White Rabbit(71)

Sebastian clicks his keys for another pensive moment, and then turns to me. “Look, I know maybe you don’t want to hear this again, but I’ve got to say it: You don’t have to do this. It isn’t your job to save April’s butt—especially now that there are lawyers and cops and stuff involved. I mean, maybe you’ve done enough, Rufus.”

I swallow my first response. The embarrassment of having admitted how desperately my mom and I need Isabel’s payout is still with me like a bitter aftertaste; I’m not getting into it again. But he’s saying this because he cares about me—he cares about me—and so I manage a smile. “I’m not backing out now. I can’t.”

Sebastian nods, like this is what he expected to hear. “So where to now? Which one of them do we take on first?”

“Neither,” I say promptly, surprising him. “I’m thinking first we take on the biggest gossip in Chittenden County.”

“Ramona? You really think she knows something?” He screws up his mouth. “I mean, probably she just got wind of that video, if Fox was sending it around.”

“Maybe,” I acknowledge. “But then she’d be asking about Peyton and Fox, right? And, like, the timing … I mean, tonight of all nights she’s desperate to confirm something she’s heard about Race and Peyton? No matter what it is, I’d like to know about it before we go after them. We need all the ammunition we can get right now. You know where Ramona works?”

“Actually, yeah. It’s a diner I eat at sometimes,” Sebastian says, firing up the Jeep. “I gotta warn you, though: The food’s disgusting and the ambience is worse.”

“Just so long as it’s not Suzy’s American Diner, I’m in. I’ll take gross food over twitchy biker dudes trying to blow my head off any night of the week.”

“Got your heart rate up, though,” Sebastian points out as he steers away from the curb. “Running from bullets totally counteracts mozzarella stick calories.”

“Yeah, and getting hit by one makes them irrelevant. But as fad diets go, don’t expect Oprah’s endorsement.”

A few minutes later, we pull into the parking lot of Silverman’s—the same twenty-four-hour diner where we parked while April called Peter and asked for a lawyer. It’s almost four thirty in the morning now, but still there are cars bathed in the electric glow of the building’s broad front windows. Inside, the place is a throwback vision of Formica countertops, chrome trim, and padded vinyl seats, and—owing to its dirt-cheap menu and casino-style hours—it’s incredibly popular with both Ethan Allen kids and the university crowd alike.

When we walk in the door, I’m instantly overwhelmed by the smell of breakfast sausage, maple syrup, and fried something, and I almost go weak in the knees. Looking around, I see no sign of Ramona Waverly, but the hostess—an ample woman with a tangerine bouffant and glasses like two hula hoops roped together in the middle—spots us immediately and starts heading our way.

And then I hear someone shriek my name. “Rufusssssssss!”

I turn around just in time to see a wild-eyed Asian girl bounding at me from the other direction. Launching herself into the air, she cannonballs into me in a body slam–slash–bear hug that knocks all the wind from my lungs and nearly takes me off my feet. It’s my best friend, Lucy. Her hair is down, a dark mane of loose, bohemian waves that sweeps past her shoulders, and despite the late hour, her winged eyeliner is still just as perfect as ever.

“Holy poop, dude, I’ve been texting you all night long!” she exclaims, punching me in the arm. It’s a typical Lucy Kim love tap—enough muscle behind it to draw up a welt I’ll still have well into my twilight years. My children will be born with dents in their shoulders. “Where the shit have you been, anyway? You missed half my party!”

“It’s a really long story,” I say awkwardly, suddenly feeling Sebastian’s conspicuous presence like a sunburn. “What are you doing here?”

“Hangover precautions,” she explains. “Brent said he could drink me under the table, so I had to prove him wrong, and then we both barfed for like twenty minutes straight. So now we’re soaking up what’s left with potato skins.” She keeps her eyes fixed on Sebastian through this entire account, and when she finally looks back at me I can feel her sharp gaze poking around in my cerebellum. “What are you doing here?”

“Um.” I scratch the back of my head. “It’s a really long story?”

“Mm-hmm.” Lucy gives Sebastian a bright, friendly grin. “’Scuse us for just a second, okay? Best friend shit.” She drags me about two paces away, still well within earshot, and stage-whispers, “You said you were ditching me for April, but then you come sauntering into Silverman’s with Bash Williams, of all people, searching for midnight munchies and looking like the cat who swallowed the nine-inch canary. I think you owe me an explanation. And make it as graphic as possible.”

“You know he can hear everything you’re saying, right?”

“Shut up and start talking,” she commands. “Is this what it looks like, or not?”

“It’s … I mean…” I struggle pathetically, not even sure how to start. “Honestly, it’s a really—”