THE NEXT DAY, I made it a point to go to school, mostly because when you’re on academic probation and you start skipping class, the school calls your house before your first-period chair is even cool.
I knew they had called my dad because when I woke up he had left a note on the bathroom counter for me in his uneven, all-capital-letters script: WE NEED TO TALK.
I rolled my eyes and wadded up the note, tossed it into the trash can. The last thing I had time for was to make my father feel like a legitimate dad with some schmucky talk about staying in school and trying my hardest and blah, blah, blah. He would lecture me for a few minutes, feel guilty about it, try to make up by being my friend, and then disappear on another shoot.
Sometimes I wished my mom was around to yell at me about stuff. I would’ve taken the yelling over not having her at all.
I couldn’t remember a lot about my mom. She had long, dark hair and prominent cheekbones, just like mine, and she was really pretty. She had a job, but if I ever went there with her, I couldn’t remember it. Most of my memories of her were of warm days sitting outside, sipping sodas together while I showed off cartwheels or how high I could swing or whatever dopey little-kid thing I wanted to show off. She always laughed. Always indulged me. I literally could not remember a single time of ever being in trouble with my mom. But probably that was just because my brain chose to wipe out those memories after she died. Was murdered.
My mom never went to college—I knew that much for sure—but I was pretty sure she graduated high school, which would make her one up on me if I didn’t get my act together. Sometimes I liked to pretend that she had synesthesia, too, and that was why she didn’t go to college. Sometimes I liked to pretend that the colors I saw when emotions hit me out of nowhere were sent by her to help me make sense of them—an astral gift. But on some level I supposed I knew that wasn’t true, because I’d always seen those colors, even before she was gone.
Had I ever told her about my colors? I couldn’t remember. But I didn’t think so.
I showered and dressed, trying not to think about what would happen if my path crossed Vee’s today at school. Would she suspect I had stolen her laptop, or would she just assume she’d lost it? Part of me would have almost welcomed her questioning me, though. He letting you pretend you’re screwing for love?
I’d spent most of the night before combing Vee’s Facebook page for information. Anything I could sink my teeth into. Anything that would make sense out of what had happened with Peyton. But all her page turned up were a lot of links to indie punk bands and some snarky articles that were supposed to be funny. Her private messages were pretty much wiped clean, and her friends only talked about getting wasted and missing Viral Fanfare. When are you going to play again? seemed to be the question everyone was asking. Vee’s answer, across the board, was simply idk . . . idk . . . idk. Vee didn’t have nearly as many friends as Peyton, and from what I could tell, hadn’t really had any interaction with Peyton in weeks.
I’d gone to bed exhausted and confused, giving up.
But by morning I was refreshed, ready to try again. So Vee didn’t like Facebook. Fine. I tried all the others—Twitter, Instagram, even the photo-sharing site Peyton had been using—but nothing. Finally, desperate, I pulled up her email account. I needed a password. Great.
I sat back in my desk chair, trying to channel Vee’s mind. I didn’t know enough about her to know what she would choose as a password.
I tried “ViralFanfare” and got nothing.
I tried just “Viral” and just “Fanfare.” Nope, and nope.
Tapping my fingernails on my desk, I thought some more. I tried “punk,” “punkrocker,” and “punkgirl,” and was still locked out.
I was just about to give up, when out of desperation I typed in “BlackDaisy.”
To my surprise, the account opened.
It was full of junk. Spam. Notices from bands. Invitations to connect on various social media. Newsletters. The occasional assignment email from a teacher or another student. Nothing worth seeing.
I was just about to log out and give up completely when an email from Peyton caught my eye. The subject was “Big Break!!!!!” and it had been sent two months ago. I opened it, noting that the email had gone to Vee, Gibson, and someone else named SethMonster123.
You guys,
I did it. I got my shithead father to finally agree to call in some favors and get us in front of that guy I told you about. Guess maybe there’s hope for the daddy from hell after all. Don’t tell him or he’ll just go off on another one of his power trips and probably try to make us all wear matching uniforms or something. I’m still working on him about the lyrics, tho, I promise. He’s so greedy—even the lyrics we wrote together have to have the Bill Hollis stamp of approval. He’s gotten some lawyer on it, but I promise, Gib, I will make sure the guy adds your name to them. Even if I have to pay him myself.
So here’s the deal. Leo is on a project until October, and then he can meet with us. Right now we’re saying Clear Lake on the 23rd at two p.m. Work for you? It better, because this is our only shot. I would not expect the great and powerful Bill to do us any more favors. It’s sort of a miracle he did this much for us. I mean, without the press watching, at least.
You guys, can you believe it? Getting in front of Leo is, like, impossible. It’s your ticket out of Brentwood, Gib! And maybe I can finally tell Vanessa I don’t need her. I can get my own acting job.
Oh, and btw, I have some new songs for us. I’ve run them by my father and he said they’re right up Leo’s alley. I’ll bring them tomorrow.
P
I reread the email. The name Leo kept sticking out at me. After a minute of trying to place it, I went to the hamper and pulled out the jeans I’d worn the day before, then rummaged through the back pocket for the business card I’d taken from Gibson’s apartment.
“‘Leo Powers,’” I read aloud. “That’s where I’ve heard of you before.”
I Googled Leo Powers, the search turning up what I’d already guessed. Leo Powers was a record producer, known for signing huge punk bands like Salt and Vinegar, Dead Man Bitches, and Ello. Leo Powers took grungy kids and turned them into stars.
I checked Vee’s search history and found a website for Clear Lake, a recording studio on Burbank Boulevard.
What about the meeting? one of the guys had asked at Gibson’s apartment. We go. We don’t need her, the other one had answered.
I reread the email for a third time. October 23. Today. If that was the meeting they were talking about, I wondered who would be there. All of Viral Fanfare except Peyton?
I had time, so I grabbed a cigarette, opened my window, and sat on the ledge. The morning air was never as satisfying as night air, even if it was as crisp and cool. But still, the cigarette helped calm my nerves and sharpen my focus.
I tried to imagine what Dru was doing at that moment. Was he awake, staring at a jail wall, or was he home, sleeping it off in his big mansion? Once again I found myself wondering what the hell I was doing. He was a Hollis—so many miles out of my league I couldn’t even see the dugout—and he’d just been arrested for attacking his own sister. Not to mention he put out a serious sketchy vibe half the time. But there was something between us that I couldn’t ignore. A pull. I couldn’t stay away.
Too soon, I was down to the filter, so I flicked my butt into the rocks and bushes below (those damned gardeners!) and lit a second one, checking the time. I would have to smoke fast if I was going to make it to first-period economics class. God, more numbers. Just what I fucking needed.
JONES WAS WAITING for me. Only this time he was smart—waiting for me right outside my classroom door rather than by my locker. He’d apparently figured out that the locker was a high-visibility area and I could see him before he could see me. But the classroom was at the very end of a basement hallway, tucked into a little alcove. I couldn’t see him until I was right on top of him. No chance of running away.
I groaned. His shoulders were hunched practically to his ears. I knew Jones well enough to know that he was pissed. My mind lit up with blinding red. What the hell was going on?
He pushed off from the wall as soon as he saw me and shifted so he was in my way.
“Not now, Jones, I’m going to be late.” I tried to edge around him, but he moved with me. He smelled delicious, like sweat and soap and cloves. But even smelling delicious wasn’t enough to make me want to talk to him.
“Dru Hollis?” he said, ducking to speak conspiratorially.
I bumped my shoulder into his and stepped back, irritated. “What about him?”
“You hooked up with him,” he said. Not a question; a statement.
My mouth dropped open of its own will. I was so shocked to hear him say it out loud, I didn’t have time or the presence of mind to cover it. Still, I tried. “Who told you that?”
He gestured around the hallway. “Everyone is talking about the two of you. You’ve been hanging out with him. You dumped me for Hollis? He’s so . . . skeevy,” he said, a look of disgust pinching his face. “I never would have taken you for someone to get all caught up in that kind of thing.”
“First, I didn’t dump you for him,” I said. “His sister is in the hospital, and I’m helping him find out who did it. We didn’t . . . hook up. You’ll have to get your rocks off on some other little fantasy.” I bumped him harder and actually made it past him. “Second, not that it’s any of your business at all even if we did.”
“That’s the thing,” he said, talking at my back, but in a desperate catching-up way. “Some people are saying he’s the one who did it. Somebody said he’s already in jail for it. It’s on the news.”
My gut twisted at those words. On some level, I knew Jones had a point, and I hated him for it. “Whatever. Since when do you sit around gossiping so much, Jones? It’s a bad look for you.” I turned, looked him up and down with a sneer. “Very unmanly.”
He grabbed my arm to stop me. I shot his hand an impatient look. Two girls pushed past us into the classroom, their eyes big, their heads together as they whispered. Were they whispering about Jones holding on to my arm, or was the gossip all about Dru and Nikki hooking up over Peyton’s hospital bed? I thought I could probably guess which it was.
“What do you want, Jones? Yes, we hooked up, okay? Will that finally make you get the hint?”
“Listen,” he said. “This may make me stupid, but I care about you, Nikki. I don’t want you getting into something you can’t handle. Dru Hollis is not good for you. He will hurt you.”
I twisted my fist upward against his thumb and wrenched my arm out of his hand. “And you’re here to save me, is that it? News flash, Jones. I don’t get hurt and I don’t need saving,” I said through clenched teeth. “I can handle Dru Hollis and anyone else who comes my way. Including you. But thanks for the concern.”
Jones seemed to take in what I said slowly, almost as if he were only now fully digesting what I’d been telling him for weeks. It was over. Finished. Forever. I almost felt bad for him as I saw his heart slowly break in front of me, almost as if it were shutting down piece by piece. He straightened, let his hands drop at his sides, and nodded.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said.
“I always know what I’m doing,” I answered, though an annoying lump had formed in the back of my throat, the slate of nerves—nagging that maybe, just maybe, I didn’t know this time. I was stealing laptops and dangling from balconies, and living with all this bumpy black and gray all the time, and worst of all, sleeping with a guy I knew absolutely nothing about. Except the one thing I did know for sure about him—he was a suspect in the attempted murder of his own sister.
“A few weeks ago, I was at the Hollises’,” Jones said, as I tried to make my way into the classroom. I stopped, curious. He looked eager, excited to have a reason to keep talking to me. Did Jones really care about Dru hurting me, or was this just more of the same—Jones trying to get me back? I guessed it was the latter, but if he had information, I was willing to play along to get it out of him, whatever his motives.
“You were at the mansion?”
He nodded. “Huge party. Dru bought the alcohol. Maybe the drugs, too, I don’t know. There was plenty of Molly there. Some blond chick was selling it. Peyton was there, and she passed out pretty quickly, but first she kept saying all this weird shit.”
My ears perked up. “What kind of weird shit?”
He shook his head. “I don’t remember exactly. I was pretty messed up. It was right after you and I . . .” He hung his head, took a breath, and started over. “Some shit about not being able to trust anyone.”
I took a step toward him, forgetting about class, ignoring that the bell had just rung and that Mr. Torres had closed the classroom door, which meant I was going to have to go back to the office and get a tardy slip if I wanted to be let in. “Did she mention names?”
“I don’t think so. Before she could say too much, the blond chick with all the Molly was all over her, putting her arm around her, talking some shit about them both being groomed to be actresses and Peyton totally owning the part of an alcoholic soap opera diva. I laughed, but she didn’t even smile. She looked completely serious.”
“Was it Luna?”
“Sophomore? Blonde? Eyes dead like a crocodile. Does that make sense?”
I thought of Luna (half sister), and while I’d never thought about it before, yes, his description fit. I nodded.
“Anyway, she passed out, and the girl and Dru hauled her off to some other part of the house, and then later I saw them arguing in the kitchen when they thought they were alone.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“Dru. And the crocodile girl. And another blond woman, who I never saw before or after that. They didn’t see me, so I left.” Immediately, I thought of the bored-looking blonde who’d shown up at the hospital. Dru. Baby. Have you eaten? Vanessa Hollis.
“Left left?”
He nodded. “The whole party felt weird. Like, dangerous or something. Shit you see on TV. I don’t know. I had a lot to drink that night. I may not be remembering things right. But I remember how I felt, Nikki, and I’m just . . . I’m telling you. It was weird. He was weird. Stay away from Dru Hollis.”
I laughed. “Because he bought alcohol for his sister? Or because he protected her after she passed out? Do you realize how ridiculous you sound right now, Jones?” Although the truth was I really didn’t know Dru, and in the back of my mind wondered if maybe I sounded like the ridiculous one. Especially since this whole conversation was making me think of ice cream and toothpaste and other things mint green. Suspicious much, Nikki?
“Whatever. Do what you want.” He waved me off and started down the hall.
“Jealous much?” I said to his back, but unlike Vee, Jones didn’t bother to acknowledge that I’d said anything at all.
I supposed that meant I had finally succeeded. It was officially over between Jones and me. A relief.
After he’d turned the corner, I headed after him, walking slowly toward the office. This was such bullshit, and if Jones, or Vee, or anyone else in this school thought they were going to scare me away from hanging out with whoever the hell I felt like hanging out with, they were all sorely mistaken. I thought about the two girls who’d whispered as they’d passed us in the doorway. Fuck them and their whispers. I practically vibrated with eagerness to walk down the classroom aisle in front of them. I couldn’t wait to hold their stares, to dare them to talk in front of my face.
I heard Jones’s footsteps fade and picked up my pace, fuming, muttering under my breath.
I was so busy being furious, I walked head-on into someone rounding the corner. I jumped back, letting out a surprised noise as he held out his hands to keep me from falling over.
“Watch out,” I snapped, but then my eyes landed on who’d nearly bowled me over.
“Miss Kill, I was just thinking about you.”
Damn it. Chris Martinez. I would have rather kept talking to Jones.
“Well, what a coincidence, then, that you should just happen to show up at my school,” I said.
“I was actually here to look through Peyton Hollis’s locker, but yes, it is fortunate that I ran into you while I was here.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and cocked my head to one side. “Literally.”
He smiled, reminding me of holding that steaming coffee while talking to him in my entryway at home. Something about that smile made my teeth grind together. “Well, I hadn’t intended to actually run into you, no.”
“Detective, I don’t know what you want from me, but—”
“Answers,” he said simply, cutting me off. I didn’t respond. “I need you to come down to the station. Is now a good time?”
I glanced at the lockers, the fluorescent light that was flickering above my head, shadows deepening on the ceiling around it.
“Actually, I have to get to class,” I said. “I’m already late. Sorry.” I offered him a sarcastic smile and maneuvered around him.
He sighed. “Sure, I understand. When do you think you can come? I just need to ask you some questions.”
I turned back. “I don’t know what you think I might be able to help you with. I’ve told you a thousand times I don’t know anything.”
“But you seem to still be very involved,” he said. “I’m asking right now, but at some point it may no longer be a question.”
“What does that mean? That you’ll arrest me?”
He stepped close to me, so close I could smell his cologne, and leaned toward my ear. “If you keep showing up in apartments you don’t belong in, I may have to. Trespassing is a crime,” he whispered. My face burned, but I tried not to let it show. Was he talking about finding me in Peyton’s apartment, or did he somehow know about Gibson’s?
I swallowed and took a couple of steps back, tossing my hair over my shoulder as if I hadn’t a care in the world. “I have a lot of homework to catch up on, Detective,” I said. “I really doubt I’ll be able to come down this week. But thanks for the invitation.”
I walked away, turning the corner quickly and getting out of sight before I let out the breath I’d been holding. For a few moments, I stood in the middle of the hallway, shaking my head in disbelief. As if I would waltz into the police station and spill my guts on everything I knew about Dru Hollis just because some die-hard detective wanted me to.
As if I knew anything about Dru Hollis anyway.
The thought made my palms grow cold and clammy. Made the mint green crawl up my skin.
I tried to shake it off, continuing toward the office. Class would be half over before I got in there, and my rage at those girls had worn off a little. How tough would I look, how sure of myself, if the door burst open halfway through class and I was escorted out in handcuffs? Walking through the aisles would feel much more exposed than I’d originally thought. Much more like maybe they could be right.
But of course they weren’t right. I knew this because I knew about Gibson Talley. I knew about the threats and about the way Vee reacted when I confronted her and about the black daisies and seeing Gibson in the hospital parking lot.
Instead of turning into the office to get my tardy slip, I blew right past it and through the front doors of the school.
If Detective Martinez wanted to talk, we would talk.
DETECTIVE MARTINEZ’S TOTALLY obvious “unmarked car” was still sitting in front of the school when I left, so I knew I had some time to kill. I decided to drive slowly and take a little detour.
Hollis Mansion was on a street that featured sprawling houses guarded by a sea of undulating hedges and decades-old trees. Everything sculpted, everything pristine, expensive. Dad had a guy we called a gardener, but he was really a guy who mowed the lawn once a week and weeded our flower beds three or four times a year. People on the Hollises’ street probably had fleets of actual gardeners, the type who were as much artist as landscaper.
I’d never been inside the Hollis house, although, truth be told, I probably could have shown up to any number of parties and nobody would have even noticed I was there. I wasn’t comfortable around all this opulence. I didn’t like show.
I pulled up in front of the house and parked. A gleaming white monolith that seemed to laugh at me with its enormous arched windows, Hollis Mansion was impressive, even to someone who’d grown up driving past million-dollar houses. Balconies and porches jutted out from every room, wrought iron and white picket and stately navy-and-yellow-striped awnings. Palm trees swaying gently against the chimneys. Concrete benches and statuaries and fountains. I could only imagine what it looked like inside.
I didn’t know what I expected to do here, what I expected to learn. Maybe I was hoping that Peyton would have left a clue in a window or I would learn something more about Dru by studying the front of his house. But all I really saw was a shiny estate that looked like the perfect place to grow up.
I was just about to leave when the garage door began to rumble open, an SUV pulling into the driveway. But before the SUV could make it all the way to the garage, Bill Hollis stormed out of the house, stepping into the driveway so that the driver had to slam on the brakes. The door popped open and Vanessa Hollis stepped out, stilettos first, followed by long legs that seemed to end in a postage stamp of a skirt. Tucked into her skirt was a deep-V shirt, which showed most of a hot-pink lacy bra underneath. Make no mistake—Vanessa Hollis had some crazy curves, and she was proud of them.
I slid down into my seat and opened the window.
“Fine, you can park it,” Vanessa yelled, throwing up her hands and stomping up the driveway past Bill, her purse dangling from her arm.
“Did you even go to the hospital today at all?” Bill demanded.
She stopped. “I have to work. As you already know. My clients’ needs don’t stop just because someone’s laid up. You’ve been there. Dru’s been there. I’ve actually been there, if you’ll recall.”
“Once. You’ve been there once.”
She shrugged, her purse bumping against her thigh. “I thought you were having her moved to someplace closer to home. More comfortable for us.”
“I’m working on that. In the meantime, it would be nice if you would make the occasional appearance.”
Vanessa slid her sunglasses down her nose, peering up at Bill, pouty. “She’s not my biggest fan. I’m sure she doesn’t mind my not being there.”
“Do you know how it makes us look?” he boomed. “Do you know how important it is for all of us to be there? The media has gotten ahold of the story. By tomorrow, this place will be crawling with cameras. I can only deflect so much. Show up.”
She turned, walked back to him, and ran her finger down his chest while slowly moving her knee up his inner thigh. I had to lean closer to the window to make out what she was saying. It sounded like, “Don’t you fret about a thing. It’s all fine.” She leaned in, nuzzled his neck, and then abruptly turned and waltzed back through the front door. “Seriously, you worry too much,” she tossed over her shoulder before going inside.
After a few minutes of standing in the driveway, Bill Hollis climbed into the still-running SUV and pulled it into the garage. The door swung down, leaving the house looking as perfect as ever.
I watched a while longer, turning over their conversation in my head. Peyton had called him the daddy from hell in that email, had said he liked power trips. Vanessa seemed to be more concerned with herself than with Peyton. Dru was sitting in jail. Peyton was clinging to life.
All I could think about while pulling away was that this was one strange family, and I might be Peyton’s only hope.
THE POLICE STATION was crazy busy, even for a weekday midmorning, and at first I had the inclination to just turn around and walk right back outside. I was never in the mood for fighting crowds—too many things to try to shut out of my mind if I wanted to concentrate on anything, and in a police station crowd, the color of the room was so ugly it was almost unbearable.
Dread. Grief. Bitterness, confusion, rage. Brown mist, bruise-violet swirls, sickly green waves, rays of black and gray and pulsing reds. I clutched my stomach, nauseated.
“Can I help you?” asked an officer at the front desk.
It took me a minute to realize she was talking to me. I swallowed against the bile that was trying to rise up in my throat and stepped closer.
“I’m looking for Detective Martinez,” I said. “I’m Nikki Kill. He’s expecting me.” Not technically true—I had pretty much told him expressly not to expect me—but she didn’t need to know that.
She gave me a long look, like maybe she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to believe me or not. I wondered if she gave everyone that look—if that’s what being a police officer in a busy city did to everyone—but started to feel myself glower the longer she stared at me. For all she knew, I was here to report a crime.
I opened my mouth to say something, but she picked up the phone and punched in a couple of numbers before I could. Probably a good thing. The last thing I needed was to be in a cell adjoining Dru’s. Dad would really think we needed to talk if I got myself arrested. The “discussion” would be interminable.
The officer mumbled something into the phone and then hung up, moving on to the person behind me without so much as telling me to move over, hold on, or piss off. I scooted to the side and kept myself busy by staring at a single white tile on the floor. If Martinez didn’t come out soon, I was going to bolt.
And do what? I asked myself. Go back to school? No big, I just missed first period to hang out down at the police station. Go home and talk to Dad? No thanks. Go to the hospital and wait for Peyton to wake up, trying to block out all that crimson around me? The thought made my throat feel dry.
“Miss Kill,” I heard. I looked up. Detective Martinez was coming toward me, his shirtsleeves rolled up, a gun clinging to his waistband. I hadn’t noticed it at school, but he’d gotten a haircut—the buzz a little closer to his head. How weird it was to think of him having a regular life that involved normal stuff like haircuts. I tried to imagine him doing ordinary things like mowing the lawn or folding a T-shirt. Impossible. “I thought you weren’t coming.”
“Surprise,” I said, pasting on my shittiest smile. I gestured toward the door. “But I can leave.”
“No, no, I’m glad you came. Follow me.”
Every fiber in my body told me not to follow him. Cops had failed me before. Cops had failed my mother. Yet there was something about this one. Something about the way he held himself, the way he followed me around, almost as if he was pursuing this case as hard as I was, the way he made me think of baby-chick yellow and sunshine yellow and the yellow of trustworthiness.
We went into what looked like a small conference room, a square table in the center, with three chairs surrounding it. I wondered how many criminals had been questioned in here. How many had broken under the accusations. My eyes flicked up toward the ceiling, looking for the video camera that was almost certainly pointing at me.
“Nobody’s listening in,” he said, as if he could read my mind. He pulled out a chair. I stared at it, obstinate, and after a few seconds he went over to the other side of the table and sat in his own chair. He leaned back and crossed his leg so casually over the other one, I began to feel uncomfortable standing there. He gestured toward the chair. “Please, have a seat. There’s no need for you to feel worried. Are you worried, Miss Kill?”
I cocked my head to one side. “Why would I be worried?”
He shrugged, turned his mouth down in a thinking frown. “Most people get pretty nervous in here,” he said. “Nobody likes to be in this room. Not even me.”
“Well, I’m not exactly jumping for joy, either,” I said. “But I have nothing to be worried about.”
“All right, well, let’s just get down to it, then. What do you know about Dru Hollis, Nikki? Okay if I call you Nikki?”
I glared. “No. And I know enough. What do you know?”
He ignored my question and fired another at me.
“So you know about his involvement with Arrigo Basile, then, I assume?”
“Who?”
He grinned, a spider-to-the-fly kind of grin, and slid an open file toward me. Inside was a photo—a mug shot—of a bulky middle-aged man with a bad comb-over. He didn’t look like the kind of guy anyone would be afraid of if they walked past him on the street, but there was something in the way he peered up at the camera from beneath his bushy eyebrows that was chilling. “Maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought,” he said. He uncrossed his legs, leaned forward, gestured to the empty chair again. “Please, have a seat, and I’ll fill you in.”
I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to let the good detective, Chris Martinez, tell me what to do, ever. But I was curious. I sat on the very edge of the chair, keeping my arms crossed over my chest.
He reclined against the seat back and folded his arms to match mine. “Arrigo Basile is a prominent member of the Basile family. They’re a pretty dangerous family with lots of connections.”
“Mafia,” I said.
He nodded. “They’ve been on our radar for years—we think they have some ties to drugs and prostitution, but we can’t pinpoint what or where. We’re also not sure what Arrigo’s role is in the family, but we know that he likes to hang around women and drugs. And he likes to hang around Dru Hollis.”
“So Dru has a friend that you don’t like, but you don’t really know why you don’t like him, so you arrest Dru? What kind of sense does that make?” This actually sounded like the police work I’d grown to know and hate.
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“Sounds to me like the most complicated part about it is you trying to figure out how to pin something on Dru. Who cares about this Arrigo Basile anyway? Just because he likes to sleep with hookers doesn’t mean he beat up Peyton. Don’t you see what a huge leap this is? Why?”
Chris Martinez leaned forward over the table again, concern creasing his forehead. I scooted backward in my chair, not wanting to be any closer to him than I absolutely had to be. “Arrigo Basile is no stranger to assault and battery.”
“Neither are a thousand other guys in this city,” I said. “What does it prove?”
“Listen, Nikki—”
“Miss Kill,” I corrected, narrowing my eyes into steely slits.
He took a breath. “Miss Kill. Peyton Hollis’s wounds are consistent with blunt force trauma. To be more specific, they look like they were inflicted by a smooth, rounded object, like a baseball bat or possibly a cane.”
“So?”
“So, Arrigo Basile’s signature is a cane.”
My stomach dropped. As much as I wanted to deny all this, as much as I wanted to believe in Dru, it was becoming more and more difficult.
“I take it Dru mentioned none of this to you.”
“It didn’t come up,” I said through numb lips. “It’s not like we’re dating.”
“Were you with him the night of Peyton’s attack?” Martinez’s voice had taken on a sudden professional tone.
“No. We hadn’t met yet.”
“Were you with anyone that night?”
I flashed onto the memory of sitting in the window, chain-smoking. “I was studying for a chem test.”
“So your parents can confirm that?”
I shot him my iciest look. “My father can. My mother is dead,” I said.
He looked down. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Are you suggesting I might have had something to do with this? I didn’t have anything to do with Peyton Hollis before that night,” I said.
“You seem pretty immersed in her business now, though.” His voice was flat, impersonal.
I threw up my hands. “I don’t know why, though! I have no idea why she had my phone number, or how she even got it. We weren’t friends.”
“But you’re pretty friendly with her brother now.”
I blushed. I could feel it. My ears got hot and my eyes burned with it and the familiar prickly pine hue swept in on me. I silently cursed myself and willed the feeling to go away. But when I sneaked a look at Martinez, I could have almost sworn I saw a blush high in his cheeks as well. “That was an accident,” I said, wondering how much Martinez really knew about my life. It seemed like he knew an awful lot. I tried changing the subject. “A one-time thing. Are you sure he’s the one? What evidence other than Arrigo what’s-his-name’s signature weapon do you have?”
He leafed through some papers. “That’s why you’re here, Nikki. Help me out. I know you’ve been following leads of your own. Why? And who are they? What have you found out?”
I didn’t correct him on using my first name that time. My mind was spinning. Should I tell him what I knew about Gibson Talley? Would I ever find out the truth if I let the police get involved? Would I end up in trouble if I kept looking for answers? But I had a feeling he already knew more than I wanted him to, anyway. After all, I still had that unnerving feeling he knew I’d been at Gibson’s.
“Have you ever heard of Viral Fanfare?” I asked.
“I hadn’t until I started investigating Peyton’s attack. It’s her band, correct?”
I nodded. “She is . . . or was, I’m not sure . . . the lead singer. Something happened a few weeks before the attack. I haven’t been able to figure out what yet, but I’m working on it. Gibson Talley is involved.”
At the mention of Gibson’s name, Martinez’s eyes perked up.
“I take it you have heard of him,” I said.
He nodded. “Of course I have. Drugs, assault, breaking and entering, petty theft. You name it, he’s probably been in here for it. We consider him one of our regulars.”
“So that’s basically it. You now know everything I do. Peyton moved out of her house and into that apartment where you arrested Dru, and I thought maybe she’d moved in with Gibson, but I was wrong.”
“But how do you know he’s involved?” Detective Martinez asked, his face a tight and intense question mark of scrutiny. “What makes you so sure? There’s something more, Nikki. Something you don’t want to tell me.”
There was plenty I didn’t want to tell him. It was one thing to tell him about Gibson, but there was no way in hell that I was going to tell him about my synesthesia. About the apartment number left behind in that photo of Peyton. About the tattoo on her neck and what it meant to people like us. Those were things the police didn’t need to know—especially Detective Chris Martinez.
“Are we done?” I asked, but my voice was weak. I hated the sound of it.
He licked his lips, thought about it, and then finally nodded. “You’re not in any sort of trouble, if that’s what you’re asking. So, yes, you’re free to go. But I might have more questions for you later. You know, we could solve this faster if we had all the information.”
“I’ve told you everything I know.”
I could see in his eyes that he didn’t believe me, a look of suspicion that reminded me of cold wintergreen. I shivered.
I pushed away from the table, my chair making a great scraping noise along the floor. But before I could stand, Detective Martinez reached across and put his hand on top of mine. I started to pull away, but his hand wasn’t there menacingly. It was gentle, warm.
“I can see that you’re not going to let this go,” he said. “Although I would highly advise that you do. You’re in over your head. So I will just say this. If you find yourself face-to-face with Arrigo Basile, get away from him and call me. He is not someone you want to mess with alone.”
I pulled my hand free. “I’ll be fine. I always am.”
He left his hand where it was before, now empty of my own. “I don’t want to see you get hurt. You don’t know what it’s like to be in real trouble.” We locked eyes, and I could see it deep down—a woolly, brown-tinged white that told me there was more to Chris Martinez than he wanted people to know. He was asking me to trust him. But how could I when I knew for certain I wasn’t the only one hiding something?
“I can take care of myself,” I mumbled.
“You don’t know Arrigo Basile,” he said. I stood and made my way to the door. “And, Nikki?” I turned. “You don’t know Dru Hollis, either.”
I didn’t respond. Why did everyone keep reminding me of that?
He was trying to scare me. He wanted to trick me into telling him something to incriminate Dru. He must have thought he was some baller detective, manipulating Dru’s tough little wrong-side-of-the-tracks slut into handing him over. He was wrong. I wasn’t going to give him anything. I didn’t have anything to give.
I walked briskly back the way I had come, but then stopped short once I reached the lobby.
Dru was leaving the station, Bill Hollis, wearing a shiny silver suit, leading him out with a hand on his arm.
Once again, the Bill Hollis of the entertainment pages was gone; this was the Bill Hollis I’d seen in the hospital room and in the driveway of Hollis Mansion. He reeked of money and importance and, at the moment, rage. Dru’s head was ducked down, all the confidence I’d seen in him drained away. I waited for them to push through the doors and then crept out after them, staying in the shadow of the doorway as I watched the older Hollis lead his son away.
“Your mother is fit to be tied over it,” Bill Hollis was fuming as they walked across the parking lot, his fingers digging into Dru’s arm now.
“Sorry, I wasn’t getting arrested for the fun of it,” Dru answered. He shied away from his father’s grip but didn’t try to pull free of it. “Besides, they have nothing on me. That’s why they had to let me go.”
Bill Hollis stopped, yanking Dru to a stop as well. “You’re going to try to be cavalier about it, too, you little shithead? Do you know what this can do to us? To your future? To my future? What am I supposed to say to the press?” He shook Dru, clamping down on his arm harder.
Dru winced. His eyes flashed with anger, his jaw straining. “I said I’m sorry.”
“Well, what if ‘sorry’ won’t do it, huh? You ever think about that? Think about your mother? About me?”
Dru gave a sardonic chuckle. “There it is. It’s all about you. Always.”
“It’s about you, too. How are you supposed to get anywhere in this business if you’re getting arrested for bullshit like this?”
“I don’t want to get anywhere in this business. I’ve been telling you that for years, Dad,” Dru said. “I want to live my own life. Why is it so hard for you to just respect that?”
Bill Hollis’s jaw pulsed. “You have to earn respect in this life. So far you’re not doing a great job of that.”
“Trust me, this is all—”
“Why on earth would I trust you?” Bill Hollis said.
“Peyton trusted me,” Dru said, his voice pure ice.
“Yes, and look what happened. Get in the car.”
Bill Hollis shoved Dru’s arm then. Dru didn’t budge. Didn’t stumble or even back up a step or two. He remained in place, digging into Bill Hollis with hatred-filled eyes, his fists clenched at his sides. Bill stepped off the curb and walked around to the driver’s side of a white Cadillac, so expensive-looking it practically hurt my eyes. Dru stayed in place. I sank back into the shadows of the doorway, hoping he wouldn’t see me spying on . . . whatever that was I’d just witnessed.
Nobody would expect Bill Hollis to be thrilled about having to fetch his son from jail, but there was something about the way he had gripped Dru’s arm, something about the language he’d used, the way he’d torn into his son, that made his anger seem a little over the edge. This, combined with the weird scene with the SUV that I saw in front of their house, hardly seemed like the happy family unit I had once believed the perfect Hollises to be.
My dad is going to be shattered, Dru had told me that first night. Yet Hollis didn’t seem so much shattered as inconvenienced. And worried about how his daughter’s attack would affect his reputation.
“Get in!” I heard. I peeked around the corner again to see that Bill Hollis had backed out of the parking space, pulled up to the curb, and rolled down the window. “It’s bad enough that we’ve lost your sister’s car. Let’s go get yours before that apartment complex has the son of a bitch impounded.”
Dru turned in slow motion, as if fighting against a tide, his shoulders tensed as he made his way to the other side of the car. Slowly, he got in and slammed the door shut.
Hollis’s window rolled up, the tint making it impossible to see more than a couple of shadow heads within. He pulled away from the curb, and I pushed off the wall to watch him go. Two women breezed through the glass doors and right past me. Just as I stepped out of the shadow, glittery, shimmery lilac caught my eye.
I did a double take, peering at the Cadillac as it pulled out onto the street.
The vanity plate read DREAMS.