Page 39 of The Debutantes
“No, like—I don’t know. Just a club for guys in Deus to go to.”
“And that’s where the lighter came from?” Vivian asks.
Milford nods. “They make branded ones for members.”
“Then why did Margot have one?” April speaks up. “If it’s men only?”
“I have no idea.”
“Bullshit,” I say.
“Seriously, I don’t. It’s like I said: it’s just Deus guys. None of the girls are supposed to even know about it.”
I feel a twist of uneasiness. Sure, the debutante stuff has a pretty patriarchal history, but it’s not meant to exclude women. It’s supposed to celebrate us.
“So you’ve been?” I ask.
A dark look passes over his face.
“Just once,” he says. “If your dad’s a member, you can join when you turn eighteen.”
Has Wyatt been, then? Is this something he and Dad do together, their own secret locked away from me and Mom? The Johnsons are a unit. We don’t keep secrets from each other.
Or so I thought. Wyatt’s phone flashes through my mind.
“But I didn’t join,” Milford says quickly. “And I haven’t been back. Now can I please leave?”
I don’t miss the shift in his tone. Milford hasn’t been back because for some reason, he doesn’twantto.
And I have to know why.
“Sure,” I say. “On one condition: you get us in.”
“What?” Milford whines. “To the Pierrot? Did you hear anything I just said?”
“Hey, April, how soon can you get that picture to the news?”
“Y’all are insane,” Milford mutters.
“Or better yet, you’re good at editing. Think we can turn that joint into something more incriminating?”
“Fine!” he shouts. “Fine.They’re doing a New Year’s thing. It’s late tonight, like oneA.M., in the French Quarter. If y’all can get there, I can try to get you in. But no promises. And you need masks. No one can know who you are. Okay?”
He watches us, desperate, as we exchange glances. April looks anxious, Vivian uncertain, and even I’m not sure this will work. Still, no one argues. I can tell we’re all in. This is our best lead—ouronlylead—and if there’s a chance the Pierrot is somehow connected to Lily’s disappearance, then we can’t pass this up.
“Great,” I say. “Where do we meet?”
13VIVIAN
JANUARY 1, 1:00A.M.
When we get to the address Milford gave us, I’m starting to think we might’ve been punked.
“Are you sure this is it?” I ask, looking up at the old brick building. It’s classic French Quarter–style, with tall shuttered doors and windows, wrought-iron balconies on the top two stories. The door is bright green, and a lantern hangs above it, lighting up the hand-painted sign below:LAGNIAPPE LAND.
Turns out we might have lied to our parents and snuck off to the Quarter after midnight to go to a gift shop. One that doesn’t even look open.
“It’s the address he gave me.” Even beneath her mask, I can tell Piper is pissed.
