14
There are no streetlamps on the road outside the Abbotts’ wrought iron gate, so I use my phone’s light as I approach on foot. A few cars are already lined up along the road, and another rolls up behind them, shutting off its engine.
Lydia gets out quickly, locking the door three times, apparently for good measure.
“Hayden, wait up!” She hurries to my side, shivering as she looks up at the gate, where three enormous ravens are perched atop it, silhouetted in moonlight.
“This place is creepy as hell. Why have we never had a Halloween party here before?”
“Because everyone at school is horrible to the Abbotts.”
She keeps her gaze on the birds. “Maybe we wouldn’t be if they hosted more parties.”
“Glad that’s all it takes to assuage your fears about them.” I start to push the gate open. “You know, you can move your car inside if you want. They’ve got plenty of space to park on the property.”
Lydia laughs. “Oh, sure. I’ll just lock myself and my car inside. Make it so I have absolutely no escape when they try to murder me.”
“You’re the one who said they’d never try to kill us tonight.” We start up the winding path to the mansion beneath the bony branches of the birch trees.
“Yeah, but then I started thinking. They could drug one of us, keep us locked in the basement, tell everyone else we went home. Leaving my car in a visible spot could be the only clue they’re lying.”
“Good thinking.”
“Thanks.”
“How are you feeling about being president?” I ask, desperate for a change of subject.
“I mean, overwhelmed,” she says, her voice shrinking. “I only ran for VP because Kennedy said there weren’t any cool people on student council this year—no offense.”
“Why would I find that offensive?” I mutter.
“She wanted me to do it with her, and now that she’s not here, I’m all by myself. Completely alone.”
“Completely.”
“But I mean, I’ll be okay. I’ll handle it,” she says as if it were the bravest act ever undertaken by a high school senior. “And I guess it’ll look good on a college application.” She stops in her tracks, chin tilted skyward. “Damn.”
Ahead lies the mansion, its turrets and pointed arches towering over us. Its face is blanketed in moss, like it’s been hidden back here behind the trees, asleep for centuries.
“Yeah,” I say, the sound of music already drifting out as we make our way up the stone steps of the porch, ornate railings weathered and woven in vines.
Taking hold of the brass knocker, I hit it twice before opening the door myself.
We follow the voices to the kitchen, where someone has set up a drink station.
Immediately, I notice a sullen-looking Bram across the kitchen. He leans against a cabinet, nursing a red Solo cup. He’s dressed in a fitted black T-shirt, and my eyes roam to his bare, toned arms. When he spots me, his lips curve in the faintest trace of a smile.
“Girls!” Liam says, raising his own plastic cup. Beside him, a couple of other guys are cracking open beers. “Help yourselves to a drink. We were just about to go on a tour of the castle. Weren’t we?” He grins at Bram.
“No,” Bram says flatly, “we weren’t.”
“Aw, come on. Show us the cellars where your ancestors used to torture people.”
At this, Bram’s face lights up, almost imperceptibly. “You’ve twisted my arm,” he says with a shrug. “Though it’s technically a dungeon, not a cellar. Follow me.” He starts walking, then pauses, tilting his head thoughtfully. “Maybe we can put one of you in the iron maiden.”
“Bram,” I scold. “Stop it.”
Liam turns on me. “Hey! You’re killing the vibe here.”
I roll my eyes. “His ancestors didn’t torture anyone.”
“How do we know that?” Bram turns, eyes glinting with amusement.
“How do we know your ancestors, the auto repairmen, didn’t torture anyone?” I push past the other boys to grab him by the arm. He doesn’t resist, and once I’ve dragged him along into the empty formal dining room, I release him. “You are doing nothing to help yourself.”
He lifts both hands in surrender. “That guy was the one who said the thing about my ancestors.”
“You don’t need any more of a bad family rap than the one you have. Where are your brothers?”
Bram takes a swig of his drink. “Am I my brothers’ keeper?” He smirks, but his eyes tell a different story.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he says, waving a hand. “Everything’s great. It’s a party.”
“Bram, how many of those have you had?” I gesture to the red Solo cup. “And what is in there, exactly?”
“A secret family recipe. Come on, I’ll make you one.” He motions me along.
“No,” I say, but he’s already halfway to the kitchen.
Rather than follow him, I take the other door that leads to the living room.
People are trickling in, and so far, to my relief, everyone seems to actually be on student council.
I wonder if Sage will show up, or if she’s still convinced that one of the Abbotts is a killer.
At this thought, I start to scan the room for Adam with more urgency. For some idiotic reason, Lydia’s deluded basement-prisoner scenario trickles into my head. I need eyes on Adam.
Instead, I spot Henry over in the corner. He’s laughing, red cup in hand as he talks rather closely with Mackenzie. A wave of heat streaks through me. He’s probably the reason Mackenzie wanted to invite everyone over here. And she could be the reason Henry was so willing to say yes.
Maybe it’s stupid that I ever thought something was going on between Henry and me.
We’ve been best friends since we were kids, and that’s the way things will stay.
I attempt to back out of the room, partly because I don’t want to interrupt their conversation, and partly because I’m suddenly finding it hard to breathe.
But Henry meets my eyes over Mackenzie’s shoulder.
“Hayden!” He breaks into a smile, pinching the corner of his glasses between two fingers the way he always does, and I get a flutter in my stomach.
“There you are,” I say brightly, like I only just noticed him.
Mackenzie turns around and gives me a look like I have a lot of nerve showing up at this student-council-members-only party. Even though this is my fourth year on student council and only her second.
To my delight, Henry presses past her to pull me into a hug.
It’s been less than a week since he took my hand on the couch, but he holds on to me like it’s been much longer.
I breathe him in, the familiar herbal yet clean scent replaced by the citrusy, warm alcoholic notes of whatever he’s been drinking.
I let go sooner than I’d like to, only because I sense Mackenzie still beside us. “I can’t believe you got these guys to host a party,” I tell her.
“I have my ways,” she says in a flirty tone. A new song starts up, and Mackenzie swings her hips. Raising her red cup in the air, she moves with her eyes shut.
I make eye contact with Henry, and we choke down laughter. “You’re not dancing,” I say, trying and failing to imagine it.
“And you’re not drinking,” he says. “Maybe if we were both—you know.” He tips his head in Mackenzie’s direction. “We’d both be dancing.” His brows arch mischievously, and I doubt I’d need even a sip of liquid courage to dance with Henry if he took two steps closer.
“Hey,” comes a deep voice. I turn to find Bram behind me, holding out a red cup. “I used my dad’s bourbon, not whatever cheap shit the rest of them are drinking.”
“Thanks,” I tell Bram before turning to Henry. “Problem solved, I guess?”
Only Henry’s smile has faded, his gaze locked onto his brother.
“Rich people are weird,” Mackenzie says, dancing up close to Bram, who takes a step backward. “This cheap drink tastes delicious.” She downs the rest of it, then trots off, presumably in search of a refill.
I sip Bram’s concoction, which burns my throat on its way down. I cough, and Henry pats me on the back. “What the hell did you give me, Bram?”
He laughs. “Oh, sweet Phil.” He reaches out to wipe something that I apparently spit onto my chin. “You don’t have to drink it.”
My face ignites. When he tries to take the cup from me, I pull it out of his reach, even though I have zero intention of taking another sip. “I’m not sweet,” I protest.
“No, of course not.” Bram bites his lower lip and puts on a faux serious face.
At my side, I can practically feel Henry stewing.
Despite the blaring music, the silence among the three of us is mind-shattering.
I have to end it. “Where’s Adam?” I ask, trying to sound casual and not like I suspect he’s off with victim number three at this very moment.
“Did he decide not to come down?” That wouldn’t surprise me at all.
“Oh, he came down,” Henry says, eyes swinging to the French doors. “He seems to be back to his old self. He’s outside, showing Ella—or Emma?” He shrugs. “He’s showing some girl the gardens.”
My throat goes dry. “It’s Emma,” I grit out. And she’s only a freshman. “Maybe we should go check on them.”
“Check on them?” Bram is smirking again. “You want to disturb Adam the first time he’s not mopey and insufferable in a year?”
“I’ll come with you,” Henry says, all too eager to leave Bram behind.
Or maybe he offers to accompany me because he knows.
About Adam. It’s his fault we’re in this situation in the first place…
Last December I asked Henry what he meant by that, but his response was vague.
And then last week, when I asked if he thought Adam might have said something incriminating to the doctor, he practically hung up on me.
Could Henry also be worried about what Adam might do?
He passes me, his fingers brushing mine. It’s a subtle gesture, not meant for Bram to see, but my hopes soar. Could it mean he doesn’t regret last Saturday and whatever nearly happened between us?
He leads the way, and we pass Lydia in the formal dining room, talking to Liam. Her eyes are glued to an antique clock as she asks, “Can you believe this place? How much do you think something like that is worth?”