I’ve been here for birthday parties and fundraisers before, but never like this. Never to chase a girl who might not want saving.
Maybe Harper’s just hanging out with another new friend and there’s nothing to worry about after all?
But then the blinking dot has me turning down the road to McKenzie Davis’s house… which can’t be a good thing.
I hear the party before I see it. Bass pounds through the trees.
This isn’t a party. It’s a fuckingdisaster.
Cars everywhere. I try to count them automatically. Lose count at seventeen. Start over. Lose count at twenty-three.
Can’t count them. Too many. Too chaotic.
My brain is screaming at me to organize something, anything, but I can’t.
I double-park behind a BMW. Wrong. Illegal. Against the rules.
Rule #84: Park legally and safely.
Don’t care.
I get out and jog for the house, heart hammering.
The front doors stand open, and I’m overwhelmed the second I step inside. The music is pounding, and a hundred drunk teenagers are trying desperately to look like they belong.
I push through the crowd. Neon lights strobe across grinding bodies. I step over crushed cups and abandoned heels and god knows what else.
I’ve heard about these legendary parties the seniors throw and never once been tempted to attend. They reek of the kind of scene my biological father would’ve loved—money, prestige, and trying to impress rich assholes so other rich assholes will be your friends.
I’ve spent my life trying to be nothing like that man.
But I can see how Harper might like a place like this to disappear for a night. Except while Harper’s street smart, she might have her guard down at a place that glitters with so much wealth. She might not expect that just as many predators hide in the dark here as where she grew up. Maybe even more.
No. That’s not happening to Harper. Not on my watch.
I spot doors to the back deck and fight through the crowd, ignoring dirty looks and muttered complaints. I’m bigger than most of these kids. They move.
I explode onto the patio. The pool glows electric blue. Pretty people splash and scream like extras in a commercial.
But Harper’s not here either.
I pull out my phone. Text her. No response. Seconds drag. The noise becomes static.
“Hey—” I grab a guy who’s passing by me by the arm.
It’s Rudy. I knew him from Little League eight years ago. Outfielder. Batting average .417. He’s all grown up now. His polo’s soaked with what looks like pool water and… ugh, is that vomit? His eyes are bloodshot, pupils just pinpricks.
I plant myself in front of him, grip his shoulders. “Have you seen Harper? Dark hair, boots, leather jacket, about five-six?—”
Rudy grins slow and stupid, brain buffering. “Oh yeah. She was totally wasted, man. Like...gone. They had to pull her out of the pool before she, like, drowned, dude.”
My blood turns to ice.
Harper’s limp body flashes before my eyes, skin gray-blue, hair floating like weeds underwater?—
No. Focus. She’s not dead. Rudy said they pulled her out. Past tense. She’s alive.
But for how long? Average time until brain damage from oxygen deprivation: 4-6 minutes. Permanent damage: 10 minutes. Death: 15 minutes.