Chapter Eighty-Seven Piper
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Piper
Piper glanced at her watch and set her empty champagne flute on a small side table. A waiter immediately appeared at her side and offered another glass.
She took it and scanned the room, holding the drink like a prop.
She’d been nodding and smiling so long her face hurt, as she stood on the periphery of little groups, sipping champagne punch and pretending to be interested in conversations about algorithms, makeup artists, clothing brands she’d never heard of, which influencers had agents and which ones didn’t, the best selfie sticks, and lighting tricks to reduce neck shadows.
They’d been here for almost an hour. She’d made a loop of the party, twice. No sign of Chip, Grammy, or Richard. Which meant the old couple must be at home, probably watching TV next to their fallout shelter in the basement. No sign of the “childcare” Chip had promised either.
For some reason, she found this lie more troubling than all the others. She clenched her jaw and eyed the exit. They’d been here long enough.
She glanced across the room to where Rosamund seemed to be having better luck.
Someone had discovered that one of her books was trending on BookTok, and she’d become the center of a little group of women who listened with rapt attention as she discussed her real-life experiences with the extremely handsome actor who’d played Bold Ragnar in her Shield-Maiden of Stamendahl Netflix series.
She raised her glass, took a sip, and made her way to Rosamund’s side.
“Let’s get out of here,” she whispered.
Rosamund nodded and slipped away from the little group. “I feel like I’m 107 years old. In fact, I think we are the only people in this entire room old enough to remember 9/11.”
“Where’s Kiersten?”
“At the buffet.”
They made their way into the dining room, where they found Kiersten, standing in the corner stuffing mini crab cakes into her mouth.
“Did you . . . have any luck?” Piper asked, suddenly feeling a little unsteady on her feet. That punch was strong. Plus high heels and alcohol were always a bad idea.
Kiersten swallowed another crab cake. “Grammy is at home . . . she’s been sick since the Harvest Festival,” she added in a loud whisper, putting air quotes around the word sick.
Piper’s eyes widened. What was she talking about? And was Kiersten tipsy?
“These crab cakes are so good.” Kiersten grabbed another one from the buffet and stuffed it into her mouth. “You should eat some too,” she mumbled with her mouth full, pointing at the table with her napkin.
“I’m ready to go home,” Piper said. “I think you are too.”
Kiersten nodded gravely, then leaned in closer as though she were about to impart an important secret. “The crab cakes are excellent, but this party sucks.”
Piper and Rosamund exchanged a look. Piper gently took Kiersten’s elbow and steered her toward the foyer. But she found it unexpectedly difficult to walk in a straight line.
What the hell was in that punch? Had someone slipped a roofie into her drink at an Alice in Wonderland tea party?
They opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. A flash of light in her peripheral vision made her turn her head in the direction of the half-constructed home next to Richard and Margaret’s house.
Flashing lights.
Police cars.
Then she saw them. Through the skeletal beams of the home under construction, deep inside the structure, engulfed in shadows.
The kids.
She ripped off her high heels, leaped off the porch, and ran.