This Is W.A.R. Part 11

"He's always out here. Ever since ..." Sloane let her words trail away.

James struggled to push up on his elbows, sand clinging to his back. He unearthed his cell phone from the pile of clothes strewn next to him, dropping it into the sand once and retrieving it. After rubbing his eyes, he stumbled to his feet to dress in his shorts and T-s.h.i.+rt.

Cautiously, the girls followed. In his state, they didn't even have to keep that much of a distance. James was completely wasted as he lurched back toward the Club. Sloane couldn't help but wonder if there was someone who cared enough to escort him home, to put water by the side of his bed and wait until he sobered up to work through the entire, tangled mess. But no one seemed to notice. No one waved or smiled or stopped to chat, not even when James struggled at the gate, his body leaning into the iron. No one questioned him when he laughed hysterically after pus.h.i.+ng into the French doors when he should have been pulling.

But Sloane knew there were whispers. They followed him everywhere he went. Hushed words about his sobriety, his grandfather, and his guilt. Sloane would self-destruct, too, if whispers followed her like a shadow. That's why she guarded her secrets so closely. Theoretically she'd actually have to say something out loud in order for people to start whispering about her. Being quiet was safer. Smarter.

James stumbled by Rory O'Neil on the back terrace. Rory smirked as he pa.s.sed. Sloane's eyes narrowed. He was sitting with a girl wearing large, black sungla.s.ses, her thick hair arranged into an oversized bun on top of her head. G.o.d only knew what he was up to. She slowed.

Rose pulled Sloane's arm toward a different entrance. Apparently she was avoiding the table as well.

"Liu!" Too late. Sloane pretended not to hear. She gulped when Rose scrunched her forehead in confusion. She had no pills for Rory's sister and hoped he'd get the hint and leave her alone.

"What does he want with you?" Rose whispered. "Stay away from him. You saw him in those pictures Lina took. He's a drug dealer."

Sloane just shook her head, hanging close to Rose. But as she gripped the ornate handle of Hawthorne Lake's French doors, Rose's words echoed in her brain. The picture Lina took. James paying Rory on the basketball courts. "Drug dealer. Drug dealer. Drug dealer."

"I'm going after James," Rose hissed. "Ditch Rory."

Sloane raced down the hall alone, fleeing Rory's insistent "Liu. Liu!" At least Rose wouldn't have a hard time trailing James. He dropped breadcrumbs in the form of a tipped vase, some bills and change-even his cell phone-which Sloane watched Rose bend to retrieve before she rounded a corner out of sight.

"What do you have for me? This is good s.h.i.+t, Liu. Nice work."

The words played on repeat. Sloane had to steady herself against the wall, the knots in her stomach twisting when she visualized the picture Lina had snapped. James handing money to Rory. He couldn't be ... They couldn't have been ... They weren't hers ...

"What do you have for me? This is good s.h.i.+t, Liu. Nice work."

Rory's voice added even more knots, sharp pain shooting within her gut. Coupled with James's words, she doubled over.

"I don't remember anything. I don't remember anything. I don't remember."

The walls s.h.i.+fted and began to close in on her. She slid to the floor and fumbled for her phone, hands shaking. Slowly she typed the word "narcolepsy" into her search bar, unable to remember the name of the little white pills she'd given to Rory. In her mind, the medicine would be abused by nerds who wanted to stay up all night to study for some big exam. She reminded herself of this as her phone pulled up results, reminded herself that those little white pills would never make James forget, would never make Willa ... she couldn't even finish her thought.

"What are you waiting for?" Rose peered around the corner, waving Sloane over. "This is it!"

Sloane shoved the phone back in her pocket and got to her feet. Her mind was in a fog. Rose wasn't alone. Lina and Madge stood near one of the windows. Nadia dusted baseboards and Kira washed walls around the corner. Every soldier in the War was here-right outside the Captain's office. It could only mean one thing. The Gregory clan had converged.

The Captain's office was obscene, more like a library really, with rows of rare books lining the mahogany shelves. The door was closed, but if they stood close enough, they could catch the gist of the conversation inside. Lina grinned wickedly. Sloane felt sick. But she smiled back, because it was easier. Because she had to.

"It's working, you guys!" Madge whispered. Her smile was too big. Sloane had never really understood what people meant by the term crazy eyes, but looking at Madge, she totally got it. Harsh words floated through the cracks as the Captain screamed about watches, family history, and pride. He yelled at the boys for getting into trouble and selling the watches. He yelled at them for having to buy them back. Trip's m.u.f.fled voice was hard to understand, but Sloane could hear that he was confused, mumbling about theft and trying to convince his Grandpa that they hadn't done anything wrong. James, of course, was silent.

And then they heard a crack. And a whimper. And a crash. And James, slurring something.

It played like a movie in Sloane's head. She couldn't see it, but the violent noise told the story. First the Captain hit Trip, then Trip fell to his knees and James stepped forward to protect him. Although maybe the last part didn't happen, considering James's condition. Madge pushed her fingers to her lips to stifle laughter, and Lina's eyes grew round.

"It was stupid," James barked loudly. The girls pushed their ears closer to the door, to be sure they heard correctly. "We shouldn't have sold them. It was dumb and it won't happen again."

The Captain had some choice words to say in response, but even from behind the heavy wood, they all knew the worst was over. The boys were off the hook, yet again.

Sloane couldn't work out how she felt. She knew she should be furious, but she was kind of relieved that James hadn't been disinherited because of their stupid prank. Part of her felt like this whole situation was spiraling out of control. What were they doing? Who were they punis.h.i.+ng? Sloane forced herself to look into the eyes of her friends. They all looked tired. They were losing the War.

"Maybe this is a sign," she whispered.

Madge didn't hear her, or maybe just pretended not to hear. She merely took a deep breath and said in a strong, clear voice, "We're going to need a new plan."

n.o.body said a word. They all backed away from the door.

"But how do we even know for sure that James did it?" Rose whispered.

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Sloane was scared for her.

Madge moved in for the kill. "We know because I saw him on a boat with my sister. And for the record, his a.s.shole brother was the one who helped them both get into the lifeboat. So, yeah. I'm pretty d.a.m.n sure."

Rose just stood there. She looked Madge in the eye. Shockingly enough her cold silence seemed to work. When Madge spoke again, almost all of the frustration was gone.

"He did it, okay? And I need the people who killed my sister to pay. I just ..." She grabbed Lina's hand and then Sloane's, begging Rose to understand. Rose placed her fingers on top. "I just need to make sure nothing like this ever happens again."

And in that moment, Sloane didn't need to read the Google search results on her phone or talk to Rory or research the drugs she'd given him. Because in that moment, the pieces clicked together with sickening finality. The reason James didn't remember anything about that night wasn't because he was drunk like everyone thought. It was because of Sloane and her inability to be honest with herself or her parents. It was because she gave pills to a messed-up busboy in an effort to make some stupid statement about who was in charge of her life.

Her arm involuntarily went to her stomach like she might be able to prevent her breakfast from forcing its way up her esophagus and out of her mouth. Luckily she made it to the nearest exit before losing everything in the bushes beside the door.

I killed Willa. I killed Willa. I killed Willa.

July 4th, 10:43 P.M.

"Come on, Sloane! What are you so afraid of?" Willa stood on top of a table, dancing wildly to the band that was now covering the Beastie Boys.

Cla.s.sic Willa. Two beers and she channeled a scantily clad pop star. Sloane wondered what it must be like to be fearless, to dance on tables and not worry about falling off or singing the wrong lyrics to the song at the top of her lungs. Sloane would never forget the slumber party last summer where she'd sang, "Hold me closer, Tony Danza. Count the head lice on the highway ..." to an old Elton John song. Lina still wouldn't let her live it down. The most fearless thing she'd done all night was. .h.i.t IGNORE on the phone that vibrated in her pocket.

The boat rocked dangerously, and Sloane skidded into something, or as it turned out, someone, dancing right behind her. His body was sweaty, and he grinded his lower half against hers in rhythm to the music.

Sloane's cheeks were already on fire when she looked back to see Trip Gregory's lopsided grin.

"What up, Liu? I have a thing for Asians, you know."

Sloane pried his hands off her waist and jerked away from him. As far as she knew, as far as everyone knew, Trip Gregory had a thing for just about every girl. Sloane glanced back up at Willa, swaying to the music, her eyes trained on the doorway across the room. She'd be no help. Willa was on a mission; it was almost as if she'd made James the leading man in one of her romance novels, and she was willing to do just about anything to make sure they got their happy ending. So far James seemed immune to Willa's charms, but no one could resist her for long. Besides, landing James would make her friend happy, and that was enough to make Sloane happy, too. But that didn't mean she wanted anything to do with Trip. Sloane jerked away.

"Hey, hey, not so fast." She felt his sweaty hands circle her waist again.

Before she could protest, he'd lifted her onto the table next to Willa.

"Woohoo! It's about time you got her up here. Nice work, Gregory!" Willa shrieked and giggled while Sloane stood next to her, unable to shake the paralyzing feeling of hundreds of eyes on her. In reality, no one had stopped dancing or had even noticed her standing next to Willa.

"Here, this will help you relax." Trip slipped a tiny white pill into her hand.

She glanced down at its round, white form. It looked almost exactly like the narcolepsy pills she'd given to Rory for his sister. If she remembered the definition, she might have thought it ironic. But she didn't, so she just pretended to swallow the pill but tossed it over her shoulder into the crowd of writhing bodies instead.

Trip hoisted himself onto the table and started moving against Willa with the music. Sloane watched as he jokingly told her to "open wide." She watched as he placed the pill on her tongue. Watched as Willa swallowed it with a bright smile.

Sloane slid down from the table, resigning herself to babysitting duty again. Not that she really minded. Babysitting her friend was easier than pretending to be cool and smart and whatever else she was supposed to be.

She felt an arm pulling on her elbow.

"Hey, have you seen my ..." Madge noticed Willa dancing on the table, took in her bloodshot eyes and watched her sway dangerously with Trip. She sighed heavily and again turned to Sloane. "Great. That's just great. How long has she been like that?"

"On the table? Or wasted?" Sloane asked the first two questions that popped into her head and regretted them as soon as she saw Madge roll her eyes. She was in one of her moods.

"Willa! WILLA!" Madge shrieked over the pounding beat.

No response. Then again, if Willa were ignoring her stepsister completely, it wouldn't have come as a huge surprise to Sloane. The two had been arguing lately. She wasn't sure what was going on, but something had s.h.i.+fted between them. They didn't laugh together the way they used to.

Madge reached up to grab her sister and drag her down from the table, but Willa shook her arm away. "Leave me alone, Madge. I'm actually having some fun for once."

"You think this is fun? You're making a fool of yourself." Madge shouted over the music, and again, Willa pretended not to hear.

"James!" Willa squealed.

She hopped off the table and leaned dangerously toward Sloane who placed her hands on her shoulders, stabilizing her. "He's going to kiss me," Willa slurred. "I can feel it." She squeezed Sloane's hand. "This is it, Sloaney. This is my night."

Sloane patted her shoulder awkwardly. She needed some air. Now that Madge had taken over as babysitter, Sloane did her best Houdini and headed out the nearest exit. She was good at disappearing when she needed to. She'd duck out of dances at school and linger in the bathroom, wander upstairs at parties only to sit on the edge of a bed in a quiet room. She'd even leave movies early, walk the dark sidewalks surrounding the theater and slip back in before the credits rolled.

Tonight, she managed to find a spot on the lower deck that was relatively quiet and settled into one of the cushy lounge chairs. The stars were bright in the summer sky. In that moment she felt small, tiny. It was comforting in a way. If the universe was infinite, that meant she really could be unnoticeable. After years of obsessive parents hovering over her, Sloane relished the thought of fading away into nothingness.

And as if someone was trying to prove her point or maybe test her theory, Willa and James ran out onto the deck in front of her. They didn't even glance at Sloane's chair in the shadows. When Willa reached up onto her tippy toes to kiss James in the moonlight, she didn't feel Sloane's eyes on her. And when Trip helped them into a small motorboat together, neither of them turned. Not even when Sloane stood up and began yelling at them to wait. They were drunk; it was late. They'd get themselves killed. No ... Willa and James took off into the night oblivious to the girl in the shadows begging them to stay.

Sloane got up to go find Madge or Lina or someone who could help her figure out what to do next. She heard the fireworks exploding in the distance as she scoured the faces in the crowd for her friends. But it wasn't until long after the last burst-when she found a soaking wet James Gregory and pale-looking Lina cowering in the exact same chair where she'd hidden an hour earlier-that she knew something had gone very, very wrong.

Chapter 24.

It was exactly 5.34 miles from the Ames-Rowan house to Hawthorne Lake.

Madge knew this because she and Willa made their dad drive it once when they were in seventh grade so they'd know the exact mileage of their daily bike rides. Madge remembered sitting in the Jag, watching the odometer creep upward, Willa's twelve-year-old voice cheering the needle on. Willa had burrowed her head into the seat of the car, as if she still couldn't get used to the smell of expensive leather. She'd grin from ear to ear when Madge's father would ruffle her blonde hair-as if to remind her that he was real, solid, and that he wasn't going to disappear like her biological dad.

At first Madge had been jealous of the way her father doted on her stepsister. But in the third grade, Willa had dedicated her first novel, My Only Home, (ill.u.s.trated with Crayolas and handwritten in careful cursive) to her new stepsister, Madge. It was basically a love letter to Madge and her dad, with the names changed. That day, a tiny piece of Madge's heart that had frozen after her mother died, began to thaw. Willa had this way of making people melt. Now that she was gone, Madge wondered who would soften the grief that crystallized there now.

So instead of waiting around for someone else to save her, Madge was doing her best to save herself. Her body screamed at her to stop running. Her pounding, frozen heart begged her to slow down, but Madge kept on, the key on the chain around her neck pinging against her chest. One foot in front of the other. Her legs cut through the thick July air, so humid it felt like she was running through the middle of the lake.

So close.

Madge had almost tasted their blood. Maybe Sloane was right. Maybe she should give up. She knew they were never going to win, but she'd never lost before Willa died. Not really. She was captain of the debate team, student council president, and an all-state tennis champion. Failure was not on option. Not for Madge. And definitely not when it came to making things right for Willa.

Her lungs burned, and her tank top clung to her stomach, drenched with sweat. She jogged past Magnolia Park and saw the water fountain wavy in the heat near the playground. She imagined how good the cool water would feel on her lips, trickling down her throat, but she was almost home. She'd left the Club determined not to stop. And just as determined, Madge jogged right past it.

People make a lot of a.s.sumptions when your sister dies. They a.s.sume your life is a mess. They a.s.sume your parents' lives are falling apart. They can almost smell the quiet on you. They hear it in the rasp of your voice; they feel it in your desperation for human contact. They observe your borderline compulsive need to surround yourself with people who help you learn to forget instead of ones who force you to remember. When your sister dies, people look at you like you died, too. In a lot of ways they're right, Madge realized. She was dead. All the important parts of her, anyway.

A grim smile twisted Madge's lips when she turned onto her street and saw her stepmother's Porsche parked in the driveway. It was one of the many things Carol Ames-Rowan not-so-subtly hinted that she wanted or needed or had to have. Madge's father wasn't in the business of saying no. And his yeses were over-the-top, like some cheesy commercial for doting husbandry. There'd be a new car in the driveway with a red bow around it or a scavenger hunt to find the bracelet Willa's mother had been drooling over that month. In the year before Willa died, Madge's credit card had been declined, and the money from her bank account drained. It wasn't difficult to identify the blue-eyed, blonde-haired root of the problem. But miraculously the Ames-Rowan's financial crisis disappeared right along with Willa. Or maybe her father had just figured out how to hide his problems better.

Carol and Willa had been a package deal, so Madge had always managed to hide just how much she loathed Carol. Well, most of the time. But now that Willa was gone, there was a new friction between the two. Madge realized that most days she felt like some kind of hate-seeking missile, just looking for the right person to target and destroy. Still, she couldn't help herself. So when she tore into the kitchen after running the 5.34 miles home from the Club, the perfect target sat right in her line of fire.

"Honey! What's happened?" Carol dropped the magazine she was reading and stood. "I've tried calling."

Madge rolled her eyes and turned toward the laundry room for a towel. "I just went for a run. Call off the search party, Carol."

"It's almost a hundred degrees outside. Are you crazy?" Her stepmother grabbed a bottled water from the fridge and held it out to Madge.

"I was at the Club. No one could drive me home," she lied. Her friends had insisted on giving her a lift, but she'd remained steadfast as she pulled the sports bra over her head and laced up her running shoes in the locker room. She needed to clear her head. She wouldn't have cared if it were a thousand degrees.

Madge twisted the cap off the water but only allowed herself a tiny sip. It was a game she played, even when Willa was still alive. Minimal gratification. She'd download a new favorite song, but wouldn't allow herself to listen to it. Or she'd bake a batch of chocolate chip cookies and ration a tiny corner of a warm cookie as a reward. Watching her friends devour the rest took willpower. Playing with deprivation made her stronger. The wanting. And not having.

Carol eyed her with worry or anger or both, and Madge felt a fresh rush of satisfaction. That clinched it. She wouldn't drink the rest of that water. In fact, she wished she had the energy to run another lap around her neighborhood. That would really p.i.s.s Carol off.

"How are the girls doing?" her stepmother finally asked, retreating back to her magazine at the table with dead eyes.

Several weeks ago, Madge had overheard Carol whispering with her father that if she could just get Madge to open up to her that maybe she'd stop being so angry all the time. Cla.s.sic Carol: she believed she could solve anything. What her stepmother didn't understand-would never understand-was that Madge wanted to be angry. She needed the anger. As long as she was angry, she didn't have time to wallow in grief. She didn't have time to think about the empty room next to hers or the way her sister's flip-flops were still tucked under Madge's bed in exactly the same position she'd left them more than four weeks ago.

Only now, she couldn't help but think about Willa, because Carol was sitting in her chair. She'd claimed it without explanation since Willa's death, like it had never been anyone else's. Something about the sight of her stepmother's bony a.s.s in that chair set Madge's blood on fire. Carol usually had a magazine or a book, but Madge knew she wasn't reading the pages. She'd watch as the sh.e.l.l of a woman stared into s.p.a.ce, the same page displayed in front of her day after day after day. In her dead daughter's spot at the table.

"Madge? I asked you a question." Carol didn't look up from the unread page. She sounded more like an annoyed babysitter than a stepmother, which pretty much summed up their entire relations.h.i.+p.

Instead of responding, Madge took a tin from the counter drawer and placed a mint delicately in her mouth. First she flattened the mint on her tongue. Then she twirled it once to the left, twice to the right, and flattened once again. She continued this rhythm as she shut the lid with a satisfying click. It was her post-Willa routine. Anytime she started to feel like she might lose it, she put a mint in her mouth. The reason was simple: they reminded her of Willa's funeral. Carol and her father had practically force-fed them to her the entire time she stood in the ridiculous receiving line at her sister's wake. To Madge, the round little peppermints tasted of tears and strangers' hugs and her sister's ashes all rolled into one. Whenever she needed a reminder of what she was doing or why she had to keep going, she'd pop one in her mouth. Nothing like the taste of death to light a fire under your a.s.s.

"Madge, how are the girls?" Carol repeated, her voice sharpening. "I miss seeing them now that ..." Her stepmother trailed off. They did that a lot now. Let their voices fade to nothing.

"They're dealing." It was a lie. They both knew it. Besides, Madge wasn't even sure what the truth really was, only that Lina and Sloane were operating with a broken compa.s.s. Willa had been their true North, and now that she was gone, neither had known where to go or whom to follow. Madge had no choice but to take action. She'd begun the War with the sole purpose of ruining the Gregorys' lives the same way that they'd ruined hers, but the reality was that it gave the girls a purpose, a sense of direction. It also brought out their worst, which Willa had never done. Lina was even more p.r.o.ne to cruelty and Sloane had retreated even further into herself. Every once in a while, Madge still caught flashes of her old friends. The spark of pleasure in Lina's eyes after they had orchestrated the hand off of the Gregorys' watches. The quiet pride in Sloane's voice when she'd come up with the watch idea in the first place. Brief moments that reminded Madge that though her best friends now seemed like strangers, the girls she remembered were in there somewhere.

And then, of course, there was Rose.

Madge didn't know her at all before she'd barged into the attic on that first day. She'd seen her around with Willa, of course, but that never meant much to Madge. Willa was nice to everyone, plucked rejects like some girls gathered shoes off the sales rack at Nordstrom. All of them were eligible, even the ones that had spent far too long on the shelf. Madge always thought it was dangerous letting people in, particularly Rose with her sneaky mother who was always pus.h.i.+ng her daughter in front of the members at Club events. The social climber never fell far from the ladder.

But Rose wasn't like that. She turned out to be a living, breathing reminder of why Willa's philosophy sometimes paid off. To Rose, Willa's friends.h.i.+p was nothing more than friends.h.i.+p, and the War was an opportunity to seek justice. Besides, in a way, Madge's response to Carol was actually the truth depending on how you looked at it. Like so many other things in life, "dealing" existed on a spectrum. Her remaining friends were all still speaking to one another. And they'd live to fight another day. If that wasn't dealing, she wasn't sure what was.

"I'm going to take a shower." Madge marched up to her room. After flinging her sweaty clothes across the floor, she turned the water on so cold that the spray felt like tiny needles across her bare skin. She refused to arch her back away from the stream or even let herself gasp beneath the freezing water. Each icy drop made her a little stronger, adding a little numbness to the sadness that always lingered around the edges. The pain cleared Madge's head of the uncertainty that had crept in since the girls' most recent failure.

A new plan formed. And with it, steely resolve.

She quickly dried herself off, dressed, and sent a text.

War meeting tonight at 9 P.M. Same place.

She included their newest recruits, even though Kira and Nadia still made Madge uncomfortable. If she was being honest with herself, she'd ignored the staff the same way the Gregorys ignored them. She never knew their names or bothered to say "please" or "thank you." She left that up to Willa. But when Kira and Nadia had appeared, devastated with the story of their own sister, her whole world s.h.i.+fted a little on its axis. And now when she saw the girl behind the bar with her cheap vanilla lotion, she wondered what her parents were like. If she had dreams. A scholars.h.i.+p. A sister. But the discomfort of being around Kira and Nadia also sparked ideas of something bigger than what she'd begun plotting the moment her sister was pulled from the lake. Kira and Nadia represented what could be a revolution, something that could change Hawthorne Lake forever, long after the Gregorys were gone.