It was strange to see Carolina Winthrop cry. Rose had known her since they were little, not that Lina had ever acknowledged her existence. The tears looked out of place on Lina’s heavily made-up face, like rain in the desert. Her shoulders hunched over, the deep-V falling along the back of her shirt revealing the requisite Chinese character tattoo. (It probably translated into something like: “poor little rich girl with serious daddy issues.”) Her black bra strap fell off her shoulder and hung loosely over her upper arm, also covered in intricate inked designs.
Lina was made up of jagged angles and hard lines, all pointy elbows and razor-sharp cheekbones. Everything about Lina—from her aggressively short, bleached-blonde hair to her infamous eyebrows cocked in permanent judgment—screamed bitch.
Rose’s mom sighed and shook her head as she watched her husband comfort the girl.
“Unbelievable. She knows, but she’ll never tell. It’s a good thing your father’s a terrible cop.” There was grim satisfaction in her mom’s voice.
Rose hated herself for feeling the same skepticism that radiated off her mom. On one hand, she wanted, needed Lina to keep Willa’s death a secret. Rose had lied to her dad for reasons she couldn’t even bring herself to think about. Reasons that were tied up in late nights spent on the beach with James Gregory. Her mind flashed back to his dark blonde hair, the way his lips had felt on hers, the way his fingers left a trail of electricity behind as they slid underneath her shirt. She’d trusted him with her secrets and maybe even a tiny piece of her heart. How could she have been so wrong about him? How could she have given herself so completely to someone who was capable of something so awful?
Rose and Lina and pretty much every single person on the damn boat knew who had killed Willa that night. But even with a yacht full of witnesses, her dad would never hear the truth. Not even from his own daughter, not from one of Willa’s best friends, and especially not from his wife.
Rose flung open the door and sat on the curb in front of the car. It wasn’t much cooler outside, but at least she wouldn’t have to be trapped with her mom. Thankfully the gently lapping water made it impossible for her to hear the conversation between Lina and her dad. She didn’t trust herself to listen to all the lies. If she heard enough, the truth might just come spilling out.
Mari Jacobs plopped down next to Rose on the curb.
“Five thousand dollars.” Her voice was flat.
Rose didn’t need to ask Mari what she meant. She knew that was the money she’d been offered by the Gregory family to keep quiet, and she knew Mari had taken it. No one turned down a bribe from the Gregorys, especially not a waitress putting herself through college.
For a minute Rose looked into Mari’s dark brown eyes, took in her perfect heart-shaped face and coconut-colored skin. It drove Rose’s mom insane that she spent so much time talking to “the help” instead of hanging out with kids her own age. Never mind that Mari read actual books and was funny as hell. Rose had far more in common with Mari than she did with girls like Lina Winthrop. As the daughter of a cop and Hawthorne Lake’s event planner, Rose was treated with the same faux respect reserved for crossing guards and doormen. She looked at her dad, scribbling on a tiny notebook with his favorite chewed up pen, while Lina Winthrop sobbed out lie after lie.
Joe McCaan was of average height, average build, and if Rose was being completely honest, slightly below-average intellect. That’s not to say that her dad was dumb; he was just the kind of man who always saw the best in people. A great quality for a dad, not the best quality for a detective.
Her mom was a different story, of course. As one of the highest-ranking employees at the Club, it was Pilar McCaan’s job to see everything and know everyone. Club employees were terrified of her while most members ignored her completely. Like the new curtains that hung in the grand foyer: she was too gauche and shiny to match the rest of the Club, but too bothersome to replace. As Pilar’s daughter, Rose fit the same bill. There were only three people who seemed to ignore her dubious pedigree. One of them was Mari Jacobs. The other was James Gregory. The last person was dead.
Mari’s hand shook a little as she reached into her bag and pulled out a cigarette. “Same price they were offering last summer. You’d think they’d at least adjust for inflation.”
Normally Rose would have laughed. Instead she kept staring at her dad and Lina. Rose watched Lina’s black-rimmed eyes wander, heard all the words that weren’t being said. And even though she’d done the same thing, had spoken the same lie aloud, watching one of Willa’s best friends slowly shake her head back and forth made her hate Lina Winthrop even more than she already did.
Mari blew a cloud of smoke through puckered lips.
Rose could feel her eyes. She wanted her to talk, to say something.
“I’m so sick of this shit, I really am. James Gregory goes off and kills the Club princess, and the best Gramps can do is offer up five Gs?” Mari paused. “I’m over it. I’m sick of taking bribes that barely cover the cost of books.”
Rose couldn’t bring herself to look at Mari. She wasn’t in the mood for one of their epic discussions about the caste system of the Club. Not now.
“You think Lina’s parents are here?”
Mari scanned the crowd lazily, but Rose knew the answer to her own question. The Winthrops wouldn’t be there waiting to comfort Lina after the traumatic questioning was over. They were probably off on another one of their lavish vacations.
Harsh stripes of mascara stained Lina’s cheeks as she turned around and gestured to Sloane Liu. Sloane wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and walked forward, wisps of her hair lifted by the breeze off the lake. She wore a pale-pink, silky dress, the hem fluttering. If the circumstances weren’t quite so tragic, she might have looked beautiful.
As soon as she began speaking, she broke down, her head in her hands.
“Wow, she really knows how to turn on the waterworks.” Mari ground her cigarette into the asphalt of the parking lot and shook her head slowly.
Rose felt a rush of jealousy. Sloane’s parents enveloped their tiny daughter in an effort to protect her from the big bad detective, who stood there looking like he might start crying himself. It must be nice to be so loved. After a few awkward minutes spent shuffling around and looking at his watch, Detective McCaan tried questioning Sloane again, but her parents shook their heads, silent understanding passing from parent to parent.
Rose had to look away while her dad dug business cards out of his wallet and handed them to Lina and Sloane. She had heard him say the words so many times in the past that she was able to recite them out loud for Mari’s benefit.
“Call me if you think of anything that might help the investigation. Or even if you just feel like talking about what happened tonight. Part of my job is to be here for the community.” She even managed a passable imitation of her dad’s honest, sympathetic, guileless smile—the one that always flickered across his face while he let yet another crime go unpunished.
“You’ve got it down, my friend. Maybe you should apply for deputy.” Mari laughed. It sounded more to Rose like she was choking.
Rose stood up and brushed the sand off the backs of her thighs. Her dad would probably be here all morning tying up loose ends. For him there was no crime scene to worry about, just a tragic accident that would be handled with the utmost discretion.
Her mom was watching impatiently from the driver’s seat. As much as Rose hated the thought of getting back into the car with her, at least she got to go home. Now that the police were wrapping up on the boat, crowds of people began to pull away. A sliver of bright orange appeared along the horizon, the sky surrounding pink with the promise of a new day. Everything looked different in the rising light; dresses appeared out of place, heavily made-up faces seemed completely inappropriate. She tugged at the silky fabric that seemed too short to be a dress in the light of day. Motors turned over, car doors opened and shut; people pulled away to begin the process of forgetting.
“See you tomorrow, I guess.” Rose started walking toward her mom’s car when she heard Mari’s voice call out to her.
“I didn’t take it.”
She froze mid-step, blood pulsing in her skull. No, no, no. Mari couldn’t have turned down the Gregorys’ money. No one turned down the Gregorys.
“But … your job, your apartment, what are you going to do?” Rose asked, turning.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got a plan.” Mari flashed a crooked smile. “Not that it matters to you. I saw what you were up to last night.”
“But it’s the Gregorys,” Rose continued, ignoring the way her stomach clenched. Mari always had an angle, a way out of any situation. But she was out of her league with the Gregorys, and they both knew it.
Now that she’d practically spit in the Gregorys’ faces, there was no way she’d last the rest of the summer. Saying “no” to the Gregorys meant her job would be mysteriously downsized; a gas leak or a termite infestation would leave the tiny apartment she’d rented for the summer uninhabitable. Typewritten threats, sent via envelopes with no return address, would ensure that she left town quickly and quietly. Mari knew all of this, but still she’d turned down their money. Rose felt sick as she remembered the bitter taste of the lie she’d told her dad. She was a coward. She hated herself for it. Even worse, she saw that same disgust mirrored in Mari’s flinty eyes.
So Rose said nothing to her friend. Instead she climbed into her mom’s car and focused on the sun rising up over the lake. A slender, dark-haired girl stood by the edge of the water. The rising sun bounced off her porcelain skin like a spotlight, announcing Madge Ames-Rowan, the star of the tragic show. It seemed odd for her to be there instead of at the hospital with her family. Madge was Willa’s stepsister. Their parents had married when they were in kindergarten, and they’d been best friends ever since. Together they bookended the teen social scene at the Club. Rose was almost scared to look at her, afraid that the grief would be too raw, that it would burn and leave a scar.
But there were no tears on Madge’s face.
Rose saw only fury and a steely determination. Madge’s fingers were at her neck, twisting the small key she always wore, her green eyes trained on the Gregorys’ yacht that bobbed and swayed in its slip. When Rose followed Madge’s gaze, she met their target. The Gregorys. James was sprawled out in one of the lounge chairs on the deck. Trip sat next to him, cradling his mop of red curls in his hands. If the twins were crowned princes of the Club, their grandfather, Charles “the Captain” Gregory, was king. The Captain ruled with a platinum fist, and now he paced the perimeter of the deck, his back ramrod straight, chin tilted toward the lightening sky. Another battle won.
Willa had only been dead for a few hours and her killer was passed out in a lounge chair. His grandfather had begun the process of paying for his innocence. Rose knew right then that Willa’s stepsister wasn’t mourning. She was plotting.
Madge and the Captain knew what everybody else at that party knew: Willa hadn’t fallen off the yacht in a drunken stupor. She’d gotten into a motorboat with James Gregory. An hour later he’d returned alone, his blond hair dark with lake water. And they had all lied about what they saw that night when the police finally pulled Willa’s body out of the lake.
Of course they had. That was the rule. That was the thing about Hawthorne Lake.
The most important rule wasn’t a part of the ridiculous bylaws the Captain wrote in the new member orientation packet. Sure, members got a slap on the wrist if they were caught wearing pink on the tennis courts or if they allowed a woman in the gentlemen-only quarters. But there was only one unbreakable rule at the Club. No one dared even say it out loud. It was the kind of rule that could be communicated in harsh glances, quiet resignations, and abrupt disappearances. It was the kind of rule that meant when you saw one of the Gregory twins take a girl out on the lake and return alone, you kept your mouth shut. (And if that didn’t work, it meant you suddenly started talking about how many martinis the girl drank and how rough the water was that night.) It was the kind of rule that meant that if you turned down the Gregorys’ hush money, you better get the hell out of Hawthorne Lake. Because if you were handsome enough and if you were rich enough, it was the kind of rule that let you get away with murder.