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“I know you’re not,” Tress says. “You never were.”

I remember leaning over a math book, working out a problem while Tress looked on, brow furrowed in concentration.

“You told me not to pretend I was,” I say quietly. “Remember that?”

“Yep.” She nods. “Story problems.”

“Story problems,” I agree, rolling my eyes, and we both laugh.

It’s a sound I know well, and have missed. My higher giggle mixing with her low tones, the music of my childhood, now accentuated by the rattle of chains.

Tress shakes her head. “I don’t care how many apples Lucy bought at the store and how many people she needs to feed with them, and how much money she has and how much they cost, and how much change she’ll get. The stories were always so stupid, you know?”

She sits on the chair, and I hear her phone buzz in her back pocket.

The average brick is two inches tall. Felicity is five foot five. How many bricks will it take for her former best friend to seal her into a wall?

I shake my head, dispelling the thought. I already know the answer, anyway. “You said I shouldn’t pretend to be stupid, because I never wanted to raise my hand in class.”

“You didn’t want the boys to think you were too smart,” Tress says, making air quotes around the last words.

“You said I can be smart and pretty,” I go on. “I can be both.”

“You are both,” Tress says.

“Right,” I agree. “So . . . if I’m not stupid, Tress, why would I stand here and insist that I don’t know what happened that night, if I really did? Why would I let this continue if I could stop it just by being honest?”

Tress is nodding along with me, like she knew I would say this, and a pit of fear opens in my stomach, my heart falling into it. I thought I was being clever, reconnecting with her and leading her through a logical chain that would undo the ones she’s got me in. But instead she’s just agreeing, like I’m following a script she already had laid out. Like she knew exactly what I was doing.

Tress stands up, selects a brick. “You wouldn’t tell me, because you’re not scared enough yet,” she says, reaching for the mortar pail. “You wouldn’t tell me because fear is a powerful motivator. But you know what’s stronger?”

She comes closer, toes touching the bricks she’s already laid, face close to mine. “Shame,” she says.

And she’s got me there. She’s got me dead to rights.

Chapter 22

Tress

Felicity’s face falls, and her knees go out, her wrists alone supporting her as she sags. Her head drops, the jester cap sliding to the front again, but I saw her expression when I hit her with shame, and it told me everything I need to know. She went from pretty to ugly with just one word, the spark behind her eyes when we laughed suddenly stomped out. I know what defeat looks like. I know shame, thoroughly and completely.

Felicity Turnado knows something. And I’m going to find out what.

But I need her full attention in order to do that, and right now it looks like she needs to stew for a minute. My phone goes off in my pocket—again—and I pull it out for a glance. Cecil is actually attempting to text for the first time in his life, since I’m not answering any of his calls.

Cat dance. Kill some odyssey were

I stare at it for a second, completely lost. I end up having to retype everything into my phone and take some suggestions from autocorrect to try to translate it. What I finally work out is: “Cat dangerous. Kills somebody and we’re done.”

“No shit,” I say to my phone. What Cecil didn’t do is send any suggestions about how a person is supposed to go about capturing a panther and leading it docilely back to its cage in the middle of the night. I know there’s a dart gun back at home, but stalking a cat is a dangerous business that becomes impossible when it’s a black cat in utter darkness.

Nope. Cecil will have to wait. Or sober up and do it himself—there’s a thought.

My phone vibrates in my hand, drawing my attention to a string of tweets and Instagram posts featuring the hashtags I’d set on notifications—#HonestUsher and #TrueLoser. There are hundreds of alerts, and they’re picking up steam. People I know are using it, but it’s being retweeted and reposted at an alarming rate, strangers getting in on the game. Someone even has a livestream going on Facebook . . . and it has over three hundred viewers at the moment.

I hop on to see Ribbit leaning dangerously to one side of his chair; the only thing apparently balancing him is a beer in the other hand. Somebody is keeping him refreshed, making sure the show doesn’t end before they’re done watching.

“Next question,” Hugh says, and the camera goes over to him, large and kingly in his stuffed chair.