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However, Misty doesn’t sound sorry at all. She sounds annoyed that she has to explain herself.

It’s obvious that she doesn’t want Brooke here, and she’s doing everything she can to make sure she goes home.

“If money is tight, then maybe it’s best you go home,” Misty says, confirming my suspicions.

“But I need this. I need a break from Doug and the kids. It’s just… so much. Please, Misty. At least let me stay with you at your house.”

“Out of the question. I’m expecting Roger’s parents to fly here any day now. I just don’t have the room.”

“You don’t have the room? Your house is an eight-bedroom, five-bath home. You have the room. You just don’t want me there. I’m starting to think you didn’t want me to come at all.”

“And people used to say you were the dumb one of the Reds. So happy to see they were all wrong,” Peyton says, coming up from behind Misty. “If you want to stay, fine. With Jordan being clumsy enough to fall to her death, there’s at least one room free in this dump. I suggest you ask Mrs. Trott if you can have a discount, seeing as someone died there not twenty-four hours ago. As for us not wanting you here, it’s true. We don’t want you here. But can you honestly blame us? Look at you. You’re a disgrace. I mean, you were always the weakest link in the group, but now it shows,” Peyton sneers in disgust. “Stay if you want, but for crying out loud, comport yourself as a Red. I don’t know… get some Spanx or something. Do anything not to have people’s tongues wagging that one of us let herself go. It’s pathetic. Looking at you disgusts me.”

“It’s not my fault,” Brooke sobs, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “I’ve tried to lose the weight, but it just won’t come off. Besides, I’m postpartum. It’s difficult to lose weight when your mental health is suffering.”

“Oh, my god, do you hear yourself? One excuse after another. Look at Misty. She’s had kids too, and she still looks fuckable. We all look fucking fuckable except for you. Do you think we don’t work hard at looking this good? Because we do. We make sacrifices. So quit your whining and fucking do something about it already. Or better yet, don’t show your face in Fairhope again until you have this,” her gaze drops to Brooke’s midriff, “ under control. Understood?”

Brooke’s head hangs low, and she nods. “Okay, Peyton. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, spare me with your sorries. You sound like that stuck-up bitch Maxine. I still can’t believe she actually showed up. I thought you said she wouldn’t,” Peyton sneers, this time focusing all her anger on Misty.

“I underestimated her. Don’t worry. She won’t be a problem.”

“She better not be. The memorial is taking place this Friday, and I don’t want her to start spewing lies about that night.”

“Like I said, she won’t be a problem. I’ll have lunch with her during the week and make it crystal clear to her that no one is interested in reliving what happened,” Misty says with the same cold tone.

“Good. If you could scare her off and have her running back to New York, that would be even better. Just looking at her makes my stomach churn. I mean, hello! With all the money she’s made, couldn’t she afford a good plastic surgeon?”

“Some people just love playing the victim,” Misty says, eyeing her nails.

Peyton smiles at her best friend, hooking her arm with hers. “Let’s go back outside. We have a brunch to host, after all.” And then she looks at Brooke. “And you, go and talk with Mrs. Trott and book a room. If she can’t give you one, then go back to bumfuck Gorham.”

Brooke doesn’t say a word as the pair leave her in the foyer. But then when the coast is clear, I watch her giving them the middle finger behind their backs.

“Bitches! God, I hope one day you get yours. It would serve you right.”

Just as Brooke is about to turn around to look for who I can only assume is Mrs. Trott, we hear a loud scream. She races outside in its direction as I rush down the stairs, one hand gripping the rail to keep from slipping in my heels. When I finally get outside, I see our classmates huddled in a circle under the tent, the Reds’ table overturned off to the side.

“Come on, Sydney. Come on!” Sienna shouts, women crying and hiding their faces so they don’t see what’s happening inside the circle.

I push my way through and find Sydney on the ground while Sienna gives her mouth-to-mouth and chest compressions. Sydney’s eyes are closed in an eerie fashion, but it’s the way her face looks contorted that really pulls my attention.

“What happened?” I ask no one in particular.

“We don’t know,” Tammi says, horrified. “One second she was laughing away, and the next she just collapsed onto the table.”

“I think she might’ve had an allergic reaction to something she ate,” Dolores says.

“You might be right. Remember how Sydney always had an EpiPen with her during lunch back in school?” Mikayla asks. “Has anyone checked her purse?”

“That’s the thing. No one can find it. Amber and Delaney went to her car to see if she left it there,” Laura explains, craning her neck to look through the crowd for them.

“Then where are they?” I ask, eyeing the garden for any sign of the other two Reds, but all four women do is shrug.

We stay like that for what feels like forever, watching Sienna try to keep Sydney alive.

“They’re here!” I hear someone shout and point.