TWENTY-SEVEN A POOL PARTY WITH CORPSES
TWENTY-SEVEN
A POOL PARTY WITH CORPSES
“Man, she looks hot. Where the fuck did you collect her from? Lucky bastard.”
I was almost relieved when the brother who picked me up turned out to be Alec—the captain of the hockey team. I’ve seen him around campus and at Dopie’s, the local diner. He has the personality of wet celery, but seems mostly harmless.
I’m less happy about the idea he could be who the Veronians want to partner me up with, but I’ll deal with that later. Once I’m a Veronian.
My biggest fear over the course of the car ride was that a Veronian just collected Wynter from the Sinners’ compound.
Even worse… that the Veronian might be Derek Dyers.
As it stands, this is like a bad sequel of Spy Kids.
The voices are all young, and Alec actually blindfolded me before transferring me to a different vehicle that brought me to wherever I currently am.
Only the fact that I haven’t been arrested for killing Harrington Jr. tells me these guys don’t fuck around.
A murder happened on their property.
No one has questioned me about the guy’s disappearance.
And a body’s gone missing…
The Veronians might make me roll my eyes at their pomp and ceremony, but this is serious, their power is far-reaching, and as much as I mock their rituals, the time for messing around has passed.
The car door opens.
“You can take off the blindfold now.”
Grateful, I comply and stare at the guy—still Alec, but the other’s vanished.
Behind him, there’s what appears to be a country club.
“You should head toward the pool. It’s signposted.”
“What?” I pull a face. “Do you provide swimwear?”
“Giving random people bathing suits is precisely how I want to spend my night,” he deadpans.
“No need to be rude,” I proclaim.
“Look, time’s of the essence. Don’t waste it talking to me.”
Nervous now, I step from the car, thankful that he holds out his hand to help. My skirt is tight and whatever’s about to unfold, I would have preferred to be wearing anything that wasn’t a ballgown.
Still, I shove my annoyances aside and I wise up.
Above the door, there’s a sign for Mt. Palisades Country Club, est. 1896. So, a place that’s well known by locals. If memory serves, we’re halfway between the city and Poughkeepsie and this is a swanky area—mega money.
That in mind, I step inside. The establishment confirms it—it’s luxe and for the local rich fucks.
It’s also deserted.
Not too surprising at this hour, until I see a sign at the back.
Charity Auction
So, a fundraiser.
No way would it empty out this early. The staff might wish members would go home, but that’s highly doubtful at—rather handily, a grandfather clock chimes somewhere—11 PM.
I see the sign for the swimming pool and I follow it. All around me, there’s evidence of a party being held and one that was abandoned abruptly.
Flutes and wineglasses are toppled over—more than usual for a drunken crowd. The floor’s sticky with discarded drinks and the tables are at odd angles, like there was a mass exodus and everyone barged out.
The band’s mic is still buzzing, as if they forgot to turn it off before leaving.
The mirror ball’s turning and it sends refracted rainbows around the empty chamber like the world’s most boring party.
I head deeper into the building and discern the location of the pool outside.
I can see it through a conservatory—steam rises from the surface, telling me it’s heated.
The lights glow and reflect a lovely turquoise off the white building.
My gaze darts to the black mass at the back and I have to reckon that’s a golf course or tennis courts.
But Alec said I had to get to the pool.
“Holy fuck,” I whisper when I see it.
Face down, there’s a body in the water.
Heart pounding, I rush over to him. It’s instinct to grab the lifesaver on the way and to toss it beside him, but he doesn’t move.
Rationally, I know the person’s dead.
But I still grab my skirts, hike them up, and dart to the side where the body’s floating.
I hate to do it, but there’s no way I’m touching the…
I can’t think “corpse.”
I can’t.
Not when I’ve come across a body twice now.
Thankful for my gloves, I manage to drag the person over without getting myself entirely drenched.
The second his face is revealed to me, I almost let go.
Harrington.
I should have known.
I’m almost mad at myself for thinking there’d be no repercussions—talk about na?ve.
His sightless gaze stares straight into my soul, but I force my emotions aside. This is bigger than coming face-to-face with my crimes.
Even though I know the body isn’t fresh, he doesn’t seem to be…
I gag.
Rotting.
There’s no “corpse” smell. Nothing to indicate that he didn’t fall in the water after one too many drinks, nobody noticed, and he just drowned.
Hell, I can smell his aftershave.
He’s wearing a tuxedo, for Christ’s sake.
His shirt collar hides the fact his throat was cut—he’s pristine.
It’s insane.
As soon as I let him go, his body tumbles over, hiding his expression.
“What the fuck is happening?” I moan noiselessly.
I want to panic.
I want to call Maxim.
I want him to fix this for me.
And if Maxim doesn’t answer, then Brennan.
But I can do none of those things.
This is on me.
I have to get myself out of it.
Faking calm, I decide I can freak out later.
If anyone’s eyes are on me, the optics would marginally improve by dragging him from the water and not leaving his corpse floating in the shallow end.
Quickly, I lug him over the steps which, thankfully, are close by.
Unfortunately for me, I’m wet through once he’s propped on the top step looking like an extra from Weekend at Bernies.
Then, I nearly jump out of my skin when someone, somewhere, groans.
“Who’s there?” I shout.
God, talk about faking it until you make it—I don’t even sound petrified.
Reassured by my acting skills and that my mask of calm is firmly in place, I hunt down the source of the noise.
It’s a guy looking worse for wear. He’s wearing a cheap tuxedo, the kind that reminds me of something waitstaff would use. Not a second skin like Maxim’s.
“Are you okay?”
He blinks at me in a daze like he’s focusing and failing, then when my identity registers, he screams.
The scream wakens the dead. Not Harrington, sadly. A fact I swiftly come to regret when cops swarm in from out of nowhere, armed and howling at me.
I should have known it was too good to be true that they let me get away with his murder.
This is my punishment.
Here’s the retribution I asked for.
Before I know it, I’m face down beside the pool, my hands on top of my head.
When I turn to the side to make it easier to breathe, as a cop cuffs me while bleating my Miranda rights, I could almost swear that Harrington’s death mask is grinning at me…