two

“YOU’VE CHANGED, SCARLETT”

Six months ago I was getting dressed for a party. And now here I am, doing exactly the same thing, but with all the difference in the world. Six months ago, I was desperate to look as pretty as possible, to fit in with Plum and Nadia’s group, and to attract the boy I’d had a crush on since the dawn of time—Dan McAndrew.

Well, we all know how that one turned out.

Six months ago, it was all about pleasure. Now, it’s business. I look at myself in the mirror, and I see that my jaw is set with determination. Though it takes a second to recognize myself. The last time I wore this much makeup was—you guessed it—six months ago. And it was in this same hip Notting Hill boutique that I was taught how to dress and how to paint myself prettier without looking like a clown.

I was a more-than-willing student. Unlike Taylor, who, unsurprisingly, is absolutely refusing to wear any makeup whatsoever.

“Just a little bit of mascara?” the salesgirl is coaxing. “It’ll really make those green eyes pop!”

Taylor’s look is the visual equivalent of a snarl. I have to give the girl major points for persisting.

“And maybe just a tiny bit of blusher?” she continues. “I’ve got these great gel sticks. You’ll hardly notice it.”

“Then what’s the point?” Taylor snaps.

“Taylor,” I say soothingly, “you’ve got to blend in a bit. You can’t turn up at a trendy party in a club looking like—um—looking like  .  .  .”

I’m not as brave as the salesgirl, clearly, because Taylor turns her stare onto me, daring me to finish my sentence, and I feel her eyes are popping quite satisfactorily without the aid of any mascara.

“It’s all about individuality nowadays,” the girl says cheerfully. “No one’s trying to make you look like anything but yourself, okay? But just see what this does.  .  .  .”

And she actually dares to reach out with a stubby pink stick and draw a line on each of Taylor’s cheekbones. I’m amazed when she pulls her hand back with the wrist still intact. But, miracle of miracles, she does, because Taylor is, despite herself, looking at her image in the mirror, and both she and I can see that the blusher has made a small but significant improvement. It’s given just a touch of color to her Irish-white skin. Taylor has such strong features she’ll never be pretty, but, with her well-refined brows and cheekbones, plus those long green eyes, she could be really striking if she’d let herself make the best of her looks.

And push her hair back off her face a bit.

“That isn’t bad,” Taylor admits grudgingly, and to my amusement, she actually does push her hair back off her face, as if she heard my voice in her head. Or realized that she’s actually got a face worth looking at.

“Want to try a tiny bit of mascara?” the girl suggests.

“Well  .  .  . maybe  .  .  . ,” Taylor mumbles, blushing under the blusher.

I walk away, feeling that Taylor would rather not have me witness her this vulnerable. I honestly think she’d rather have me watch her being tortured than learning how to apply mascara.

In the full-length mirror set into the pale blue walls, I survey myself. I’m wearing a layered top, not unlike the one Nadia had on yesterday in the coffee shop. (I didn’t set out to copy her—the salesgirl picked it out for me, which goes to show how on-trend Nadia is.) It’s a sort of off-white, with silver threads running through it, and it’s so delicate that I’m nervous I might shred it with any sudden movements, but it’s fantastically pretty and it makes me feel glamorous and sexy but not like I’m showing too much skin, or cleavage, or anything that might make me feel embarrassed. It comes to my hips, and underneath it I’m wearing a gray suede miniskirt, silvery crocheted tights, and ankle boots with lots of straps and buckles that jingle when I walk and honestly make me feel a bit silly but that, I have been assured, are What Everyone Is Wearing at This Precise Fashion Moment in Time. My hair is pulled to one side in a ponytail, and the salesgirl told me to buy curling irons so I could twist it into one big loose ringlet falling over my right shoulder.

I haven’t even got any makeup on yet, and I think I look really nice already. I haven’t seen myself dressed up like this since the night of Nadia’s party. And while there’s a part of me that is a little ashamed to admit this, I like it.

All of a sudden, I find myself wishing Jase could see me now. Jase Barnes is the grandson of Ted Barnes, the head gardener at Wakefield Hall, where I live now. More importantly, Jase Barnes is the incredibly gorgeous boy who I can’t stop myself from thinking about when I’m not thinking about Dan. I don’t have tons of experience when it comes to this romantic stuff, but I think that Jase might have a bit of a thing for me. This is based solely on the fact that he didn’t exactly push me away when I kissed him recently.

I shake my head frantically, hoping that it’ll block all images of that kiss with Jase from my mind. Taylor and I have an important mission tonight, and I need to get ready for it. As soon as I focus only on that, I see a difference in myself from six months before. Then, I was wide-eyed, unable to believe that I actually looked pretty enough, trendy enough, capable enough of fitting into Plum and Nadia’s social circle enough that people wouldn’t laugh and point the moment I walked in the door. Now, I’ve kissed a boy, and held him as he died in my arms. I’ve been blamed for it, and I’m in the middle of a battle to prove his death was at the hands of someone else.

No wonder there’s a tougher look in my eyes.

“Hey,” Taylor says gruffly, appearing behind me in the mirror.

She isn’t half as dressed up as I am—she absolutely refused to try on a skirt. In fact, I don’t think Taylor even owns one. I only know she has legs rather than prosthetics because I’ve seen her work out in gym shorts. But she’s wearing low-cut jeans that show off her stomach, flat from thousands of sit-ups, and a bright red T-shirt with dull gold embroidery over one shoulder. The salesgirl was able to get Taylor to push her hair back behind her ears, and somehow Taylor looks a few years older and a lot more sophisticated. By the embarrassed tone in her voice, I can tell that Taylor sees it, too.

I know better than to shower her with compliments.

“You look cool,” I say.

“So do you,” Taylor responds.

We stare at each other in the mirror for a moment.

“Is this going to cost a ton of money?” Taylor asks eventually.

“Two tons,” I say.

She cracks a grin. “Gotta love that trust fund, right?”

Nadia’s deal with us was simple. Well, the deal was simple. The story behind it wasn’t.

“I throw up sometimes, okay?” she said, lowering her voice, so we had to strain to hear her over the clatter of cups and chatter in the crowded coffee shop. For someone who was glaring at us so boldly before, she was refusing to meet our eyes now: she was fidgeting with her gold bangles, her slick of shiny hair falling over her face. “I’m not bulimic or anything,” she went on, “because I don’t do it every day. Or anything like every day.”

She paused here, as if she was daring us to challenge this, but neither Taylor nor I did. Without wanting to sound too cold, we weren’t there to save one pampered rich girl from her own low self-image problem: we were there to solve a murder. Which sort of took priority.

“Sometimes I eat that bit too much and it just helps,” Nadia continued, still sounding defensive. “Everyone complimented me when I lost weight when I got the flu, but I started putting it on again, and then I realized if I just—you know—every so often—”

“What do you want us to do?” Taylor broke in impatiently. “Flush the john after you’ve finished barfing?”

Nadia’s head jerked up, and her big dark-penciled Persian eyes flashed jet-black daggers at Taylor.

“Well, thanks for the sympathy,” she hissed, turning her shoulder on Taylor. “You know what it’s like at St. Tabby’s, Scarlett. Everyone’s so horribly competitive.” She grimaced. “You wouldn’t believe the kind of stuff that goes on.”

She seemed to be waiting for something, so I prompted, in as sympathetic a voice as I could manage:

“Oh? Like what?”

“Like filming me doing it,” Nadia hissed again. “Can you imagine?”

“Someone filmed you throwing up?” I asked incredulously.

She nodded. Even under the bright coffee shop lights, which washed me and Taylor out and gave us dark shadows under our eyes, Nadia’s skin was golden and glowing. I couldn’t help admiring it, even as I wondered whether I could detect a hint of something sour and acid on her breath.

“Plum did,” she said quietly. “On her phone. We were feeling like we’d overdone it at brunch, and we thought we’d, you know, puke.” She whispered the last word. “We went into her bathroom to do it together and I went first. I had no idea what she was doing—I mean, why would you think anyone would film you? And then, the next day, she showed it to me. She said it was just a joke, but I begged her to delete it, and she wouldn’t, and ever since, when I don’t go along with her, she makes this gesture, like she’s sticking one finger down her throat, and I know she’s saying if I don’t do what she wants, she’ll show everyone.”

“So what do you want us to do about it?” Taylor asked, frowning in confusion.

“Get it back!” Nadia’s voice rose hysterically. “I want you to get it back!”

I could see that something about Taylor was making Nadia freak out, so I asked Taylor to go fetch us some more lattes.

“Fine,” Taylor said gruffly, obviously annoyed that I’d sent her on an errand in the middle of our power play.

Once Taylor was out of earshot, my suspicions were confirmed.

“Your friend’s really, really butch,” she said disapprovingly. “And completely classless.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “That’s pretty funny coming from a girl who pukes in the loo on a regular basis.”

Nadia seemed almost impressed by my comeback. She looked at me properly for the first time, one of the up-and-down, thorough surveys that St. Tabby’s girls only bestow on girls they think are their rivals in some way.

“You’ve changed, Scarlett. You’ve grown a backbone.”

“I had to,” I said simply.

Nadia nodded. “It must have been really hard,” she said. “Dan, I mean.”

For the first time, Nadia revealed a sympathetic expression. Even so, there was no way I was letting down my guard in front of her.

“It wasn’t a barrel of laughs,” I said brusquely.

Nadia raised her eyebrows. “Well, when I remember you at St. Tabby’s—”

“What exactly do you want us to do about Plum?” I cut in.

Nadia looked a bit taken aback that I’d dared to interrupt what was doubtless going to be a humiliating account of what a wimp I used to be at school. The only time I stood up to Plum was when I was clearing my stuff out of my locker, and that wasn’t exactly typical of my behavior there. Besides, she bullied me with a big group of girls around her, which really drove me to it.

“I want you to steal her phone,” she blurted out. “So I can delete that video.”

I stared at her, bewildered.

“Plum’s bound to have uploaded it to her computer,” I pointed out.

But Nadia was shaking her head so vigorously that her earrings were trembling glints of gold through her blue-black hair.

“Plum’s had her computer hacked into before,” she explained. “So now she doesn’t keep anything really private on it. She wants total control of that video, so she won’t send it anywhere someone else might get hold of it. Then she wouldn’t be able to, you know, sort of hold it over my head.”

“Some friend,” I said dryly.

Nadia’s eyes narrowed, and she started to say something, but she bit it back.

“How are we supposed to steal her phone?” I asked. “Plum knows me, and after the last time I saw her, I’m pretty sure she won’t let me anywhere near her.”

I had shoved Plum into a locker. I didn’t hurt her or anything, and she had her entire gang grouped round me, bullying me, but Plum wouldn’t exactly see that as justifying my actions.

Nadia was looking blank.

“And besides, the phone must be really precious to her, if she keeps incriminating stuff on it,” I added, thinking out loud. “Hmm, how can we make this work?”

I drummed my fingers on the table, which always helped me to think, though I knew it was annoying for everyone else. Nadia, however, had the good sense not to complain: after all, my brain was spinning fast in an attempt to help her out.

“I know!” I exclaimed eventually. “I’ll distract her, and Taylor can take the phone. Seeing me will be a great distraction—especially after last time. She’ll be spitting blood at the sight of me. We’ll just have to work out someplace we can do it so Taylor can get close to her bag without her noticing. And without getting caught,” I added. “Obviously—the last thing we want is Taylor getting arrested for stealing.”

“Well, we’re going clubbing tonight  .  .  . ,” Nadia suggested, a bit dubiously.

“Perfect,” I said firmly.

My brain told me that this would be a great opportunity—dark, crowded, Plum probably tipsy and thus less likely to notice her phone disappearing. And besides, it was striking while the iron was hot. I was on fire to push ahead with solving Dan’s murder.

My nerves, however, were screaming in protest. The idea of going clubbing—me! clubbing!—in any kind of venue that was a regular hangout for girls like Plum and Nadia filled me with complete and utter dread and fear. This was miles out of my league. I swallowed hard, telling my nerves to shut up.

“Will Taylor be okay with that?” Nadia said doubtfully, turning to look over at Taylor, who was eyeing us carefully from the coffee pickup line.

“Taylor,” I said to Nadia, turning back to look her directly in the face, “wants to be a PI.”

“A what?”

“A private investigator. She takes it really seriously. She’ll do anything she needs to do to get the job done.”

“If you get that video back, so I can delete it,” Nadia said, clasping her hands together in a kind of prayer, “I’ll do anything I can to help you, Scarlett. Anything.” Her big dark eyes were wide and imploring. “I helped you already, didn’t I?” she reminded me. “I got Lizzie to leave you that note, because I felt guilty everyone was still blaming you. Please, Scarlett. Get that video for me. And I’ll tell you everything I know about that evening. I promise.”

I believed her. Because I was sure that video existed—Nadia wouldn’t make up something that embarrassing. So I was sure she’d do whatever she could to help us out. And even after we’d helped her, I was equally sure we’d get the truth from her about the night Dan died, because if she broke her promise, we’d go to Plum and tell her it was Nadia who arranged for us to steal her phone and delete that video. And I wouldn’t want to be Nadia if Plum knew that. Her wrath would be terrifying.

Of course, Nadia could try to lie to us. But I trusted myself and Taylor to sense if she was lying, and pressure her for the truth. Taylor, as she herself says, has a built-in bullshit detector. While I was drumming my fingers, I was thinking this all through. I tested it now, in my mind, and it hung together. I nodded to myself, satisfied with my calculations.

After all, it wasn’t as if Nadia had asked us to do anything bad. We’d take the phone, and if Nadia was telling the truth, we’d find that video, delete it for her, and make sure Plum got her phone back ASAP. That was it.

How could that possibly go wrong?