, if I didn't know any better, I'd almost think you were the perfect debutante. So… demure." When his hand appears again, it's gripping a Pierrot lighter. And maybe it's just the look on his face, but something deep inside me knows it's Margot's—the one he must have taken from her—as he flicks it open, letting the flame dance. "If only it weren't for your little habit of playing with fire."

April locks the lighter in her stare, and I can almost see the flame shifting in her eyes.

"You killed her," she growls, pulling at her ties again. "You—"

"Reed," Marty says, the way you'd instruct a trained dog.

He obeys quickly, drawing back a hand and slapping April across the face. I gasp as if he'd struck my own cheek, but April goes silent, stunned.

And I know, now, the way you know when something's about to crash to the floor, just far gone enough that you can't stop it: this is life-or-death. They killed Margot, covered it up, and they won't hesitate to do it again.

"Please, Detective Rutherford," I say in the soft patient voice Mom taught me, the one I use to hide how badly I want to throttle someone. The desperation is real enough that I'm not pretending when my eyes well with tears. "You don't have to do this. We don't even know what y'all were talking about before. Maybe if you can just explain, we can all—"

"Cut the bullshit." The words have the cool calmness of a blade, and I feel them slice through my whole body. "It's not as clever as you think."

So weakness won't work here. If that's the case, I won't go out with a whimper.

"You can't possibly think this is going to work out. What are you going to do? Kill us? How are you going to explain two more dead debutantes?"

Marty tuts. "You seem to forget, girls, that I'm a very reasonable man. And I'm always willing to reach an agreement." He clasps his hands behind his back, looking out over the floats like he's surveying his kingdom. "The way I see it, there are two choices. Either we come to an understanding… or you choose the alternate route. The path we had to take with a certain other Queen."

Marty turns to us, a self-satisfied look on his face, and I know exactly what he means. Margot. We aren't too high up, maybe ten feet, but I wonder if it would be enough. If I could get out of these ties, somehow, and if I'd have enough strength to shove him over. If his skull would crack against the concrete floor.

But I force the thoughts down, telling myself to focus. If this is a negotiation, then maybe, maybe I can get us out of this.

"What kind of understanding?" I ask.

"Smart girl." Marty smirks. "You were never here tonight. You've never seen or heard of the Pierrot. And, as we are all well aware, Margot Landry was a troubled girl who died a tragic, accidental death. And in return… we let you live."

The thought of breaking out of here and never looking at any of it again almost makes me weak with relief. But they still have Vivian, maybe Lily, too, and I know these people. I know how they work, and I'm too smart to believe it's as simple as walking away.

"That easy?" I ask.

He smiles softly. "This Krewe is a family, isn't it? And we protect our family. Of course, family also comes with certain obligations." The smile turns predatory, morphing him into a wolf with bared teeth. "You'll be monitored, just to make sure there aren't any slipups. Any deviations from our story."

"And if there are?"

There's a glint in his eyes, like this question truly delights him.

"It's a shame, really, when such promising young girls lose track of reality. But the signs are always there, once you start looking for them." Marty walks over to the side of the float, where he's stashed what looks like some kind of first-aid kit. He bends down to click it open, examining its contents as he continues in the same soft, almost distant tone. "Reckless behavior. Coaches and Heads of School expressing concern about their grip on reality. Evaluations from their psychiatrist that are, quite frankly, disturbing."

His eyes lock on mine, and my stomach turns. He's taunting me with what Dad did, the lies he wrote about Margot.

"Yes, we all should have seen it coming," Marty sighs, reaching into the kit and removing a small vial. "Poor April was so broken up about the overdose of her only friend that she chose to follow her in the best way she knew how." He sets the vial beside him, reaching into the kit again. "And poor Piper was so ashamed that Vanderbilt rescinded her acceptance after they found out what she'd done. It was the start of a downward spiral that never stopped."

Marty lifts his hand out of the case so I can see what he's holding: a syringe, the needle gleaming in the harsh overhead lighting.

"It was tragic," he says. "Tragic but unavoidable."

Hatred trickles into my blood, mixing with the fear until I'm poisoned with them both.

"That's how you killed her," I force out, eyes locked on the syringe. "Isn't it?"

Marty chuckles. "Quite a stroke of genius, although I can't take the credit. Reed was quick on his feet that night."

I watch it hit April at the same time it hits me. It was Coach. Coach killed Margot. I look to him for some kind of confirmation, but he only stares at the ground, face burning with shame. It's a far cry from his usual self, bounding around Beaumont with the goofy confidence of a family's treasured Labrador.

"Poor boy got a bit of a shock when he found my private messages with Margot," Marty continues. "I'd imagine he was none too pleased to see them, but every father has things he'd rather keep from his son, doesn't he?"

He gives Reed an almost affectionate look, and my stomach churns as the truth sinks in. It was Marty who brought Margot to the Pierrot, who manipulated her into thinking they were in a relationship. Distantly, it hits me that their age gap is similar to that of the twenty-year-old Deus Queens and their sixty-something Kings, and the thought makes me feel even sicker.

"Well, regardless, I'd already handled it. Things were getting too messy. Margot had gotten it in her head somehow that I'd leave my wife, and some of the brothers at the Pierrot were starting to catch on, so I ended it. Politely, of course. Like a gentleman. Her reaction, however, was rather… unladylike." Marty frowns. "Threatening to tell everyone about us, to make me look like a fool—to expose Reed's past, too, the unfortunate scandal at his former job. Of course, I knew she'd cool off eventually, but Reed… he took her threats to heart. And I can't blame him. I'd just set him up with a fancy little Beaumont job, hadn't I? And if this got out, he thought, if Margot went and tarnished our reputation… well, then. He'd certainly be in a bit of trouble."

I stare at Coach, but he's still glaring hard at the ground, neck and jaw tensed.

"So he decided to take matters into his own hands. Even though I had it handled. " Marty sharpens the last word into a reprimand. "Reed took the phone, pretended to be me, and set up a meeting with Margot. And what happened then?"

He looks at Coach, waiting for him to answer.

"She was angry," Coach forces out. "Crazy. I just wanted to make her calm down and be quiet. I just wanted—"

He chokes out a sob, and Marty lays a hand on his shoulder.

"There, now. No need for that. We cleaned it all up, didn't we? With a little help from our dear friends at the Pierrot."

April shakes her head, her face warped in a mix of rage, disgust, and disbelief.

"And what were those ‘friends' doing tonight?" she demands. "Are they seriously stupid enough to join your cult and cover up a murder just because you promised them a fake crown and their pick from a bunch of women who can't say no?"

Marty smiles. "My dear, I think you misunderstand. Tonight was a celebration of our brotherhood. Of Reed's return." He claps his son on the shoulder. "You see, after all of the Margot mess, Reed wanted to take a step back. Our cover story worked, of course, but I think he was afraid it was too… open-ended." Marty glances at Coach, who's still silent, face almost blank. "But now the police have their killer, and we can all rest easy. That's certainly a cause for celebration."

He grins, and my blood boils. Their killer, meaning Dad.

"Think of it as a passing of the proverbial baton, from father to son," Marty continues. "I even gave him my old mask. He wore it well, if I say so myself."

I want to scream, break out of these ties, and throttle him, but then I catch the look shining in Marty's eyes. Not just evil, but almost… proud.

Because that's what's underneath it all, the Pierrot and the lies: fathers protecting their sons. Dad only joined to save Wyatt from the consequences of his own actions. And Wyatt protected him right back—that's what he was doing as the Jester, wasn't it? Trying to keep Dad from going down for a murder he didn't commit. It's what Coach thought he was doing, too, when he killed Margot: saving his dad from his own mistakes. Men protecting each other, over and over and over again.

But we protect each other, too, the mothers and daughters. It may not be as loud or as bloody, but mine taught me how to make even the sweetest of smiles into a deadly weapon.

So I do exactly what she would: I straighten my shoulders and lift my dimpled chin.

"I think we're more than willing to come to an agreement," I say.

"Well." Marty lifts his eyebrows, surprised. "Good." He looks to April, the syringe still gripped in his hand. "And what about you, dear? Does your clever friend speak for you both?"

Her eyes lift from the ground, searing into Marty with more hatred than you'd think a girl so small would be capable of holding.

"I think you're all sick," she says. "And I'd rather die than do a single thing you say."

Marty holds her stare for a moment, like he's bathing in her disgust. Like he likes the way it feels.

"Well, then. If you're sure." He turns to Coach. "I believe she's chosen option two."

Coach's eyes widen.

"Take it back," I order, but April won't look at me. "Tell them you don't—"

"She's made up her mind." Marty plunges the syringe into the vial, pulls the pump. He looks at Coach. "What do you say, son? Do the honors, for old times' sake?"

With gritted teeth, Coach takes the syringe.

"No," I plead. "April!"

She just stares, her shoulders rising and falling in time with the frantic pace of my heart as Coach moves toward her, the needle poised and glinting in his grip.