Chapter 9

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and Mac sneezed as they entered through the main reception doors, causing an elderly couple who were wearing masks and moving at the speed of snail to look back at her in terror. "Sorry," she said. "The chemicals in the air . . . I'm just . . . here to see someone."

They tried to hustle away from her as best as they could.

"Don't think you filled them with confidence," Taft observed drily.

Taft had proffered her his arm as they'd headed up the walk from the parking lot and she'd brushed it away. "I'm not an invalid," she told him coolly. He'd responded with, "How about a wheelchair?" to which she'd tried to hobble faster. She knew she wasn't acting like herself, but she didn't want him to recognize that she'd been overtaken by madness where he was concerned. She couldn't seem to get a clamp on her emotions. Had something jarred loose in her brain or nervous system when she fell? Some gush of endorphins, or serotonin, or whatever the hell those "feel good" hormones were called?

This was coming on before you fell.

Well, shit.

Taft moved up to the reception desk and began. "We're here to see—" but the woman lifted a finger and winked at him, silently asking him to wait as she spoke into a headset, "Dr. Clemmons is still at the hospital, but he's currently unavailable. Would you like his voice mail?" A pause. "I'm sorry, what was that last name? Does that start with an N or a K ?" She turned to her computer screen and pushed several keys.

Taft and Mackenzie looked at each other. N or K ? Did she mean Knowles . . . ?

Taft eased forward and looked over the desk.

"He's out of surgery and recovery and been taken to his room." She seemed to sense Taft's interest, closing her screen. "I'm not sure," she added into the headset. "That's up to the doctor." One more pause, then, "You're welcome," and she clicked off, throwing a glance toward the elderly couple, who had finally made it to the bank of elevators.

Mac said, "I'm here to see Dr. Clemmons."

The woman half stood up in her chair and said loudly to the couple at the elevators, "You're on the correct floor. This is the third floor at this level. The hospital is on a hill. Just go down to the nurses' station." She motioned for them to turn away from the elevators.

She shot Mackenzie a look, noticing her taped ankle as she glanced over the top of the counter. "Dr. Clemmons is not an orthopedic surgeon."

"I'm not seeing him for myself. I'm here about Gavin Knowles . . . with a K ."

"I'll just give them some help," said Taft, moving toward the couple, who were still dithering about where to go. He gestured with an open arm to direct them down the hallway.

The receptionist frowned, watching him for a moment, but Taft was gracious and when he blasted you with that smile . . . The elderly couple were putty in his hands as he asked if he could get them a wheelchair. They dithered some more but eventually the three of them walked slowly down the hallway.

The receptionist said briskly to Mac, "Mr. Knowles is not receiving visitors right now. Are you family?"

"Yes, well, I'm a cousin. I know Brighty was here earlier, his mother. And Leland. I just couldn't get here till now. Is there somewhere I can wait for Dr. Clemmons?"

"Post-op waiting room is on four," she said grudgingly.

"One floor up?" Mac gave her her most earnest smile.

She nodded curtly as her phone lightly buzzed again.

Mac moved to the elevator. She looked down the hall and saw Taft engaging one of the nurses on behalf of the couple. He glanced back and she hitched her head toward the elevators. He walked back toward her with ground-eating strides and Mac pressed the up button.

"Fourth floor is post-op," she told him as the doors to the elevator opened. They waited as three people exited, then had the car to themselves for the brief ride up. "She said I could wait for Dr. Clemmons on four. I'm Gavin's cousin, by the way, but he's not receiving visitors."

"That's what they kept telling me, too." Taft had been rebuffed by the hospital each time he'd called, so they'd finally decided to just show up in person and see what they could learn. "But I think I saw his room is 617."

"Oh, okay. Good. We'll go up." When the doors opened on four, Mac pressed the button for six, and the doors slowly closed once again. "If he really shouldn't have visitors, let the nurses on six tell us."

Taft nodded.

"You really don't have to babysit me."

"It's not babysitting. I'm working."

"Okay, sure. When you meet with Haynes, could you ask him for something?"

He keyed in on her. "Such as?"

"The toxicology on Ethan Stanhope. It was never released, as far as I can tell. I want to know what it is."

"You think somebody got to somebody and quashed it."

"If I'm going to follow through with Gavin's request, I think I need to start there."

"I'll see what Haynes says," Taft agreed.

Mac was still looking at him when the elevator doors opened on six, and she faced forward to gaze directly into Brighty Knowles's face.

"You!" Brighty declared, her face turning red.

Leland was also there, and grabbed her arm to hold her back as Mac and Taft stepped out of the elevator. Leland said soothingly, "It's okay. Gavin wants to see her. It's okay."

"Dr. Clemmons said he needed rest!" she spurted. "He needs rest . . . ! You stay away from him!" she snarled at Mac.

"I'm sorry," said Mac.

Taft waded in. "Gavin wants to see Mackenzie?"

Leland answered, "Yes . . . the doctor wants him to rest, but he keeps calling your name." He looked imploringly at Mac, but she wasn't sure if he wanted her to see Gavin or not.

"He shouldn't have called you!" Brighty pulled herself together. "I told him not to call you!"

Mac tried to correct her. "Dr. Clemmons didn't call me. I came—"

"I told him you would kill my son. I told him about all of you, but he wouldn't listen. No one listens to me!"

Leland put his arm around her, and said, "C'mon." He pushed the button to call the elevator car back.

Mac felt Taft's hand on her upper arm, gently pulling her away from them. "He's been asking for you," Taft said in her ear as Mac couldn't take her eyes off Brighty and Leland. Her stomach felt leaden.

A nurse was just coming out of 617. She stopped when Mac and Taft tried to enter. "Who are you here to see?" she demanded, blocking the way.

Mac cleared her throat. "Gavin Knowles. I'm Mackenzie . . . he's been asking for me."

She frowned and Taft said, "She's his cousin. Was on the phone to him at the time of the accident."

"You're . . . Mac?" the nurse queried.

"Yes," said Mac, a little surprised that Gavin had verbalized her name so clearly.

"Dr. Clemmons requested no visitors, but . . . he's in distress." She looked at Taft and ordered, "You need to stay out here."

He lifted his hands and nodded, and Mac took the nurse's words as permission and pushed open the door. She walked in and stopped short at Gavin's hospital bed. He lay gray-faced against a white pillow. His head was wrapped with white gauze and the wrap came down over one eye. The other eye was open but seemed to be looking dully at the blank television screen mounted on the wall. His mouth was slack, his breathing shallow.

The difference between this Gavin and the one that she had spoken to in the parking lot of the cemetery just yesterday was breathtaking.

"Gavin," Mac said quietly. Now that she was here she felt like a fraud. Her pulse raced and her stomach was tense. Her thoughts about him had been less than kind up till now.

He didn't respond and she wasn't exactly sure what to do. Maybe the brief coma had deteriorated his condition so much that he couldn't talk. The car accident, if it was an accident, had inflicted terrible damage.

"Gavin, it's Mackenzie Laughlin. I'm sorry about what happened to you. I heard you last night. You told me that you were being chased by another car last night. Do you remember? I think that's why you wanted to see me."

She waited about ten seconds. No response.

"You asked me to look into Ethan Stanhope's death. You also intimated that you thought your brother's death was . . . also worth investigating?" She wasn't sure that was exactly right, but Cooper Haynes thought it was and Gavin had seemed to conflate the two deaths in some way.

His one eyelid fluttered and she thought he was going to close the eye, but he held it open, shifting his gaze a little to the right of the television. She moved into his range of vision so he could possibly see her properly.

She could hear voices in the hallway. "I don't know how much time I'll have. I think your doctor and your family want you to rest." Was that shouting? Was Taft involved? "I can maybe come back tomorrow. I just wanted to see you. Your call scared me. I went to find you."

The eye focused on her. His lips moved.

"I can't hear you," she said urgently, leaning closer.

"She killed them. Tim told me. I told him . . . to be careful . . ."

"Did you see who was in the vehicle that smashed into you?"

"White van. She . . . at the wheel."

"She?"

"They did it . . . Mac!" he said in louder voice.

Mac jumped at the change in tone. "I'm right here, Gavin."

"They all had sex with him!" he almost yelled.

The voices in the hallway were getting louder. Not Taft's voice. Someone else's.

"A woman was at the wheel of a white van that ran into you?" asked Mac, her eyes on the door, expecting it to be shoved open at any moment and her ass kicked out.

His eye closed and his head lopped to one side.

At the same moment, a man in a white lab coat pushed back the door that had half shut and brushed past Mac to look down at Gavin, checking his chart. He shot a hard look at Mackenzie. "You're the Mac he's been asking for?" His voice was cool and stern.

"Are you Dr. Clemmons?" she asked, though his name was right there on the tag clipped to his white coat.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to leave. This room is off-limits. No visitors."

Mac spared a glance at Gavin, who was clearly unconscious now. She nodded.

"That's on order of the police," Clemmons added, as if he expected her to come up with some reason to stay.

So, Gavin was likely telling the truth and the police had found evidence that suggested he'd been deliberately run off the road.

"I understand," she told him as she pushed out in the hall. Brighty and Leland had reappeared and it was Brighty's strident voice that Mac had heard. She apparently had turned her vituperative tongue on Taft, who was regarding her patiently. She turned as Mac reentered the corridor.

"What did he say to you?" she demanded through tight lips. "What did my boy say?"

Mac hesitated, and her hesitation fueled Brighty's fury. She actually swooped at Mac and only Taft's faster reflexes as he stepped in front of her shielded her from whatever Brighty had in mind. Leland moved a second or two too late.

Taft said in a firm tone to Brighty, "Mackenzie didn't put your son in this hospital," as Dr. Clemmons came out of Gavin's room and asked, "What's going on?"

"Oh, Doctor," Brighty's eyes filled with tears and she swayed on her feet. Dr. Clemmons put a hand on her back and helped her down the hall away from Mac and Taft. Leland followed forlornly after them.

"Thank you," Mac said to Taft.

"Did you get to talk to him?"

"A little bit. He blames The Sorority. ‘They did it,' he said."

"Okay." He nodded. "Think I'll take a trip down to Lacey's, the cop bar in the neighborhood where the burglary occurred. Tim was hanging out there."

"I should go with you. Find out what made Gavin tell his brother to be careful."

"Then you need to get crutches, a wheelchair, a knee scooter or lean on me."

Mac visualized herself in the bar, sitting on a barstool or a small table, unable to get around easily, dependent on Taft. Nope. "Okay, I'll go home . . . for now."

He lifted up his elbow and this time she put her hand in the crook of his arm and let him help her back to his Rubicon.

* * *

"Nat?" the teary voice on the phone asked.

Natalie was still staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the condo, watching clouds gather, unwilling to make the airline reservation to take her back to San Diego even though the sun was past its zenith, only half visible behind the growing cloud cover. She'd glanced at her phone as soon as it rang, so she already knew who was calling even before they spoke because she'd inputted Leigh's number into her Favorites List . . . at least for now. She drew a deep breath and said, "Hi, Leigh."

Leigh just started bawling, which made Natalie sit up a little straighter, her heart suddenly pounding. "What's happened?"

"It's Gavin. I'm sure you've heard about Gavin!"

"No. What about him? I've just been in the condo."

"It's on the afternoon news. There was an accident. He was in a car accident last night! His car ran off the road and there are investigators, apparently. Like maybe it wasn't an accident. Turn on the news!"

Natalie picked up the remote from the glass table. "What channel?"

"I don't know . . . oh, God . . . what am I on? An NBC affiliate? I think?"

"The number of the station, Leigh," Natalie ground out with forced patience, clicking on. The condo's owners were renting out their unit through Airbnb, but the television was certainly not a Smart TV.

"I don't know! Um . . . oh, yeah . . ." She hesitantly mentioned a number and Natalie pressed the buttons. Up came the tail end of the report about the accident on the Laurelton side of Stillwell Hill complete with a bright, emergency lit video of the vehicle being slowly swung from where it had landed in towering firs, whose trunks disappeared into a ravine far below. Nat drew a breath and held it, then was distracted by that annoying woman reporter who was still on the air, Pauline Kirby, though she was getting a little long in the tooth.

". . . possibly more than a one-car accident. Police are continuing to investigate."

The news show then switched to a segment on Christmas decoration pop-up stores flooding the area and Natalie snapped off the remote. "I didn't see much. What happened?"

Leigh was still blubbering, trying to get hold of herself. "I don't know! That's just it. They're not saying. What do you think happened? Should I call Kristl, and Erin? God, I wish I could get hold of Mia."

"No! Wait for more information." She shook her head, her mind racing. Leigh was really pouring on the grief. "I didn't know you cared so much about Gavin Knowles."

"I'm scared! It's another accident. How many of us are going to die?"

"We're not going to die! What are you talking about?"

"I went to bed last night feeling calm. You helped make me feel calm, Nat. But this . . . His brother just died a week ago!"

"None of it had anything to do with us. C'mon, Leigh. You're not like Erin, or even Kristl. You don't fall apart and say crazy things. You and I are the sane ones, the practical ones."

"I'd like to think so."

She still sounded upset, so Natalie poured it on. "When everything came down about Ethan's accident, they all wanted to freak out. Even Roxie. You and I held everybody together, remember?"

"Yes . . ." Leigh inhaled and exhaled several times. "When I learned about Gavin, it just felt like . . . someone was out to get us."

"No one's after us. We, of The Sorority, are all still fine."

"I don't know about Mia," she fretted. "I haven't heard from her in so long and she used to keep up with me all the time."

"We haven't heard from Roxie, either, but I'm sure she's fine," Natalie said with a trace of disgust. People like Roxie were always fine.

"I don't care about Roxie." Leigh's voice was flat.

"Well, none of us do, really. But she was one of us once. I don't know about now."

"Maybe she's the one doing this."

"Doing what, exactly?" Natalie asked carefully.

"Maybe she's the one who killed Ethan and Ingrid . . . and somehow took out Tim Knowles and then Gavin."

"Leigh, come on. You're not the conspiracy theorist! Tim Knowles was killed by a burglar he caught coming out of a house. That's a fact. And Ethan's accident was an accident, no other car involved. I'm not going to say it again. No, I am going to say it again," she reversed herself. "Ethan's accident was Not. Our. Fault. Let's not argue about this anymore. I don't know what happened to Gavin, and I don't want to think about it. I've got a whole lot of other shit to get through. I'm sorry for him, but it's no big conspiracy."

"I'm not a conspiracy theorist . . ." she agreed. "I don't know. It's just eerie, but maybe you're right."

"I am right."

"Okay," she said a bit reluctantly.

"Good. Now, let it go. If the police are involved, we don't want to be. We can't be. We just need to keep our mouths shut and see what happens next."

"I just keep thinking we should be doing something."

"That's because you feel guilty. You shouldn't. There is nothing to feel guilty about. Hopefully Gavin will recover quickly and stop blaming Kristl and the rest of us for . . . I don't know. Perceived crimes we committed."

"What if he dies?"

"Then it will be a tragic accident. Nothing more." She hesitated, then added, "Is anybody saying that?"

"No . . . they're not saying anything . . . I'm just worried." She sighed. "I thought about calling his parents like I did the Stanhopes after Ethan . . . and Ingrid died."

"You called the Stanhopes? When did you do that? Holy shit, Leigh . . ." Natalie shot her gaze back to the skyline, seeking relief from all the shit that constantly rained down on her, but more dark clouds were rolling in once again, spoiling her peace of mind. "I have to go back to San Diego."

"What? Now? "

"I have to take care of some things with Philip. But I'll come right back. I promise. We need to clean this up."

"Oh, my God. This is a nightmare. I don't want Parker to know any of this."

"I don't want anyone to know any of this! Send Gavin a get-well card. Express sympathy for me, too, if you see his family, but don't engage unless you have to."

"Should I call Mackenzie?"

"NO. Oh, my God. Are you not listening? And get her to stop looking for Mia. Call her off. Just stay away from her."

Leigh didn't answer, which didn't bode well.

Natalie shook her head to clear it. She never would have credited Leigh with falling apart so completely. She hadn't been this bad after Ethan's death . . . had she? All of them had walked around like automatons for months. Nothing had seemed real, but Leigh, like Natalie, had snapped back to reality quicker than the others.

Natalie ended the call, done trying to jolly Leigh from her outsized fears. She then clicked on to her Alaska Airlines app and booked a flight for eight p.m., growling at the exorbitant price of a ticket at this late date. Then she stood for a moment, thinking hard. She had to almost physically shake off the heebie-jeebies that seemed to blossom every time she brushed against the past.

And Leigh . . . and Gavin . . . and Ethan.

It always comes back to Ethan, doesn't it?

Natalie slowly walked back to the windows, her arms crossed over her torso. As if following her mood, the skies suddenly opened up, pouring wild sheets of rain over the already misty skyline, covering the whole area with gloom.

She hadn't been honest with The Sorority members yesterday about her relationship with Phillip. There really was no relationship with her husband outside of any potential job Natalie might bring in. She'd called him dead weight, but he was worse than that. He needed to work on his beige soul when he wasn't fucking around, but the fucking around in turn made him want to work on his beige soul. It really chafed her that he looked so good on camera, that he possessed that je ne sais quoi that the camera loved. How had she ever fallen for him? What had she been thinking?

The ugly, little truthful part of herself answered: He looks like Ethan Stanhope. Same golden brown hair, same sexy blue eyes, same ironic smile. Maybe Phillip never had the muscular torso or strength of Ethan's swimmer's body from all those hours of water polo, but Natalie had overlooked that, at least in the beginning, so enamored with the man that she'd practically chased him down and offered herself up for whatever he wanted. What he wanted was to be adored, and in that way he and Ethan were also alike. Natalie had always thought she and Ethan had a special under-the-radar bond. While he professed his love for Mia, his eyes roved over all the other girls. Natalie had kept her gaze from his, though she'd watched him from beneath her lashes, until the day she calmly caught those blue eyes and held them. They'd passed over her, but with her continued focus, had returned back as if pulled by a string.

"What?" he'd asked, about a week before he'd taken that fateful trip to the pool house with Roxie. They were at school, outside the gym where she was waiting for Mia and Leigh, who were both in dance class. Ethan had just come from the pool and he'd slipped a shirt over his damp chest that was sticking to him like a second skin. His trunks were still wet, as was his hair, and she found herself curiously studying him as his team members pushed against the bars of the exit doors, clunking their way past them, some throwing Natalie a look or two. She wasn't any of their type. She'd made certain of that. She was the unapproachable Goth girl, which was just fine. Kept her looking sexy and mysterious, but too scary for the milquetoast sports guys at River Glen.

"I was just wondering what Mia sees in you," she said.

"You're weird, Nat," he said, but he was smiling. "You like being weird."

"I like being weird?" she scoffed.

"Yeah. Ya do." He then drawled, "There's always somebody like you around. The kind that wants to be seen, but not seen like everybody else. Cooler, better, smarter." He pointed a finger at her. "That's you."

She'd been shocked and incensed. He didn't know her. He was just the dumb jock on the water polo team. "Who knew you were a student of psychology," she said sarcastically.

"You always have to run the show." And then he'd laughed and slammed against the exit bar himself, leaving her in the echoing hallway.

As soon as she was alone Natalie had looked down at her black voile skirt with its layers of netting, her black blouse with its plunging neckline, the rows of black beads around her neck, the fingerless black lace gloves. She knew her face was ghastly white, having dabbed on the white powder herself. And the black-rimmed eyes. Getting that eyeliner right was painstaking, but she was good at it now.

Leigh and Mia appeared from dance class and climbed in Natalie's car. She was the one with the car so it seemed she was ferrying her car-less friends wherever they needed to go. She took them directly home even though they protested that they'd like to go to Starbucks and get an iced drink, but Natalie was in no mood. Ethan's words kept circling her mind and she was . . . mad at him.

She went home and looked at herself in the mirror and her chest hurt. It wasn't that she looked bad. She liked the Goth look. It was that he'd pierced her armor and pricked her heart. She couldn't let him know how much he'd wounded her.

She knew Ethan was on a club water polo team that used the school pool, and she went to the next event, but stood outside in the hall, smelling the chlorine, feeling her hair wilt under the dense air anytime someone opened the door and walked through. She didn't let her friends know what she was doing, especially Mia, who thought she and Ethan were Prom King and Queen but never seemed to really feel comfortable with him. Mia had smooth skin and black, straight hair and just faintly slanted eyes and a body that was thin and tight in all the right places. And she aced all her tests and turned in exceptional work, and Ethan liked that she was so incredibly perfect. What he didn't know, but Natalie did, was that Mia was untouchable where it counted. Good sex was out because Mia was too driven. But no one could really drill down to Mia's real self, maybe not even Mia. Both Ethan and Mia seemed to like the "idea" of their relationship, but not the relationship itself.

At least that's what Natalie scribbled down in her notes. At one point she wrote that she wanted to have sex with Ethan. Then she crossed it out, blacking it over with big ink circles so no one could ever read it. After that she wrote a short story about a girl who was obsessed with a boy and just wanted him to fuck her all the time. She read it over when she was done and felt herself flush, but then was embarrassed and quickly scribbled out "fuck" and changed it to "screw" and then rewrote it again with "make love" and then laughed hysterically, tore the story into tiny bits, and ate the little pieces of confetti.

Afterward she lay on her bed and pretended Ethan was on top of her, groaning and grinding against her, telling her how beautiful she was, that he couldn't get enough of her, that all he wanted to do was slide into her and stay there forever . . . well, slide in and out, and then stay there forever. Natalie's experience with sex wasn't that great even though she told her friends she'd been screwing since she was fourteen, fifteen, okay, sixteen. She had to keep refashioning her story, when in reality she hadn't actually done it till she was eighteen , long after the obsession with Ethan, when she'd gone off to college and purposely had sex with enough guys to give her an idea about what the whole thing was all about.

But during her Ethan period she could hardly think of anything but him. She watched him from the sides of her eyes. She catalogued what he wore. The green shirt Tuesday, Wednesday the blue, Thursday that black one—God, that one was good—Friday a different blue. She thought about retaking the SATs and ACTs, but it was really too late and she was never going to reach Mia's stellar numbers, but then, though she wanted to beat Mia with all her jealous heart, Ethan wasn't looking for a brainiac, so it didn't matter anyway. She thought he was looking for a look , so she thought about Mia's short plaid skirts and white blouses, the knee highs, the Mary Jane–type shoes and decided to emulate her. Her friends remarked on her change of style and she bit back that she was just trying things out and went back to all black. Ethan never noticed anyway. He really was a dumb jock and she was loads smarter than he was, but she didn't care.

One night at the Knowleses' before the weather improved and the pool was open—a night that Gavin's parents were gone, again, and some of her friends and classmates had wandered over to hang out—she had her moment alone with Ethan. He wasn't much of a drinker. Was too into water polo to risk getting "mipped"—a Minor In Possession—by the police and thrown off the team. She caught him alone after he'd had a minor spat with Mia over the phone. He explained that Mia hadn't been able to come to the party because she was studying, and he snapped back that she was always studying and she told him maybe he should study more if he wanted any chance to be with her, and he said he wouldn't get into Stanford no matter what he did, which was just fine, and she said, "Fine," and they hung up and he fumed about it to anyone who would listen.

Then he said to Natalie, "Can you give me a ride? I need to get home, finish up some shit, and my car's at my house."

Natalie had looked around, wondering where his bros were, half expecting one of them to come out and say he'd take him, but that didn't happen, so she said, "Sure," and then they left together and she didn't tell Kristl and Erin, who were still at the house, that she was leaving. Like Mia, Leigh and Roxie hadn't been there, either. Natalie had almost skipped the party herself. She was tired of her obsession, tired of herself, tired of school, but she'd changed her mind at the last minute. She'd only been there about a half hour when Ethan asked for the ride.

They barely spoke as she drove to the Stanhopes' sprawling home. She'd never been to his house before and had immediately realized there must be quite a view from the back, west, toward Laurelton.

"Nice house," she said as they pulled up.

"Yeah?" He'd been lost in thought or was just tired, hard to tell. "Thanks," he told her, unbuckling from the passenger seat.

She couldn't tell if his parents were home. All three doors of the triple-car garage were closed and the house was dark except for one light on in an upstairs room, a bedroom by the looks of it. She stepped out of her car and he looked at her in surprise. She caught up to him as he was walking toward the back, along a sidewalk that circled the house.

"What are you doing?" he asked, stopping short.

"I don't know. I kind of want to see the view."

"The view?"

"From your backyard."

"Okay," he said dubiously.

She followed him as the sidewalk was too narrow to walk side by side. He kept going right to the end of the property where the land sloped off an abrupt edge. A carpet of lights glittered below—the city of Laurelton. They were facing west, toward the Coast Range, the mountains blocking out the stars. A crescent moon hung low in the sky.

Ethan stood beside her and said, "You've been following me."

She'd been lost in the view, envious of the Stanhopes' house and grounds. Her lust for real estate had been building for a while, but that view, that house, that night made it all coalesce. His words brought her back to the moment. "What are you talking about?" she'd snapped.

"My friend saw you at the pool. He said you were watching me."

"Watching you?" she repeated on a laugh, her heart in her throat at being found out. "I was the ride for Kent Deruso. Our parents are friends," she said dismissively. A lie. A big, fat lie. She barely knew Kent Deruso apart from his name and he mostly kept to himself. She hoped to God she wasn't throwing herself on a grenade.

"I told him he was a dumbass." He accepted her answer without question. "You don't talk to me."

"I talk to you. What do you mean? Of course I do. Mia's my good friend."

"Uh-huh. You're all a bunch of bitches."

He said it without rancor, like it was just a fact, then yawned. "G'night."

When he headed for the house, she stepped in his way. She didn't plan it. She just did it. He had to stutter-step to keep from running into her. He stared at her, his expression hooded in the moonlight. He didn't say anything and neither did she. She couldn't believe she was doing what she was doing, but well, she was doing it! Her heart was trying to leap from her body. Every muscle tensed.

He drew a breath and then put his hands on her waist. "My friend was right," he said, drawing her hips closer to his. She let herself be pulled. He fit himself between her hips; they were almost the same height. He was hard and she felt him against her in a way that made her knees tremble. She laid her hands on his hips, feeling the flange of bone, wanting to reach down and touch his dick but afraid to break contact.

A light came on the back porch. "Ethan?" a girl's voice called. His sister. Ingrid.

"Yeah, I'm coming in." He stepped back and walked away from Natalie as if it had never happened.

Later, she could almost believe it had never happened. Mia never said anything and apparently neither did Ethan. Except Gavin started looking at her funny and one day Gavin put his arm around her and let his fingers slip down the side of her breast. She jerked away from him and elbowed him in the chest. He stumbled and half fell, moaning and rolling his eyes, exaggerating his pain. He really was an ass.

After that, whatever bubble of romantic fantasy she'd lived in for those mind-numbingly stupid weeks burst. She watched Ethan snuggle up to Mia, putting his chin on her shoulder, kissing her hair while she swatted at him and laughed. Natalie was pretty sure her laughter was forced. She was also pretty sure Ethan was putting on the act with Mia for her.

And then he and Roxie . . . in the pool house. Roxie with her pink smile and shaggy hair and delicious bouncing breasts.

That last night after graduation, Natalie had been standing with the rest of The Sorority and Ethan had blown them all a kiss, his insouciance sending a tidal wave of disgust through all of them. A few weeks earlier she'd made them all pledge to murder Ethan, then had laughed at them when they'd gone along with her. She'd said it was a joke. Over and over again. A JOKE! A FUCKING JOKE!

And it was . . . it was meant to be a joke . . . only she'd wanted him dead in that moment. She'd pledged to kill him and had meant it. They'd all pledged.

And she'd wanted him dead graduation night, too.

Sometimes she still heard Ingrid's voice in her head, querying, "Ethan?" through the darkness while she pressed Ethan up against her and her mind planned how she was going to get him to fuck her without anyone knowing.

Now her cell phone rang, the ring tone a soft trill of bells she'd picked because of its pleasing tone.

It was a number she didn't recognize. "Natalie Hofstetter," she said briskly. She'd never taken Phillip's last name, though they'd been married for six years. Six years! It still shocked her when she thought about how much time had passed in the blink of an eye. Long past the time she should've instigated a divorce to cut out the dead weight.

"Hi, Natalie. It's Beatrix. Got a minute?"

Well, of course. Natalie sucked in air and put a smile on her face. It always went through the line if you weren't smiling, and by God she was going to smile through a rigor mask and show them just how personable she could be if it killed her. "Got a minute" was Beatrix's stock phrase that warned of bad things to come.

"Sure. What's up?"

"Well, we can't reach Phillip and wanted to know if you could remind him of tomorrow's meeting."

The meeting Phillip would miss because the beige-souled cocksucker was going to the red cliffs of Sedona.

Beatrix was co-owner of Cottage Industries, which had produced Natalie's first show, the show Natalie designed down to a gnat's eyelash. She was tall and rangy and with eyes all over Phillip, though Natalie knew her assessment had nothing to do with sex. Beatrix had plots and devices rolling around in her head all the time as she sized up the potential for a show, what the pros and cons were. She knew Phillip was on the plus side, but Natalie didn't have to be told that Beatrix thought she was the dispensable one.

"I'm so sorry, Beatrix, I'm still in Portland. Just wrapping some things up after yesterday's funeral. I'm not sure Phillip can make it." Ever. "But I'll be there."

"I didn't know you were at a funeral," she said.

Of course you didn't, you cow. You don't pay any attention to what I'm doing, only Phillip. "Yes, really sad and unfortunate. A good friend, a policeman, shot in the line of duty."

"Oh . . ." She sounded nonplused.

You don't know what to do with that one, do you?

"Well, sure, tomorrow. We'll see . . . Tell Phillip to call me," she said after a moment or two.

Will do, Fuckface. "I'll sure let him know."

"I told him we're mulling the deal over—that is, if you actually purchase that house. He wasn't sure, but I guess I'm asking you. Are you making that deal on the Dover Road house? Phillip said it was only a matter of time."

That deal was purchasing a piece-of-shit house in an older piece-of-shit neighborhood that, yes, might be having a resurgence. . . in maybe twenty-plus years. Natalie had nixed it as their next project but Phillip liked to dig his toes in whenever she objected, whether it was a good deal or not. Phillip had actually plunked down some of their joint money this time, but she thought she could get it back. It would cost too much to reno it. She'd redone three older houses in spectacular neighborhoods and gotten some interest from HGTV and other networks, and had earned that one full season of Natalie's San Diego —the name changed for season two to Phillip's San Diego , where she made "guest appearances." They'd made decent money and gained a lot of recognition, and she wanted more of it, but without Phillip . . . well . . .

"The Dover House deal is still in negotiation," Natalie lied. "We're actually working on a project in Portland. I'll send you some photos of a couple of houses and high-end condos, properties just begging for our kind of love and attention."

"Mmm . . . have Phillip call. I'm not sure Portland is right. Let's talk about it later."

"Sure."

Natalie hung up in a blue funk. Phillip . . .

Signing on the dotted line for that property was throwing money down a rat hole. It made her crazy to think of the Dover House. And that's the one Beatrix now wanted? Phillip must've really put on his best song and dance for her. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe Beatrix and Phillip had joined together—in more ways than one—and they were freezing her out.

But then Phillip was out finding himself now and that didn't seem to include his career.

She put a call through to him. When it went straight to voice mail, she said, "Get out of the Dover House deal, whatever it takes. You should've never signed that contract. My signature isn't on it, because I didn't want to do it, so the contract's null and void. I talked to Beatrix. We're good to go in Portland . . . without you."

She stalked to the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. Her agent, Jenn, had told her to lighten her hair a little. "Stop dyeing it black. It's where light goes to die. Nobody wants Morticia rehabbing their house."

She leaned closer, recognizing how pale her pallor was. She'd never thought much about it since her ill-fated attempt to look like Mia. Mostly she liked the black-and-white contrast of her hair and her skin, but at twenty-nine maybe it was too much of a contrast. She'd started dyeing her hair when the first silvery threads had appeared. She was one of those people who was going to gray early, so she'd decided to take care of that herself. Unfortunately, the flat black hadn't played well on camera, so she'd lightened it up some, added a bit of chestnut color into it, and that had actually really done the trick on warming up her image—not that Beatrix would care, she thought darkly.

She was going to make this work. She was. In Portland, where she could keep a close eye on her "sisters." One way or another.

And make sure they didn't do something to explode her image . . . like admit to being the cause of Ethan Stanhope's death.