Chapter Seven

I’d never seen a keg before. Sure, my sister liked to pack our brownstone with hospital employees and boxed wine, but there was never a giant metal keg submerged in a plastic tub of ice. Kids were actually chugging beer upside down in handstands at the tap, as friends held their legs up. All that was missing were letterman jackets and a dance-off in the living room, then Wyatt’s place could double as the set of a teen movie.

“Americans are strange when it comes to alcohol,” said Marcus as we shoved our way through a McMansion packed with classmates gripping red plastic cups.

“Yeah, well, you probably got wine in your baby bottle,” I teased.

“Sí, and it was delicious.”

Just then, the sound of vomiting pulled my attention, and I turned to catch a girl from my English class retching into a black plastic trash can in a home office. Her friend was holding back her long hair, and I instinctively tucked a lock behind my ear. I felt like an intruder. I had never been invited to a party before, at least not one that didn’t include birthday candles and ice cream. The last time I saw these people was at Tyson’s funeral, while I was still claiming my sister was dead. Now they knew the truth; they saw it on the news. They probably saw Regina’s videos, too. They knew I was a liar. What else did they think?

I adjusted my sunglasses, which was the entirety of my masterful disguise, that and a ponytail. I was a female Clark Kent hoping not to get recognized by kids who likely consumed more celebrity news than water. They’d probably seen my picture a thousand times and knew exactly where my sister was having dinner with Ridge Utley tonight.

Though I didn’t know who I’d be finding when I returned to England—my sister had somehow morphed from a girl who didn’t want Marcus to brush her elbow to a girl who “canoodled” in candlelit restaurants. I needed to get back before things got worse.

We squished through the dining room, thudding bass pumping from a sound system and rattling my rib cage. Everyone around me was shouting the lyrics to a hip-hop song I didn’t recognize. It had come to this—I no longer knew popular American music. I didn’t know how to party. I wasn’t even wearing the right jeans; mine were skinny and tucked into boots, and every other girl’s were cropped and rolled above booties. This bothered me more than it should, making me feel like a scientist observing “American teens in their natural habitat.” I was supposed to be one of them.

“Wyatt! Get in here!” a guy shouted and my head immediately swung toward the magic name.

In the kitchen, standing behind a gray marble counter, was half the starting lineup of Brookline Academy’s baseball team. In front of them were rows of red cups, each partially filled with beer. One cup was missing its person.

“All right, let’s do this!” shouted a familiar voice as Wyatt entered the room, thick arms stretched overhead as he bounced on his toes like a boxer under spotlights. Black armpit hair escaped the holes of his T-shirt, matching the stubble on his chin. I swore he was at least five years older than the rest of us.

“We got this!” his buddy cheered, patting his back with a solid thud. “One, two, three!”

The crowd erupted as guys frantically chugged beers, rivers of amber liquid trailing the sides of their mouths. I watched as Wyatt’s massive Adam’s apple slid up and down, gulping, barely a drop on his chin. Spectators cheered, their voices filled with such fury you would have thought you were watching an Olympic finals event. Then Wyatt put down his empty drink and reached out a finger, and flipped his cup over on the first try. It was as good as a buzzer shot.

“I am the greatest!” he shouted, grabbing the plastic cup and crumpling it in his hairy fist.

Friends pounded his back, high-fiving, looking prepared to hoist him onto their shoulders and do a victory lap around the house. My eyes rolled at the scene.

Then a girl turned my way.

“Holy shit,” she spat, coughing a splatter of beer into her fist. “Anastasia Phoenix?”

The kitchen went from deafeningly loud, to quiet enough for a Latin mass. All drunken eyes landed on me.

“Whoa.”

“Holy crap.”

“How drunk am I?”

Wyatt burped disgustingly, mouth wide and uncovered. “Our very own wannabe celebrity. No, wait, that’s her sister.” He glared at me. “I heard she’s banging a soap star now.”

“It’s so good to see you.” I faked a smile, wanting to punch him in the face.

“And you brought empanada, though I don’t remember inviting either of you.”

“If he calls me empanada one more time, I’m diving across this counter,” Marcus murmured under his breath, looking like he meant it. I almost wanted to let him do it. I might even help.

Instead, I said, “We need to talk about Regina.”

“Oh, so you remember her? I wasn’t sure.” Wyatt raised a dark, bushy eyebrow, scowling across the marble counter like I had no right to ask questions about her, like he was somehow morally superior. I might have done a lot of things this past year to warrant an avalanche of guilt, but there was no way I was going to be friendship-shamed by a bona fide bully.

“Do you know where she is?” I cut to the point.

“Who are you talking about? That Asian girl you hooked up with?” asked one of his buddies.

“The one who makes the videos,” replied another.

“She dated the kid who died,” a girl added.

Seriously? The kid who died? That’s how they talked about their classmate being murdered. If it were Wyatt found in that alley, the school would probably erect a monument the next day. There would be emergency assemblies, a fund-raiser for his family, and sporting events held in his honor. They’d name the baseball field after him and start a scholarship program. But no, Tyson was “a kid who died” who dated “that Asian girl.” They didn’t even say their names.

Are you kidding me?

My face twisted and Wyatt leaned forward, not quite smirking but looking like he wanted to.

“You want my help?” He huffed. “Usually, when people go missing, or dead, you’re the one involved.”

The entire crowd flinched back, fists to their mouths, hissing and humming like Wyatt had thrown the greatest insult my way—like it was somehow cool to burn someone about the death of people they loved. How many generations can empathy skip? My eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. I couldn’t have this conversation in a crowded kitchen with ignorant strangers feeling like they had the right to take part.

“Can we talk someplace else?” I asked, the pendant light illuminating my one-woman show.

Wyatt nodded in agreement. “Fine. Let’s go outside.” He gestured to his back deck.

Marcus clutched my shoulder, and we followed him out the door.

Standing outside in February, in Boston, at night, is not exactly conducive to a lengthy conversation. My teeth were chattering so hard, I was afraid I might slice off my tongue.

“So you’ve been hanging out with Regina?” I asked, my words freezing in the air.

I wrapped my arms around my chest and rubbed my puffy sleeves with gloved hands. Wyatt was wearing a Red Sox T-shirt and no coat, as if he didn’t notice the temperature. There weren’t even goose bumps on his bare skin, which meant he was either a) a fantastic actor, b) so drunk he couldn’t feel anything, or c) one of those athletes who plays in Wisconsin in sub-zero temperatures wearing short sleeves and claims that it’s so much fun. I was betting on a mixture of b and c.

“Yeah, Gina and I hooked up.” He shrugged as though it was no big deal. When really, Tyson had been her only boyfriend, ever, and she was deeply in love with him. Casually hooking up wasn’t something she did, at least not the Regina I knew.

“Gina? Since when does she go by Gina?” I grimaced.

“I dunno. It’s what I call her.”

“And what did she call you? Wy-Wy?” I mocked.

Marcus snorted beside me, and Wyatt shot him a look.

“Fine. Guess I’ll go back to my party now.” Wyatt turned toward the back door, his heavy tread rattling the deck’s frozen wood beams. I grabbed his biceps with my gloved hand; he felt like a frozen rib roast, completely solid.

“Sorry. I didn’t realize you and Gina had nicknames,” I said, remembering the photo of them kissing. The thought of their tongues touching made my stomach want to hurl up my dinner.

“It wasn’t a big deal. She liked ‘Gina.’ It went with the look.”

“Yeah, I saw the videos—quite a makeover.”

Wyatt tilted his head. “Death has a way of making people go dark.”

It was probably the most profound thing Wyatt Burns had ever said, and he was right. I chopped off my hair after my parents died, and Keira dyed hers platinum. I fell into a complete depressive funk when Keira disappeared, and I didn’t leave my bed for weeks. It made sense that Tyson’s death would have the same effect on Regina. It was such a familiar desperate feeling—wanting to control something, anything, and if you couldn’t control the world, at least you could control your body, your hair, your dangerous ramblings on the internet. I wished I could have helped her, given her some answers, shown her I was trying to avenge Tyson’s death, destroy a criminal organization, and confront the truth about my parents. Only I told her nothing, thinking I was protecting her, and now she was missing anyway.

“How did you guys get mixed up with Sophia Urban?”

Wyatt eyed me like he was considering my motives. The day Wyatt Burns can read my face is the day I give up and become a shut-in with twelve cats. I refused to share his wavelength. “I didn’t know who she was. I don’t watch the news, aside from ESPN,” he said this like it was obvious (it was). “She was Gina’s friend, and she didn’t come around often. Hot piece of ass.” He looked at Marcus, like of course, a guy would agree. To Marcus’s credit, his face stayed flat. Thank God.

“So Regina and Sophia were friends?” I asked. “How did they meet? When? Where?”

“Why would I know?” Wyatt’s nose wrinkled. “Gina and I hooked up a few times, it wasn’t like I was interested in her childhood pets or hopes and dreams.”

Yeah, because having a conversation with a girl could be so annoying when all you really wanted was to feel her boobs. God, she had to be really depressed, I told myself. Maybe it was better that they didn’t talk. Maybe it meant they had no actual bond. “So you and Regina hardly knew each other?”

“Oh, I’d say I knew her intimately.” He slipped his tongue through his teeth.

“What is wrong with you?” I cringed, averting my eyes.

“You’re proud of yourself for taking advantage of her?” Marcus’s voice was cold.

My chest lifted, and I squeezed the ring on my finger. There are guys who kiss and tell, and there are guys who kiss you because they mean it, so no words are necessary. Every girl deserves the latter. I had him.

“Seriously, empanada?” Wyatt shot him a look. “Didn’t you jump into her pants while her sister was still a blood bath?”

“Puta madre, you don’t know anything,” Marcus cursed, moving within inches of Wyatt, which only served to emphasize their size difference. While Marcus was brave, and strong, I was guessing Wyatt’s skill at hitting balls translated to hitting faces.

I squeezed between them, placing a hand on each of their chests and pushing them apart. “Stop,” I insisted, cutting Marcus a look. As much as we both wanted to see a few of Wyatt’s teeth land on the deck, I still had questions to ask. “So you have no idea where Sophia may have taken Regina?”

“Taken?” Wyatt spat like the word was ridiculous. “I’ll tell you exactly what I told the police. Regina wasn’t abducted by aliens. She. Left. Home. Plain and simple. She even left a note!”

“It was two-sentences on a Post-it,” I countered. “Who knows why she wrote it?”

“I do. I was there.” He looked at me like I was an idiot, which was fitting because it was exactly how I felt at the moment.

Wyatt was a part of Regina’s inner circle? Who was this girl? She went from a quirky rebellious atheist, to the girl who would call out a room full of mourners at her boyfriend’s funeral, attack Keira and me in viral videos, and kiss this dickwad. I hated to admit it, but yes, I needed Wyatt Burns to explain my best friend to me, because I clearly didn’t know her at all.

“Why did she leave?” I asked.

“Why do you think? Your girl was sick of people telling her what to do, and pretending like they cared. She was sick of Boston and all the shit that went down here. She was ranting on the internet all the time, making friends with those conspiracy geeks. She was obsessed, and honestly, I tuned her out most of the time. It was annoying.” He snorted at the memory, like she was a hysterical woman. I shoved my hands into my coat pockets to keep from reacting. On his face. “Then she started hanging out with Sophia, which made sense because, as far as I could tell, Sophia was the only person in the world who hated you more than Gina did.”

So Regina does hate me. I knew that, obviously. I heard it in her voice, but it wasn’t the same as listening to the words come out of Wyatt Burns’s mouth. It was like all five of his fat fingers smacked my cheek, and though I saw it coming, it still stung. “They talked about me?”

“Uh, yeah. All the time,” he replied, sounding like this was a huge understatement. “Sophia was as into Regina’s videos as she was.”

What did Sophia want with her? Clearly, it was some ploy to get to me. But if she wanted to talk to me, she could walk right up to Julian’s compound—she knew where he lived, he was Sophia’s ex-boyfriend. Or her grandfather, my bio dad, could send me a message; he already sent childhood photos. What was the point of dragging Regina into this? If they wanted to harm her, they could have by now. Months had gone by since I found my sister, since Tyson’s death. Why now? It was clear that what they really wanted was my parents, so how did Regina possibly help them with that goal?

“Did Sophia convince Regina to leave?” I asked, trying to make sense of things.

“I don’t know whose idea it was, but I doubt Regina needed much convincing. That girl was angry at the world and especially you.” Clearly, he still enjoyed hurting people, and while I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, it was getting harder to breathe. It sucked to be hated. By anyone, but especially by a best friend.

“Since the day you showed up at our school, you’ve been acting like the victim, like everyone should feel sorry for you.” Wyatt inched closer to my face. “But from what I’ve heard from Regina, what’s happened to you, your sister, your friends, you brought on yourself. Your whole family is screwed up.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Marcus nudged his shoulder between Wyatt and me.

“Of course, you’d say that. Your family is as bad as hers.” Wyatt looked him up and down. “Aren’t your parents in jail?”

“No. But if you know so much, then you know we’re involved with some dangerous people,” Marcus hissed. “I’d watch what you say.”

“You threatening me? Because your pathetic family hasn’t met mine. We’ll Burn you.” Wyatt puffed his chest, jerking it toward Marcus like his bad pun was a family motto. It probably was, and they probably had it hand painted on the plates they used to share their steroids.

“Wyatt, I need to know Regina’s all right.” I grabbed his biceps, directing his attention back toward me. “Do you have any idea where she might be? Did she talk about a place? A plan? Anything?”

“Other than destroying you and whoever killed Tyson? Nope.”

“And you’re positive Regina wasn’t kidnapped, because her mom—”

“Her mom doesn’t want to believe her daughter would ever do anything wrong. My Regina, my Regina.” He placed his hand on his heart, mocking her panicked mother’s accented English. I set my jaw.

“Not knowing where your loved one is, not knowing if they’re dead or alive, is horrible,” I explained, the funk still fresh in my brain. Wyatt won every baseball championship and every popularity contest. He lived in a mansion and would ride a free athletic scholarship to college. He didn’t know real problems, and I didn’t have time to explain them. “Is there anything else you know?”

He crossed his arms across his thick chest, the muscles bulging underneath his navy T-shirt. “About where Regina is? No.”

Great. I turned for the back door, ready to cut back through the house and leave, but before I could make it more than two steps on the icy deck, Wyatt continued. “But I did hear a few more things about you.”

I twisted my chin over my shoulder. His voice had the tone of a bully ready to shove my head into a toilet.

“Regina and Sophia talked a lot.” Frozen puffs expelled from his nose like a dragon. “Especially about your parents.”

No kidding, I saw the videos.

“Wyatt, you know nothing about my mom and dad.” I turned back to the door, not wanting to continue this conversation. I’d already gotten the answers I’d come for, and I didn’t want to risk revealing anything Wyatt might spread on social media.

“I know your dad’s not your dad.”

Chills rippled down my back, and not from the winter wind. I stopped dead, boots skidding on the ice. “What?”

“Seems your mom was pretty busy back in the day.”

I spun around.

“People say things around me all the time—they think I’m not paying attention, but I’m not some dumb jock.” He sneered.

“You sure about that?” Marcus grumbled.

“Watch your mouth or your little girlfriend might find her paternity test in the next Tattler.”

“What do you think you know?” The fear in my voice put a smile on his face.

“I know Sophia Urban didn’t like finding out she was related to you. She had a lot to say about that. And you know what? I’m not really the secret-keeping type.”

I didn’t know what it felt like to take a baseball to the gut, but I imagined it was something like this. “Are you blackmailing me?”

“You’d be surprised how much the tabloids pay.”

“I don’t have any money.”

“Oh, I think your friend Julian Stone does. Or I’ll just take a nice chunk of your sister’s cash, you know, for her reality show or book deal, or whatever she’s doing.” Wyatt shrugged with a victorious look. “I’d really like a new car to drive off to college.”

“I can’t help you. That’s not my money.”

“Does it matter? Because I’m pretty sure you can find a way to make it happen, unless you want the world knowing all about you, Anastasia Urban.”

My sister was kidnapped, Tyson was murdered, my parents killed their best friend in front of me, but this truth was the one thing I didn’t want to face. It was like an eraser to my life, forcing me to start over as the child of bin Laden. Look at how much the media harassed Keira now—after the world learned this, we’d both be harassed, we’d both be headlines. What type of lives would we have then?

“What do you want to do?” Marcus whispered in my ear.

What I wanted was to shove my foot so far into Wyatt’s crotch, he’d never be able to walk straight, let alone run the bases. But I didn’t think that would inspire his silence. Actually, I didn’t think anything would. There’s a reason the United States doesn’t negotiate with terrorists—bad guys can’t be trusted to keep their end of the bargain. If Julian paid Wyatt, he’d simply drive his brand new car to the first news outlet he could find and sell my story, getting two paydays in one.

My entire life was at the mercy of this douchebag.

So I did the only thing I could.