Page 108 of The Debutantes
“She’s getting in your head,” Marty hisses. “I saved your life, didn’t I? I got you out of this mess. I cleared your name.”
“But it washismess,” I tell Coach. “Marty started it. You’re only mixed up in all this because he couldn’t keep his hands off an underage girl. And did he ever once thank you for risking everything to protect him? Or did he just try to make you think it was all your fault?”
The look on Coach’s face melts from doubt to woundedness, and I know it’s working. I’m getting to him. But Marty just laughs.
“Reed, come on. You don’t actually think—” He steps toward him, but Coach flinches. And just like that, Marty’s easy, confident mask falls away to reveal a burning rage. “Are you seriously stupid enough to fall for this?”
Coach looks back at me, a wild desperate look in his eyes, and I know this could be the end, but I have to try. If I’m going, it won’t be as a good little debutante.
“Are you?” I ask.
And then he lunges. Coach lifts the syringe above his head, aiming the needle directly at his father’s neck.
41VIVIAN
JANUARY 3, 12:30A.M.
It happens in one swift motion: Marty grabs Coach’s arm, forcing it away before the needle can plunge into his skin. Coach rears back like he’s going to try again, but then, just as suddenly, he drops his arm to his side and starts to sob.
“I’m sorry,” Coach cries. “I’m sorry.”
Marty pulls him close. Even though Coach is taller, he shrinks, curling into his dad’s chest in a way that’s so different from the Coach I know. Still, I see a glint of him in there, too: the Coach who can give an intimidating glare one second and then a soft, goofy smile the next, like we’re all in on the joke, because we know he’d never hurt a fly.
“It’s okay,” Marty says softly. “Give it here, son.”
Coach hands over the syringe without a fight.
“It’s okay. You’re okay.” Marty’s voice is soothing and a little sad, like he’s comforting a kid.
He lifts the syringe.
“Coach!” I scream, but it’s too late.
Marty buries the syringe in his son’s arm and pushes the plunger.
It’s slow, like something moving underwater. Coach starts to stumble, knees buckling, and Marty reaches out to catch him, lowering him to the ground.
“There,” he says, still so gentle it makes my skin prickle. “There you go.”
Coach’s head lolls, his eyes fluttering, and even though I know who he really is now, the things he’s done, some part of me wants to save him.
“My son was an addict,” Marty says.
At first, I don’t get it, but then I recognize his tone. It’s the same one he used when he told us that Lily had probably run away. Already, he’s spinning his cover story as easily as if it were the kind of fairy tale she always hated.
“He was a good man, but a sick one. I only wish I could have saved him.” Marty reaches for the vial and sticks the syringe back into its cap, refilling it. He looks at me. “And I wish, more than anything, that I could have saved those girls.”
I fight to break the ties around my wrists, but I’m stuck, trapped here as Marty examines the syringe.
“It’s tragic, what happened to them all, but you have to understand.” He holds it high, so the needle glints in the light. “It’s a sickness.”
My mind starts to spin. There are four of us. If we can break out and run, he’ll come after us, but he can’t get all of us, can he? If I put myself in his path first, let the others get a head start…
“Three Maids and their beautiful Queen,” he says, almost like it’s a nursery rhyme. “Who first?”
Across the float, I catch Piper bringing her hands to her face, clasping them together like she’s praying. I didn’t think she was religious, but maybe we all start to turn to some version of God when we’re facing death. Because that’s what’s happening, isn’t it?
And then I realize: Piper’s not praying. She’s pulling on her zip ties with her teeth. Tightening them, so tight the skin around them goes white.
