Page 137 of Vile Bastards
It means it has something to do with Lemon.
I hug the sleeping bag closer to my chest.
Of course it has something to do with Lemon. Why else would her sleeping bag be here? It’s not because Archer Realty wants to buy up this entire block. No, it’s something else.
“Bring me a bug detector,” I say, grinding my teeth in frustration. “Let’s clear this place of cameras, wake Megan and Tommy up, and see what they can’t tell us.”
I move out of the garage, carrying my dead bestie’s sleeping bag with me.
If somebody else wants it now, well, they’ll have to pry it from my cold, dead fingers.
That, and make sure that I stay dead next time.
“Something interesting going on next door?” Emma Jean asks, standing on my front lawn and watching as I make my way over to her with faded Care Bears fabric tucked against my chest. I give her the most banal, disinterested look that I can manage.
“How’s your book going?” I query instead. “Alexei likened your interviews to a clam dig.”
Emma chuckles at that, following me up the front steps and into my house. She even—rather annoyingly—trails behind me as I do my best to sneak up the stairs without anyone in my family seeing me with the sleeping bag. They all know that it belonged to Lem, and I don’t want to field any irritating questions.
Fortunately, my mom and aunt are too busy schmoozing their new boyfriends while my elderly grandmother serves them all pumpkin pie with fresh whipped cream, like some sort of underpaid waitress. As soon as I win some money, I’m freeing my grandmother from this bullshit.
I kick open my bedroom door only to find Alexis waiting on my bed for me.
“Why was Alexei Grove here today?” she demands, and I roll my eyes, acting as if the sleeping bag in my arms is no significant thing. I shove it on the top shelf of my closet and slam the door, hoping that Alexis won’t have noticed. Or, if she did, I hope she doesn’t realize that the sleeping bag wasn’t here all along.
“He wasn’t,” I lie as Emma Jean does her best to disappear in the corner. I can’t help but notice the way her eyes scan my room like she’s looking for clues. Here’s the thing, right. I like the girl. I do. She seems fine. Actually, she seems like a fairly decent human being in a world full of people who are (to put it nicely) literal dumpster fires.
But I don’t trust her.
Would you?
She’s far too inquisitive for her own good.
“How stupid do you think I am?” Alexis shouts at me, rising to her feet and trying to corner me. I turn a very dark look on her, and she at least has the common sense to take a step back. “I’m your sister, Scarlett; you should trust me. If you can’t trust your family, who can you trust?”
“Get out of my room.” It’s a direct order, one that she better damn well heed. I just found out our neighbors have secret spy cams along with Lemon’s sleeping bag. I’m not in the mood. “Now.”
“It wasn’t enough for Lemon to die?” Alexis throw at me, and I see red. Crimson. My vision is painted with it. “You won’t appreciate me until I’m dead, too? Fine. Keep your stupid fuckboys and see if I give a shit.” She shoves Emma Jean out of the way and leaves the room, slamming the door behind her.
“Sorry about that,” I murmur, rubbing at my forehead. Really, I’m not very sorry at all. I’m tired. I want to take a nap and wake up in ten years, established in my career, living in a glorious mansion with a massive garage stuffed full of vintage cars. I don’t want any of this, the scheming and the dark deeds and the bullshit.
“No worries.” Emma smiles prettily, eyes shifting over to the closet. She noticed that I went in the backyard with the boys, and then returned through the front door carrying a child’s sleeping bag, of all things. It’s interesting to her because she’s a busybody who thrives on gossip. “Want to explain to me what’s going on next door, and why all of your boyfriends are over there?”
“Fuckboys.” Only I’m not even making a proper correction. One’s a Nightmare (which won’t mean anything to Emma) while two are almost-fiancés, and the last one somehow upgraded himself to boyfriend. What a mess. “And no. Want to tell me why you didn’t care to divulge that you’re Nessie?”
Emma’s face blanches, and she curses under her breath, something like oh, Fig Newton. Christ on a cracker, she is as middle-class boring as they come.
“Bohnes?” she asks, and I smile tightly. I don’t have to answer; she knows. “I didn’t think the information was pertinent.”
