I’m coming, baby, I think as I struggle to sit up, feeling that awful pain in my leg again. Yep, I’ve got a fracture of some sort, and I’m going to have to walk on the damn thing. This should be fun.

I struggle with the ropes for longer than I should, using my left hand almost exclusively while my right one bleeds and trembles. I do my best not to look at it.

“Fuck yes,” I murmur, kicking the last of the ropes away and swinging my feet to the ground. The first time I try to stand, I end up on my knees, cursing and leaning over to brace my left hand against the ground. My entire body hurts, but I make myself crawl toward the door anyway, using the jamb to drag myself to my feet.

If Tom or David or—god forbid—Kali shows up here and finds me, I’m done. I won’t get another chance to escape. So even though it hurts, even though each step is agony, and my right arm hangs limply by my side, I make myself go down the stairs, the same stairs where Kali rolled her boyfriend’s body just hours prior.

There’s still a bit of a bloodstain on the trim.

I ignore it, limping down the steps at a slow but steady pace and finding myself in a great room with vaulted ceilings, a ritzy-rustic kitchen (money just can’t buy authenticity, now can it?), and a living room filled with plaid sofas. It looks like a Black Bear Diner—that is, a rustic chain restaurant—threw up all over the fucking place.

I look at it for a minute, scowl, and then flip the place the bird. On my way out the front door, however, I find a barbecue with lighter fluid next to it. Whoever used it last left a lighter and a pack of cigarettes on the side of the barbecue, too, like they were just asking for this place to be lit up.

Huh.

I don’t really have the time to spare, but maybe if I leave a distraction behind, it’ll help throw anyone who comes here off my trail. After all, I can’t exactly move at a brisk clip.

“Light it up,” I murmur, taking the lighter fluid inside the house and squirting it all over the plush sofas, bearskin rugs, and leather recliners. I put a cigarette between my lips, light it, and then take a drag before putting the crackling cherry against the lighter fluid. There’s a whooshing sound as the flames lick across the sofa, starting a small but pleasant blaze. It’s not all fantastical or movie-worthy or anything, but there is no doubt in my mind: this cabin is going to fucking burn. “Good riddance.”

I turn and limp out the door, taking the lighter and the pack of cigarettes with me.

Bernadette Blackbird

Logan Charter is surrounded by his goons in the back corner of the room. There are whiny little Fuller High and Oak Valley Prep girls everywhere, using their long pinky nails to offer the boys bumps of coke.

“They’re snorting up a goddamn snowstorm over there,” Hael murmurs as we create a half circle around the Charter Crew. Not just the five of us, of course, but like a lot of the Havoc Crew members I’ve never met. I recognize a few from seeing them howl in the hallway, but I never bothered to learn their names. I understand it’s best I keep my distance; the mafia don doesn’t mix with their hired help.

“Good,” Vic says, watching Logan like a wolf stalking prey in the snowy woods. “Cocaine makes you ballsy and reckless. That’s what we need tonight.” With a derisive snort and a deep exhale, Victor moves forward through the crowd and heads straight toward Logan Charter. “Logan,” he calls, and I swear, the entire room settles into a distant murmur as people lower their voices and turn to watch. Kind of difficult to start a war with all these fucking cops around, but I’m assuming Victor knows what he’s doing.

“What the fuck do you want?” Logan asks, favoring his left leg as he turns and moves forward to meet Vic. Kyler is nowhere to be seen. Unsurprising, considering he just lost another brother at the racetrack. One by one, we’re picking them off. Doesn’t feel very satisfying tonight since we’re down one, too.

“Don’t stress,” Hael tells me, turning his head slightly to look down at me. I wonder what he sees when he stares at me, some tell I’m giving off that I don’t even realize, like Callum and his hood or Vic and his chin rubbing. “We got this, Blackbird.”

I try to force a smile, but it doesn’t come. My lips won’t part. Instead, my fingers itch for a cigarette, but I keep them still, my hands hanging at my sides as I watch Vic and Logan face off in the middle of the gymnasium. Above their heads is a giant net filled with balloons. They should probably be in Prescott High’s colors—some idiot decided once upon a time that we should be green and red—but they’re actually in Oak Valley Prep’s blue, gray, and silver.

“Who wants to bet that Mitch is dead?” Oscar muses, holding his iPad against his chest as he stands just behind and to the left of me. I glance back and our eyes meet, a million unspoken things filtering between us. It’s hard for him, I think, to continue to be a complete asshole when Aaron’s missing. When there’s a possibility we could never see him again. When there’s a chance, however small, that he could be dead. “If he weren’t, Kali wouldn’t be playing with cops, and Vic wouldn’t be talking to Logan right now.”

I turn back to the scene in front of me, but really, as much as I dislike Mitch and find him to be a pathetic imitation of Victor, it’s obvious now that he was the only choice for leader in this group. Logan is like a distant star compared to the sun that is Victor Channing-Blackbird.

My lips almost twitch as I rub my thumb against my wedding ring, but any joy I might’ve felt at the idea that Vic has been legally named Victor Blackbird in the Oregon legal system is diminished by the eclipse that is Aaron’s disappearance.

I can’t hear whatever it is that Victor’s saying because he’s leaned in and put his lips near Logan’s ear. That’s when somebody releases the balloon net about two hours too early, and the DJ cranks up some horrible song—I think it’s the WHATS POPPIN remix by Jack Harlow which, in my opinion, could really use an apostrophe.

Victor grabs Logan by the back of the neck, dragging him toward the door as he flails around and shouts at the top of his lungs. His words are lost in the blur of balloons, the dimming of the overhead lights, and the colored spotlights sweeping across the crowd as Prescott students start to dance, dragging their middle-class and one-percenter cousins into the fray.

We know how to create distractions here at Prescott High, right?

Cops? What cops?

I grab one of the unnamed Charter girls by her hair, yanking so hard that she falls on her ass, and then I drag her toward the exit, too. Pretty sure she’s Logan’s sidepiece. His girlfriend is already after Vic, trying to free her man from his iron grip. We enter the hallway as a group, each of us pulling at least one Charter Crew dickhead along with us. I say at least, because Callum and Hael have two each.

The doors slam closed behind us and a couple Havoc Crew girls use a key to unlock the janitor’s closet, grabbing an old pipe and shoving it through the handle of the door, effectively locking it.

I’d take more interest in them if I weren’t struggling with the bitch on the ground.

“Fuck you, you cunt!” she’s squalling, and even though we have no personal beef, I’m in a mood. I slam her head into the ground the same way I did Billie Charter, and then climb on top of her in my pretty pink skirt with the glittery appliques. My nails, however, are still a glorious matte black with coffin tips.