Dana’s ragged voice finds me: “Jo, wake up!” I can hear her outside my room, stumbling down the stairs to my level.
I sit up with a jolt. The room’s dark. My stomach knots. I shove back the covers. “Dana?” I’m hoarse. “What’s wrong?”
The door flies open and the light flicks on. Blinded, I shield my eyes.
“Jo?” In the doorway, Dana is ghoul-faced. “The blackmailer!” With one hand she clings to the doorframe. There’s a piece of paper in the other. “Look!” She shakes it. “Right next to Zoe’s bed!”
I stagger over, dizzy from standing up too quickly. It’s another note, written in thick red marker. “Where are the girls?” My voice is loud with panic.
“In bed. Sleeping.”
I exhale. “And the twins?”
“They’re fine. I locked the doors to all the kids’ rooms.”
“Okay,” I say. “Good thinking.”
Dana’s trembling. “We need the police, Jo! Someone broke in! They could’ve—”
“What? No!” I’m near enough to smell her lemony lotion—and her breath, sour with wine. “What does it say?” I snatch the note from her hands and read it. Bank details and a threat: not paying is not an option.
“Fuck,” I say. I peer into the hallway. “We need to search the house. Now.”
She doesn’t react. I grab her arm and push her into the hall. “Where are Stan’s golf clubs?”
“What?”
“His golf clubs!”
“The, um, storeroom.” She looks to the end of the hall.
I rush toward it. “Come on. Hurry.” There are three sets of golf clubs. I extract two large drivers and hand one to Dana. “Should we split up?”
This gets her attention: “Hell no!”
She grips my arm as we search this floor of the massive house. There’s nothing here.
We quietly climb the stairs. Halfway up, Dana stumbles. I yank her up. Is she in shock or just drunk? We reach the main floor.
I go to switch the lights on but stop. I recall the back patio, and the sounds in the bushes. If Ryan were outside watching, with the lights on, he would see us.
And if he’s inside, the lights won’t help us.
* * *
In the hall closet, I find a flashlight. We move from room to room. In a house this big, there are a million hiding places.
“I think they’re gone,” says Dana. She’s got the golf club in one hand and the note in the other.
“Maybe,” I say. I push open the door to Stan’s study. We both step inside.
Something moves in the darkness. I yelp, ready to swing. Dana grabs me. “Stop!” she squeals. “It’s the cat!”
Toonces advances and slinks around her ankles. I scan the room’s windows. The one facing the cedar bushes lies open. “Look!” I say. The sash is raised a good five inches.
Dana shakes her head. “But it can’t be! I set the alarm.”
I push past her and stride to the window. I look out. It’s too dark to see anything. I yank the window down and lock it. “You can’t have,” I say flatly. She’s drinking too much, getting careless.
“I did,” she cries. “I . . . I . . .” Her voice wobbles to nothing. I feel like screaming. Now’s not the time to give her shit. That can come later.
Heart hammering, I peer under Stan’s desk. I swipe my golf club under the sofa. Toonces leaps onto Stan’s chair, fat but agile. His tail swishes, indignant.
It’s past five by the time we’re done searching all the rooms. Morning, although it’s still dark. Dana looks limp. I lead her down to the kitchen. It’s freezing. Not one single room in this house feels safe or cozy. I almost miss my shitty apartment.
“Want tea?” I ask tiredly. Tea was my mother’s cure-all.
“Coffee, please.” Dana leans her golf club against the counter, sinks onto a barstool, and sets down the blackmail note.
I don’t answer. This is all her fault. She should be making me coffee.
I brew some coffee, then sit beside her. I feel wrung out: overtired and hung over. Last night’s wine was so tasty. I’m not much of a drinker. Or maybe stress has caused this headache. “Who knows your alarm’s code?” I ask.
Dana stares at her mug, slack faced.
Anger pounds through me. When I found the note in Ruby’s room, she didn’t seem that perturbed. Now it’s happened to her, and she’s catatonic. “Dana?” I say sharply.
She hangs her head. “The boys know the code, but . . . I . . . I’m sorry. The alarm . . . I thought I set it, but . . .”
I take a sip, force myself to calm down. But. That means she didn’t. I grit my teeth. “I’m not mad at you.” This is untrue. “I’m just . . .”
She nods, eyes downcast. “I know.” Her voice quakes. “Who could do this? First your place and now here? It’s so brazen.” She bites the inside of her cheek. “Do you think it was Gemma Costin?”
I stare at the note on the counter. The red marker has bled into the paper. “Could a sixteen-year-old pull this off?” I ask. My sinuses throb. “Why a bank transfer this time?”
“Last time was a test,” says Dana. She sounds bitter. “A game. They just wanted to watch us creep around in the dark. To get off on our panic.”
I’m croaky. “Yeah. We should’ve realized.” I sip hot coffee. Blackmailers have moved with the times. “Paying in cash seems outdated.”
I scan the room. Everything’s white and silver. The chrome counters belong in a morgue. And I hate the tall dark windows. Anyone outside could see us huddled at this counter. I cough. Anyone—like Ryan Reeve.
I try to stare outside but see only our reflections. We look pale and insubstantial, a pair of ghost women.
Dana’s reflection shudders. “They were in the girls’ room—Zoe! I thought she was . . .” Her transparent face collapses.
I look away from the window, back to my friend.
Her head’s in her hands. “I can’t not pay,” she says. “I just can’t. This dread’s killing me. What if they’d hurt them?” She peers at me, hollow-eyed. “What should I do?”
I set down my mug sloppily. Coffee sloshes onto the shiny counter. It’s not fair, her asking me: it’s not my money. I’m scared too. I want to cry. I know I sound resentful. “No idea. It’s your decision.”
She takes a deep breath. “No. We’re in this together.”
I push back my stool and stand. I’m too wound up to stay still. I walk to the picture window and breathe deeply. The stars are still out, so vast yet so small. They shine, cold and pure.
I turn back to Dana. “What if paying doesn’t help?”
She stares at her hands. I don’t think she even heard. “I’m going to pay,” she says. “I need to do something!”
I don’t respond. What’s there to say? It’s her choice, after all.
Dana’s voice shakes. “Our girls! This was the last straw.” Fresh tears fill her eyes. “Who could hate me this badly?”
I shake my head in frustration. “It’s about money. People do terrible things for money! Kids get killed for their sneakers!”
Dana shudders. “That’s—” Her voice breaks. “Awful.”
She sounds indignant, so out of touch with reality. But then she is—in the exclusive Oaks, behind the tall walls of her mansion.
“Three million dollars should keep them happy for a while.” I scan the yard, looking for movement, then spin back to Dana. “And whoever it is will start spending.”
“So we watch and wait?” she says. “See who’s had a windfall? Like Ryan?” She looks toward the Reeves’ mansion. Her voice thins with fury. “If he’s behind this, I’ll kill him! Pretending to miss me. What a wacko!”
I shrug. I don’t want to think about Ryan Reeve. I recall the sounds in the bushes. Probably just a raccoon or Toonces. But what if it wasn’t? I won’t feel safe until Ryan’s in jail.
I’m gazing at the Milky Way when a shooting star flares by. I gasp, momentarily joyful.
“What is it?” says Dana, freshly anxious.
I turn and smile. “A shooting star.”
She rubs her forehead. “Did you make a wish?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, don’t tell me,” she says. “Or it won’t come true.”
I look back at the sky, thinking of all the people who’ve wished on stars over the millennia. Most of them are long gone, along with their wishes. And shooting stars aren’t really stars, just chunks of rock burning up. We’re witnessing their demise.
And yet I recall the bright gash where that star sliced the sky. I deserve a wish.
I shut my eyes.