Reputation(64)

“Me, too!” Paul says, sounding almost overjoyed. Which makes me a little less angry about him being a cradle robber.

“So there’s, what? Paypal? Venmo?” I start scrolling through Greg’s e-mails, but I don’t see anything. Nothing in his deleted messages, either. Then again, if Greg was paying Raina, he wouldn’t have kept those messages around. They’d probably been doubly deleted ages ago.

I log into my own Venmo account, which I’d set up but never used. But it’s not like I’m going to find a public note proclaiming that Greg Strasser paid Raina Hammond for sex acts or hush money. What would those emojis even be? But then, halfway down the screen, I notice a familiar photo of a man standing on a beach in Barbados. It’s the very same picture shown at Greg’s funeral a few days ago. He looks tanned, handsome, almost young. It’s strange that the digital version of Greg has outlasted the man.

His screen name is GStrass92; Venmo has announced that Greg Strasser paid Kit Manning an undisclosed amount on April 25. That’s the day before the benefit. So he does use his account, then.

But if I want to see more—and dollar amounts—I need more access. “Maybe I can sign into his account,” I murmur.

Paul nods, watching me carefully. But before I do, I send a quick text to Sienna. What was Greg’s e-mail password? I ask, remembering that she’d said she’d hacked into his e-mails to see if he was cheating. About half a minute later, Sienna responds: StBarts081215. The place and date of Kit and Greg’s wedding.

“Let’s hope he’s the type who uses the same password for everything,” I murmur, going to the login screen. Luck is on my side, because after a few variations of the password, I’m in.

“Whoa,” Paul says, sounding dazzled.

I don’t know my way around Venmo, but I decide to click on “Friends.” I scroll through a list of people, my heart thudding hard. “There!” Paul cries, pointing at a name toward the bottom of the list. RayRay09, reads the screen name, and there’s a tiny image of the same pretty, red-lipped girl that’s on Raina’s Instagram page.

I let out a whoop. “Holy shit.” And then I click on her name. A list of payments appears. No explanations, no emojis, but still.

“This is it,” I tell Paul, grabbing his hand before I realize that, well, we’re holding hands. But I’m so excited, I don’t care. “Paul, this is freaking it.”

“What?” Paul cries, his eyes dancing.

“Greg was paying Raina through this app. In total, we have him on the books for giving her almost fifteen thousand dollars.”





23





RAINA


TUESDAY, MAY 2, 2017


This city is a strange place. One minute, you’re driving through a neighborhood full of small, crooked houses smashed together like teeth in a mouth. But then, suddenly, you turn a corner, and bam. The houses look like castles, set on large, rambling lawns. Some of them go on forever, windows upon windows, garage doors for miles, circular driveways fit for a five-star hotel. That’s how I feel when we get to Alexis’s parents’ place. Like I’ve landed on a very fancy planet. Like my ship has come in.

“This is nice,” I say breezily, as if I’m surrounded by this sort of opulence all the time.

The Uber stops, and Alexis climbs out. I follow, gazing up at the towering brick-and-stone building. What must it have been like to grow up in such splendor? I want to hate Alexis for having such a plush life, but I don’t. Maybe because she’s looking at me like she really wants me to have a good time. Or maybe because, soon enough, I’ll be profiting from all of this.

I gaze around the property. No lights are on, and there are no cars in the driveway. “Seems kinda empty,” I say.

“Oh, my grandma’s party isn’t here.” Alexis walks up the front lawn. “It’s at a restaurant nearby.” But then she frowns. “I’m surprised my parents aren’t home, though.” She pulls out her phone and studies the screen. “Shit. I missed a text from them. Their flight from France was delayed—they won’t be here for another hour.” She glances at me, her expression contrite. “Are you okay waiting outside until they’re back? They’re always changing their locks—they’re security freaks—and I don’t have the updated house key.”

I shift in my high heels. They’re already beginning to pinch my feet. “Couldn’t we just go to the party without them?”

“Uch, no.” Alexis makes a face. “I don’t want to see Trip yet. Besides, it doesn’t start until eight. Let’s just party here.”

In my world, being locked out of one’s house would mean sitting on a cold porch, suffering stares and possible harassing remarks from the neighbors, and possibly inhaling meth fumes from the basement lab next door. In Alexis’s world, it means sitting on a sprawling stone patio under a heat lamp, enjoying a good bottle of wine procured from a beverage fridge nestled into a rock in the outdoor kitchen. I sink into a canvas couch and gaze at the forest in the distance. Next to us is a burbling hot tub that Alexis says we can go in later if we want. Alexis starts a crackling, spitting fire in the pit in the center of the patio. She even turns on sexy music on her phone, which links to invisible speakers built into the walls. A soft blanket of sound surrounds us.