Page 66 of The Debutantes
“No.” I say it out loud, almost involuntarily. But already, like the lead in a horror movie, I’m reaching out to take it, even as the rational person inside me is screaming to throw it away and peel out of here.
But this envelope is heavy. There’s something bulky inside it, more than just another threatening message.
I shut myself in my car and rip it open, realizing it’s not a message at all. It’s a phone. A flip phone, small and outdated. A burner, I think, because it’s exactly how I’d picture one, the kind people use in crime shows.
It takes me a second to figure out the buttons, but when I do, I open up the messages. There’s only one conversation thread, and it’s all from late December. Right before the ball, I realize, my heart skipping a beat. This must be the number Lily was texting that night. But then I notice the full date.
These messages are from over a year ago. December 28, the night of Margot’s ball. The night she died.
It starts with a series of texts from an unsaved New Orleans number, sent around two o’clock that afternoon:
Fine keep ignoring me
I literally don’t even care anymore
But I’m telling everyone about us
Try and fucking stop me
Whoever was using this phone responded minutes later:
I’m so sorry. Can we talk about this first?
And then, half an hour later:
Margot?? Please talk to me
She didn’t text back until a little after midnight.
Meet me at our spot on the levee.
The levee. That’s where they found Margot in her car, OD’d. Or so everyone thought. Because now it’s clear that that’s not what happened at all. Margot met someone that night, hours after she threatened to “tell everyone” about them. That has to mean an affair, right? And whoever had this burner, whoever Margot was meeting, said they just wanted to talk.
But what if their real goal was to shut her up, by any means possible?
My head rushes as it fully dawns on me.
Margot was murdered, and I’m holding the burner phone of the man who did it.
The next question is almost an afterthought: How the hell did it end up sitting on my windshield?
24PIPER
JANUARY 2, 4:15P.M.
When I get home, luck is on my side: Mom’s and Dad’s cars are both missing from the driveway. The one I share with Wyatt is here, but I’ll just have to hope he’s shut up in his room like he’s always been lately.
This is something I need to do on my own.
As I walk into the house, I resist the urge to check my phone to see if Aiden texted. He wanted to come with me, but I shook him off. I was too angry at him for telling me the truth, and even angrier at myself for not being able to handle it.
So handle it,I command myself silently. And I am. I will. All I need is more proof, something to show Aiden he was wrong about my dad being in the Pierrot.
With a deep breath, I push open the door to Dad’s office.
I’ve always loved this room—the smell of the old books lining his shelves, musty and comforting. Most days, Dad works from his office in the Garden District, so he mostly uses this one for the occasional telehealth session or anything else he needs to get done after the workday. Sometimes, though, I think it’s hishideaway from the rest of us, which I can understand. Being a Johnson can be overwhelming.
Unless he’s not just hiding from you,says a voice in my head that sounds too much like my own.He’s hiding himself. The things he doesn’t want you to know.
