Page 32 of The Debutantes
Classic,I think. He might as well make it “1234.” But if we want information about what happened at the ball…
Before I can talk myself out of it, I climb the stairs, heart thudding all the way up to my bedroom, where I lock the door behind me.
It’s for his own good, I think. Right now, all we know about the hours leading up to Lily’s disappearance is that she was texting someone and Wyatt was pissed about it. And if he insists on sulking all day instead of telling me what was actually going on, when Vivian and April probably think he’s our prime suspect, then someone’s going to have to clear his name for him, and it might as well be me.
I open his messages, scrolling to find his conversation with Lily. When I see it, I wince. It’s a parade of texts from Wyatt to her, all unanswered, starting that night at 11P.M.
Did you get home ok?
Ten minutes later:
I know you’re mad but can you at least answer
Did you get a ride home?
Half an hour after that:
Lily come on I’m sorry
Don’t do this
Hello??
And then, at 12:30A.M.:
Fuck this
I’m done
Lily’s read receipts show she saw all of them except for the last two. The most ominous two.
And then it hits me. I scroll back up.
Did you get a ride home?
Why would he ask that if he was the one who drove her?
The answer is unbelievably simple: because he didn’t.
But Lily’s parents said he did, didn’t they? Did Wyatt lie to them? To Marty? I shut my eyes and try to think logically. Even if he lied, Wyatt obviously didn’t have anything to do with Lily’s disappearance. I know this, as well as I know the periodic table or the exact schedule of alarms he sets every morning to get up for school, the third one always ringing at precisely seven forty, when I’m dressed, packed, and passing his room to go down for breakfast.
But I also can’t ignore the very real truth in front of me.
Like I said, I’m someone who respects the evidence—and right now, all of it points to my brother.
11APRIL
DECEMBER 31, 8:45P.M.
Nearly an hour into this party, all I’ve accomplished is making a catalog of the best methods of escape. The cleanest would be an Irish goodbye, followed by texting Piper and Vivian that I’ve been hit with a sudden and severe stomach flu. Both seem like unattainable fantasies, though, because there’s too many damn people here, and even an escape through the back door would mean running into people from school, which means risking confused stares or, worse, small talk.
Currently, I’m back in the dining room, wondering if the window in here opens and, if not, what would happen if I simply took a running leap through the glass.
“’Scuse us.” Coach Davis gives me a polite smile as he edges toward the appetizer table, a pretty blond woman at his side.
I shove another cracker with crab dip into my face and step aside, watching him load up his plate. I’m not sure if he recognizes me, seeing as I avoid organized sports like the plague, but I remember him sitting with this woman at the ball. For a minute, I listen for anything that might be useful, but all I get isCoach Davis improvising a song about how much he loves the cheese puffs while the woman looks on, mildly embarrassed.
Drifting toward the dessert table, I glance at my phone again. No updates from Piper or Vivian—which is fine, because I have nothing to report. Probably because I am, you know, hiding.
