Chapter 4
“We can never have children!” I shouted over the music.
Cupping a hand to one ear, Bobby shouted back, “What?”
I couldn’t answer, though, because a pair of boys came galloping toward us in a piggy-back.
A house party had seemed like a good idea.
In fact, it had seemed like a great idea.
I mean, Keme basically already lived at Hemlock House.
And now that he was legally an adult, he could officially move in—if that’s what he wanted.
So, offering up Hemlock House for all of Keme’s friends, for one night, for a few hours, had seemed like the right thing to do.
Besides, I was pretty sure Keme had never, in his entire life, gotten to host a party, and I wanted to do that for him.
On the other hand: teenagers.
If I’d thought the paintball melee had been pandemonium, I’d clearly set the bar too low. Teenagers were pandemonium. Particularly teenagers who mistakenly believed there was no adult supervision.
A group of jock types were running down the hall and trying to jump high enough to grab—and, presumably, swing on—one of the chandeliers.
A skinny little white girl had found the dart set and was trying to turn her friend (another skinny white girl) into a pincushion.
A weaselly boy was pretending to ride a taxidermy marmoset.
(I think it was a marmoset.) And my God, the number of vapes.
In nothing but mesh shorts and a pullover, Bobby didn’t look particularly threatening.
(He did, however, look like a total snack.) But he was starting to develop a tic, and I realized if I didn’t do something soon, he’d probably call in a SWAT team.
If Hastings Rock had a SWAT team. I mean, if they did, Bobby was probably on it, because those thighs—
I realized, too late, that I was staring. And he was watching me stare.
“Later,” Bobby shouted. “This first.”
“I wasn’t—” I said. “I didn’t—” And then, too late “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He didn’t even bother to reply, which, all things considered, was honestly a relief.
He strode off—a slight hitch in his step because of, well, his war wound.
Without breaking his pace, he collared a blond boy in a rugby shirt who was trying to swing a pool cue like a baseball bat.
He said something that made the boy release the pool cue, stand ramrod straight, and then—honest to God—throw a shaky salute to Bobby.
And not in a smartass way—the poor kid looked like he was about to burst into tears.
Okay, I thought. I can do that.
I caught a group of them—clearly the popular kids, with a dark-haired little TikTok starlet who was obviously the ringleader—trying to break into the liquor cabinet.
“Get away from that!” I said.
The kids traded looks, and the starlet said, “Uh, this party isn’t for old people.”
“It’s my house,” I said. “And that’s my liquor cabinet. I don’t want to have to ask you to leave—Keme would be disappointed.”
“Who?”
Fortunately, at that point, Indira swooped in. She didn’t even say anything—she didn’t have to. The kids bolted.
“Thanks,” I said. “I mean, I totally had that under control—”
Bobby trotted up to us. “There’s a group of them jumping off the roof. And we’ve got a couple rounding second base in the coat closet.”
“Oh my God,” I said. “Wait, which one is second base? Is that, uh, the nethers?”
Bobby looked like he might be reconsidering his choice to date me, but thankfully, Indira said, “I’ll take the ones on the roof.”
“I’ll purge the coat closet,” Fox said. They had popped up out of nowhere, and they were carrying what appeared to be a squirt gun. (A Super Soaker Splashmouth, to be precise.)
“Raccoon at twelve o’clock,” Bobby said—to me, of all people, because now there was nobody else. As he jogged off, he called, “I’ll put out the fire in the backyard.”
“What fire?” I called after him.
But I immediately stopped worrying about it because I realized that meant I had to take care of the raccoon.
It didn’t get any better from there. I scared the raccoon off.
(Well, he scared me off, but then he ran out of the house, so it was still a win.) We busted kids with vapes.
We busted kids trying to sneak in a beer bong (even though there wasn’t any beer).
I gave an impassioned lecture (that made me go hoarse) about listening to music at safe volumes.
(Nobody heard me.) I watched a girl puke up a Funyun—whole! !!—into an antique vase.
At ten o’clock, I found Bobby. The tic was gone, and he looked grimly pleased with himself. Because of course he did. Because he had, after all, chosen to become a cop.
“Last call,” Bobby said. “Tell Keme we’re about to give his friends the bum’s rush.”
“Where is Keme?” I asked. “I haven’t seen him all night.”
Bobby opened his mouth to answer. And then worry tightened his features, and he set off at a jog.
(I settled for a brisk walk.)
We found Keme outside, and we saw him before he saw us.
He was wearing one of his ragged hoodies, a familiar pair of threadbare shorts, his cracked slides.
His long hair was loose, and it blew in his face every time the wind picked up, but he didn’t seem to notice.
He was pacing, mumbling to himself and clutching a bouquet, and I recognized the familiar brand of adolescent terror in his blank eyes.
“Oh my God,” I said, and my heart gave a squeeze that was somewhere between pain and happiness.
Bobby said a word he cannot say on duty.
“He’s going to tell her,” I whispered. “He’s going to tell Millie.” And then I took in Keme again, more carefully this time, and I said, “Bobby, we’ve got to help him.”