Code(92)

Joining the stream of anxious partygoers, we slipped out into the night.





PART FOUR:

CONFRONTATION





CHAPTER 48





“How do you get into these messes?”

Jason’s words jarred me back to full wakefulness. There’d been a lull in conversation, and Chance’s overstuffed chair was far too comfortable for my level of fatigue.

“You heard the story,” Shelton grumbled. “It’s not our fault some wackjob likes playing insane games.”

“We won.” Ben’s eyes didn’t open. “No one got hurt. That’s all that matters.”

“I assume there’s no antique cash register in need of special oil?” Jason said.

No one bothered to answer.

Eleven forty-five p.m. Claybourne Manor. The six of us were gathered in Chance’s study, ignoring the revelry one floor below.

My tired eyes wandered the room. I had bad memories of this place.

Little had changed since the days Hollis Claybourne ruled the cavernous chamber. Floor-to-ceiling windows and bookcases. Scarlet drapes. Mahogany desk the size of a tank.

My gaze tracked the wrought-iron catwalk circling high overhead. I thought of the day Chance had caught me up there. Our confrontation.

Definitely bad memories.

Not now. Focus.

Cedar logs crackled, the orange and yellow flames casting long shadows across the chamber. Shelton, Ben, and I sat facing the huge stone fireplace. Chance was leaning back against his desk. Jason was slumped on the floor, back to the coffee table, an ice pack strapped to his head. Hi lay flat on his back on the Persian rug.

I’d briefed Jason and Chance on the events of the last two weeks. Our find on Loggerhead. The string of caches. The Game. Our wild trips around the Lowcountry. The Gamemaster’s folder of threats. I withheld only the secrets we could never share.

An avalanche of questions followed. I’d answered as best I could.

“So we aren’t calling the cops?” Shelton removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Am I the only one who thinks that they’re supposed to handle murders and bomb threats?”

“We can’t risk it,” I said firmly. “The Gamemaster might believe his rules still apply.”

“Captain Psychopath knows about our parents, our homes, even Tory’s dog.” Hi’s fingers were interlaced on his chest, his eyes glued to the oak rafters stretching above us. “If we talk, who knows what he’ll do? The guy’s into clowns, for God’s sake.”

I took a deep breath. “We can catch this chump ourselves.”

“How are we going to do that?” Shelton squawked.

“I’ll think of something.” I will.

“You’re positive the gas won’t escape?” Jason asked for the third time.

“Yes,” I said. “I double-checked on my phone. Bromomethane is heavier than air, and should simply pool in the electrical room. And if someone goes down to the basement, they’ll smell the fumes and book it out of there. A slight delay in reporting the danger shouldn’t pose a risk.”

I hoped.

The Gamemaster belonged to me now. I wanted blood.

A wave of music and laughter carried from below. Everyone ignored it. There was a crash of breaking glass. Chance didn’t flinch.

Two hours earlier, my impromptu fire drill had caused a mild panic. Flustered debs stumbling across the grass in ankle-breaking heels. Escorts struggling to locate their dates. Parents and siblings searching for one another. Chance had slipped away to find Madison, leaving the rest of us mercifully alone. Shelton had pulled a bleary Jason aside and brought him up to speed.

Whitney went apoplectic upon seeing me. Mussed hair. Stained gown. Jacketless entourage. Kit demanded an explanation.

Thank God for Hiram.

He launched into an improvised tale of woe and misfortune. We’d found ourselves in the dark. Flustered and disoriented, we’d blundered through an emergency exit. Then we’d tumbled down a staircase in a complicated domino sequence that incorporated each one of us.

The story was bizarre, confusing, and wildly improbable.

They’d bought it without hesitation.

Working like a field surgeon, Whitney had blotted and fluffed my dress, then repaired my makeup using cosmetics from her purse. When I’d casually asked permission to attend Chance’s after party, Kit had been quick to agree.

After the fire marshal declared a false alarm, everyone scurried back inside. The remaining debs were presented in full splendor, averting heart attacks and dousing a few temper tantrums.

Dancing followed. I endured three formal numbers—Kit twice, then an awkward turn with Jason—solely for appearances’ sake. The rest of my crew sat in chairs along the wall. I kept one eye on Chance as he twirled Madison across the hardwood.

Finally, mercifully, the ball ended. I handed my boys their monogrammed cuff links and Kit drove us to Claybourne Manor. Chance’s bash was supposed to run late—he’d even chartered a car service to take guests home.

Kit told me to enjoy myself. He’d inform the other parents.

Chance had demanded answers as soon as we arrived. He marched my group upstairs, leaving a butler to see to his guests.

So there we were, an hour later.

A wild celebration raged downstairs. Half the school was in attendance.