How long was she under? How long ago? I need exact times. I need?—
“Where is she now?”
My fingers dig into his shoulders. I realize I’m squeezing too hard. Rudy winces.
Let go. Even pressure. Can’t hurt him. Need information.
His droopy eyes lift a little at my question, and a lazy arm waves vaguely. “Some guy was carrying her...”
“Which direction?” I want to shake him until his teeth rattle. “Think. Which way?”
“Away from the pool?” He shrugs like it’s a game show guess.
I shove him back, fists clenched. “What drugs are they passing out here?”
But Rudy’s already drifting toward a group of girls, forgetting I exist.
This is why I hate these fucking parties.
Rachel Watson. Freshman year. Dosed with Special K at a house party just like this. She was found hours later in a pool house bathroom, clothes torn, memory gone. She never came back to school. Her parents sued everyone, but lawsuits don’t rewind time.
The thought of Harper ending up like Rachel sends a red haze across my vision.
Pool house.
I run. My shoes skid on wet stone as I round the corner. The pool house looms ahead—smaller than the mansion but still bigger than most people’s homes.
I rip the door open. Inside, people mix drinks on sticky counters. Couples are knotted together on the sectional like some low-rent porno.
I sweep my phone’s flashlight across every face in the main room. Count them. One, two, three, four, five, six. Six people. None of them Harper.
Kitchenette: Two people. Not Harper.
Bathroom: Empty.
Bedroom one: Four people. Check each face. Not Harper. Not Harper. Not Harper. Not Harper.
I sweep my phone’s flashlight across every face, ignoring disgruntled shouts at the intrusion.
No Harper.
Down the hallway, a sock hangs from a bedroom doorknob. My stomach turns.
I shove the door open. A girl screams. Some guy shouts in protest. My flashlight cuts across the bed.
None of them is Harper.
Thank god, not Harper.
“Get your own fucking room!”
I slam the door and lean against it, chest heaving. Fear and rage trade back and forth in my churning gut.
I burst back outside and stare up at the main house—four stories of shadows and possibility.
Four stories. Windows on each floor. Try to count them. Lose count. Try again.
First floor: twelve windows visible from here. Second floor: I count eight, but there might be more on the other side. Third floor: six? Seven? I can’t tell in the dark. Fourth floor: four definitely.