White Rabbit(24)
It’s a fancy address, but in the shadowy silence of the blind avenue, it’s no less foreboding than Arlo’s place was as we get out of the car and shut the doors. April watches us apprehensively from the backseat of the Jeep while we set off to navigate our way to the rear of the property, her expression haunting. I can see that the awful night is taking its toll on her, the circles under her eyes darkening by the minute, and I hope for all our sakes that it will be over soon. I can still smell the tangy, metallic odor that filled the lake house, and Fox’s body flashes in front of me every time I blink—like an afterimage burned into my retinas—and I’m starting to feel guilty about leaving him there.
I need this to be over soon.
As Sebastian leads the way to a tall gate tucked out of sight behind the house, I steal a glance at my phone. There are eleven missed texts, all of them from Lucy, and I feel something deflate in my chest. Not two hours ago, I was hanging with my best friend, having a great time and congratulating myself on how much I wasn’t thinking about my ex-boyfriend. Now I’m troubled and moody again, following him onto the Atwoods’ rear patio, an irregular peninsula of sandstone pavers that juts out into the lushly quiet backyard. There’s an enormous propane grill off to one side, a covered hot tub off to the other, and a straight-from-the-showroom cluster of expensive outdoor furniture grouped around a glass-topped coffee table dead center. Ensconced on a sofa of weatherproofed wicker and stain-resistant cushions, we find—conveniently enough—both of the remaining people on our list.
As individuals, Race Atwood and Peyton Forsyth are both terrible people, and anything less than two thousand dollars in cash wouldn’t entice me to voluntarily share oxygen with either of them; mean, shallow, and self-absorbed in equal measure, they are, in a perverse kind of way, the perfect couple. It’s how they refer to themselves, too. The Perfect Couple.
The thing is, I’m fairly certain that neither of them has much in the way of original thoughts to share with the world; from the music they like, to the clothes they wear, to the people they accept as equals, their opinions have all been formed and handed to them by Fox—the gravitational center of their social circle. Certainly April’s been guilty of this, too, but from where I stand, currying his favor seems to be a full-time job for Race and Peyton in particular—and they’ve always appeared to think quite highly of themselves for doing it.
As we cross the stone flooring, the so-called Perfect Couple turns to watch our approach, and I nearly stumble as I walk into a force field of awkward tension as thick as a brick wall. Race and Peyton are seated at opposite ends of the sofa, their faces drawn, their body language as stiff and detached as strangers forced to share a bench at the bus stop.
“Hey, guys,” Sebastian offers experimentally as we sit down across from them.
“What the hell’s he doing here?” Race asks inhospitably, scowling at me through the shock of strawberry blond hair that tumbles over his forehead. Evidently, they were not forewarned of our nocturnal door-to-door. A nice surprise.
“I know you guys were with April tonight,” I begin without preamble, just as happy to dispense with meaningless niceties, “and I’m worried about her.”
The couple exchanges a quick look, but neither of them answers me right away. They’re both smoking, and the mass of butts crowding the shared ashtray sitting before them on the coffee table suggests that they’ve been at it for some time. Peyton takes a long drag on her cigarette, curiosity and suspicion flickering in her catlike green eyes. “Why?”
“She was supposed to call me tonight, but she never did, and now she’s not answering her phone.” By this point, the lie comes out as easily as if it were the truth. “When’s the last time you saw her?”
They exchange another look, and Race gives an uninterested shrug. Once again, Peyton answers for both of them. “None of your fucking business.”
“Please?” Sebastian intercedes in a far friendlier tone than I personally think is warranted, and the girl rolls her eyes impatiently.
“When we left Fox’s lake house. We were having a party out there.” She turns back to Race for confirmation, but his gaze is fixed firmly on the coffee table. “It was a few hours ago.”
Sebastian waits for her to add more, and when she doesn’t, he leads, “Which was…?”
“I don’t know,” Peyton replies with an aggrieved look, “maybe nine fifteen, nine thirty?” Leaning forward to knock some ash off her cigarette, she then asks antagonistically, “Seriously, Bash, what are you doing with him?”
Sebastian squirms again, his eyes zigzagging miserably from one person to another as he seeks a refuge that simply isn’t there. “Um, we were both at—”
“How did she seem?” I interrupt, steering deliberately away from Sebastian’s secret for a second time. The strange, schismatic energy surrounding Peyton and Race—who have left enough space between them on the sofa to land a Black Hawk helicopter—intrigues me. As sure as I am that Peyton really wants to know the answer to her question, it also feels like she’s changing the subject to avoid discussing the party. When neither of them responds to me after a long moment, I ask again. “How was April when you left?”
More silence, and this time Race shoots a look to Peyton that isn’t returned. My sister’s best friend leans forward to stub out her cigarette, offering a cryptic “Not very happy.”