ROSALIE
TUESDAY, JANUARY 23
Amanda should probably still be in bed with an endless supply of fluids and The O.C. on streaming, but instead she’s across the street at Carter’s welcome home party while I’m stationed in the Kelly’s living room, cordless phone in my lap. My whole body is tense, waiting for it to ring. I try to settle into the silence, but I’m restless, mind retracing the past six hours.
I got Amanda’s email at the end of school, then took the first bus home. I checked on my bag, still concealed safely in the shed, and grabbed my bike. My parents think I’m staying with Elissa tonight, one more lie, but soon, I’ll tell them everything. Tonight we put a stop to Private, and then I move on with my life. On my terms.
Amanda filled me in on the rest when I got to her house. Last night, when she didn’t return to the benefit, her mother went looking and found her daughter passed out cold in the parking lot, slouched across the front seat of her car.
They pumped her stomach and found about .6 fluid ounces of alcohol and trace amounts of two prescription drugs: a heavy sedative and something used to treat infections. The doctors at Mercy think her reaction to the dangerous mix was intensified by the lack of food in her stomach. Amanda’s mother seems convinced her daughter’s way of coping with the stress of this past week was to “make poor life decisions regarding drugs and alcohol,” which had Amanda in hiccupping, hysterical laughter when she told me, since I guess her mother is a raging alcoholic.
But what happened seems clear enough. Amanda was drugged by someone who didn’t want her new phone getting to the PI. They managed to delay things overnight, but this morning, her dad drove out to Nathaniel’s office to hand it over.
I paced back and forth across her plush bedroom rug while Amanda refreshed her email, fingers tapping the desk. Two hours before she was due across the street, an email from Nathaniel finally came in. We studied the screen shots; three texts that had just arrived to my phone:
Carter’s welcome home party tonight. You’re not invited, but that won’t stop you, you little party crasher.
When Amanda fulfills her part of the bargain, you’re going to show up with some news of your own for the party boy.
I want my audio recording. I want the truth. If you don’t do what I say, blood will spill.
We stared at Amanda’s laptop screen, and then we stopped talking about Private. The PI is doing his best to unblock the two disguised numbers, and whatever’s going down tonight, it’s going down at the Shaws’. So instead of imagining the worst, we spent a couple hours watching Ryan Atwood and Marissa Cooper fall in love on the Ferris wheel and trying to forget about the ticking clock above Amanda’s bed.
At eight, I helped her pick out a green cocktail dress and heels and watched her unclasp the necklace she always wears and slip it into her dresser drawer. Then Amanda went across the street to keep a close eye on Ben, leaving me in her living room with Nathaniel Krausse on speed dial.
I sink into the Kelly’s plush couch and wait. I don’t love the idea of being split up, but with both our phones gone, someone has to be reachable on the landline. From their living room, I have a clear view of Ben’s car, which is conveniently out of the shop and parked down the block. It gleams in the yellow streetlamp light. Our strategy is simple: Amanda keeps watch inside, and I’m on alert for anything suspicious outside. Mostly, we’re both hoping the PI comes through with some solid digital evidence before Private makes a move.
My finger twitches across the phone’s keypad. Maybe I should call Nathaniel now, tell him to get over here. Amanda is certain it’s Ben behind everything, but as much as I want to believe her, as suspicious as he is, I’m still not entirely convinced he’s acting alone. Which is why before I biked into Logansville, I dug out Amanda’s pink sticky note and asked the PI to keep an eye on Paulina tonight.
Just in case.
I shiver despite the blasting heat and roaring gas fire. If I’m right, it’s a necessary precaution. But if I’m wrong, I am officially the worst girlfriend ever.
I stare across the street at the Shaw estate. The house and lawn glow bright against the winter dark. People are still arriving, filling the massive horseshoe driveway and lining the street with their cars. This must be the Shaws’ idea of an “intimate gathering.” My eyes travel to the only car I really need to watch, the gray Ford parked half a block away.
When the Kelly’s phone rings, I almost drop it.
“Hello?”
“Rosalie Bell? This is Nathaniel Krausse.”
“This is Rosalie.” My breath catches. Please let it be that he unblocked one of the numbers. Please let this be over.
“Paulina Flores is on the move. Black Honda Civic headed into Logansville, male driver, early twenties. I’m following.”
“That’s her brother’s car.” A giant knot forms in my throat. “Ramon Flores.”
“Sit tight, Rosalie. I’ll be in touch.”