Page 35 of The Debutantes
“Where did you get it?”
“It’s mine,” he says. “What are you even—”
“Milford,” I demand, stepping forward, “where did you get it?”
And that’s when he loses his balance and goes sailing backward into the water.
12PIPER
DECEMBER 31, 9:00P.M.
I hear the splash before I register where it’s coming from. I rush to my bedroom window, and looking down, I see it: Milford crashing through the pool’s surface, gasping for air, while April stands at the edge.
Goddammit. You take five minutes to yourself to try to process what you found on your brother’s phone, and suddenly, the meekest member of your detective trio is drowning guests in your backyard.
I ditch Wyatt’s phone in his empty bedroom—he’ll find it eventually—and run down the steps, through the house, and to the sunroom, where I push past the cluster of dads and out the door.
“Okay, so this isnotwhat we discussed,” I hiss at April as I approach.
She stares back at me, wide-eyed. “I didn’t…”
Milford climbs out of the pool, dress shirt and khakis clinging to his bony frame. He shakes his hair out like a wet dog.
“All good. Just fell.” He points at April. “She’s scary.”
He’s slurring, which can hopefully be attributed to drunkenness, because a concussion is quite literally the last thing we need right now. I glance back toward the house, but none of the Deus dads seem to have noticed. Good. I need to fix this before Mom sees and has a conniption.
“Come on.” I grab Milford’s arm and yank him toward the small guesthouse in the back of the yard. “Let’s get you dried off.”
April trails behind me like a guilty-looking ghost, wringing her camera strap in her hands. Inside, I instruct Milford to stay put as I march to the bathroom and return with a towel.
“Here.” I shove it toward him. “Don’t touch anything until you’re dry.”
He wraps the towel around himself with a fraught expression.
“What?”
“I don’t feel so good.”
Ohno.“Like…?”
Milford nods, a little green, and I fight back the many expletives that I want to throw his way. Instead, I direct him to the bathroom. He scurries inside, shutting the door behind him with a loud slam.
“Just—if you’re going to puke, do it in the toilet!”
No answer.
I groan. “Goddammit.”
“He didn’t hit his head,” April says, barely loud enough to hear. “I saw. He’s just drunk.”
“I’m aware,” I snap.
She flinches, looking down.
I let out a breath. It’s not April’s fault that Milford’s an uncoordinated drunk. She was just doing her job.
“It’s okay,” I tell her, more gently. “He’ll be fine.” And then I realize. “You talked to him.”
