Sloane gazed out the attic window at what looked like a monsoon. Rain pounded onto the rooftop, each drop exploding like a mini bomb. Valets scurried around in dripping raincoats emblazoned with Hawthorne Lake's monogram. Members ducked under the portico, dry and comfortable as they waited for their needs to be met. In the attic, her friends' voices droned, blending in with the steady, violent patter. As much as she knew she should be listening, a loyal soldier in the War hanging on every word, she couldn't bring herself to tune in.

Instead, she squinted toward the beach, the water grey and ominous. If Willa were alive, she might have been down there alone, letting the rain pelt her back as she bent to pick up the smooth pieces of gla.s.s the lake spit out. She used to say they were easiest to find in the rain, the drops washing away sand that normally hid the tiny treasures. She'd always give the prettiest piece to Sloane. The smooth gla.s.s nestled into the palm of Sloane's hand would feel warm and smooth. That feeling would snake its way up through her arm all through her body. Like magic. That's what it was like being friends with Willa. Magic. But there was no one on the beach now. And with no magic gla.s.s to warm her palm, a sickening emptiness wormed its way into her heart instead.

"You heard Sloane," Madge said. "Her parents said it would take months. We don't have months. We barely have weeks. Summer's almost over."

Sloane perked up when she heard her name. She'd already discussed the b.o.o.b failure ad nauseum. It wasn't going to work, just like everything else. She turned from the window.

"I like the idea of spiking their drinks," Rose said, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "I know so many servers who'd want in. What if we used laxatives instead of hormones?"

Lina sat up straighter, raising her eyebrows. "The golf tournament is at the beginning of the month. We can have all the bathrooms locked. They'll s.h.i.t their pants. Literally."

The girls thought on this for a moment. Sloane pictured Trip running around with his hand cupping his b.u.t.t. Man b.o.o.bs and s.h.i.tting your pants-it was all the same, wasn't it? Enough to embarra.s.s, but not enough to destroy. She was grateful that Madge shook her head.

"We have almost thirty-five thousand dollars left, and all we can come up with is a colon cleanse? We're better than this." Madge began pacing the small attic.

Sloane turned back to the window, watching the drops slide down the gla.s.s like worms.

"You could steal v.i.a.g.r.a from the hospital, Sloaney," Lina piped up. "Rose, you arrange for it to be slipped into drinks at the Mother-Son banquet and the boys have to walk around with unsightly lumps in their pants like s.e.x offenders. It'll be epic. Especially around a bunch of moms."

More of the same, Sloane thought. She imagined the boys bantering about s.e.xy cougar-moms and could practically hear MILF jokes and the laughter that followed. They'd twist it around to their advantage, as usual. They should have learned from the fundraiser that the Gregorys were master manipulators. But she didn't know how to voice any of it.

As if on cue her gaze was drawn to a shock of red hair under the portico. Trip Gregory stood there, stretching to look at the sky, probably considering making a dash for it. He spoke with the valet for a moment, his face warm and inviting, the typical grin stretched along his jaw line. But when the valet ducked back inside, Trip's eyes narrowed into slits and a grimace replaced his usual smile. A crystal gla.s.s from the bar was gripped between his fingers and his gaze zeroed in on the tiny window of the attic.

Oh my G.o.d.

He saw her. She was sure of it. And before she could duck out of sight, he c.o.c.ked his head and released his fingers from the tumbler. The gla.s.s fell as though in slow motion, exploding around his feet and mirroring the jagged smile that flashed over his face. Sloane threw herself on the attic floor. For some reason, she was reminded of spinning with her friends when she was a little girl, tiny hands clasped together singing, "Ashes, ashes we all fall ... DOWN!" They'd giggle hysterically as they fell. This time no one was laughing.

"Sloane, what the h.e.l.l? Are you okay?" Lina tried to help her up, but Sloane yanked her down. "Ouch! Let go of my arm. What's your problem?" She shook Sloane off of her and struggled to her feet.

"Trip! He saw me. He dropped a gla.s.s and it broke and he smiled. You guys, I think he knows." Sloane rose on her knees and peered out the window, careful to remain partially hidden. She kept her eyes trained on the ground outside the Club, certain if she tried hard enough she'd be able to make out the shards of gla.s.s. The valet pulled up in Trip's black BMW, and Sloane watched as he walked toward the car. His affable smile was back in place. Before he opened the door, he stood in the rain and lifted his arm in a mocking salute directed at Sloane. Funny, even in her terror, all she could think was, He doesn't even care about soaking that expensive watch. He doesn't care about anything ...

And that's when it hit her.

It didn't happen often and she could never be sure when it was coming, but she was sometimes struck out of the blue with an idea. The last one had been "b.o.o.bs," of course. This one was much better.

"Watches," Sloane blurted as she turned from the window to the group.

Back in the day, when Great Grandpa Gregory and his brother began making real money, they'd bought a pair of valuable watches, gifts to each other for hard work and sacrifice. Now James and Trip had inherited them. Instead of representing hard work and sacrifice, they stood for wealth and the life of leisure that came with other people working hard for you. There had to be a way to use the watches against them. They were family heirlooms. They could drive a wedge between Grandpa and the twins, couldn't they?

The girls frowned. Madge opened her mouth, but before she could say a word, footsteps pounded up the stairwell. All of the girls jumped out of their seats and rushed together to defend themselves against whoever had come to destroy everything. Sloane's heart exploded in her chest. It was Trip. It had to be.

But when the door flew open, she saw two housekeepers. Sloane blinked at them. Had Trip sent them? They shut the door and faced the girls in the standard navy blue housekeeping uniforms, an H and L st.i.tched at their breast. They looked like twins, with their dull, almost greyish-blonde hair secured at the nape of their necks with bobby pins. They couldn't have been much older than the girls. Rose rushed forward.

"Kira, Nadia, what's wrong?"

"We didn't want to be late." The older one spoke in a slight Russian accent. "We want to join. For Pavla."

Madge glared at Rose.

"I didn't tell anyone, I swear." Rose raised her hands, her dark eyes large and insistent.

"No one invited us. The Gregory boys. We heard them talking. They know you are behind the pictures. Lina, she took the picture of Trip, yes?"

Lina nodded, her lips pursed.

"You must be careful. We will help you." The younger one spoke this time, her eyes focused steadily on the floor, hands wringing.

"How could you have heard all of this?" Madge demanded. "You mean to tell me that Trip and James were just openly discussing this at the Club?"

"They talk in the library. We were cleaning." The older one sounded defensive, and Rose must have picked up on her tone.

"They're maids. Of course they speak freely around them. They probably don't even realize they speak English." Rose sounded angry, frustrated. For the first time it occurred to Sloane that Rose had probably been ignored at one time or another as well.

"Who's Pavla?" Lina asked.

"Our sister. The Captain accused Pavla of stealing his wife's necklace during a ma.s.sage but she would never steal. The Captain lied because she refused to ..." The girl let her voice trail off, embarra.s.sed and ashamed of what the Captain had asked of her sister.

"She was fired. And now she's back in Russia." The other sister finished.

It was no drowning in Hawthorne Lake, but it was something bad, evil, and twisted. Sloane wondered how many other people at the Club had their own Willas.

"Let them in," Sloane heard herself say.

Rose nodded. "They could help with the inside stuff. They have access. They can keep track of what the boys are planning."

The younger one finally lifted her head and offered a sad, tentative smile.

Madge and Lina looked at each other, and Lina lifted her bony shoulders. "We need them," she said, and then caught herself, "I mean, we need you. But this is War, so get ready for the long haul." She lowered herself back into the couch, fl.u.s.tered.

"There might be no war to fight if we can't think of a new idea," Madge snapped. She popped her last mint in her mouth. Bad sign. She had to be nearing the end of her reserves, and they'd gotten practically nowhere. Rain continued to pound on the roof. The young maids hesitated at the door, but finally came forward and sat on the floor, tucking their legs beneath them.

Sloane retreated into her head once again. Watches. Pavla. Stolen necklace. Antiques. Valuable jewelry. They could make fun of the watches. They could destroy the watches. They could hide the watches. They could steal the watches. She sat up straighter. They could steal the watches.

"We steal the watches!" Sloane practically shouted the words.

All eyes flicked to her. She got that panicky feeling that accompanied the pressure of the spotlight. Like she was "reading" Corduroy all over again. Her pulse raced as she considered, shaking her head, shutting up. Then she remembered the casual way Trip had smashed the gla.s.s in front of the Club. How a Gregory didn't care who he hurt or what he broke; he just liked the sound of something shattering. And that's when she realized: it didn't matter if they lost. The War had to be fought. Maybe they didn't stand a chance against the Gregorys. But Sloane was going to go down fighting, like Willa.

Besides, no one knew she was dumb here. Not like Willa knew. They might have suspected it, but it wasn't like at school. The girls here didn't know about how she cheated her way to her As, they didn't whisper how two of the most intelligent doctors in the country had raised such a complete idiot. It might not be the answer to the War, but at least it was a start.

"Get it?" Sloane asked, knowing this could go only one of two ways.

"You. Are. A. Genius." Four words from Madge. Four simple words and Sloane's heart soared. "Great Grandpa Gregory and their great uncle pa.s.sed down those watches. They're antiques. Priceless. Oh my G.o.d, Sloane. That's it!"

Sloane felt her confidence grow as Lina beamed at her, and Rose gave her thumbs up, which felt so, so good in spite of its inherent dorkiness. Even the Russian sisters nodded enthusiastically. "We could sell them. Make it look like they needed gambling money or whatever. That would really p.i.s.s off Gramps."

"ON EBAY!" Lina shouted. "We sell them on eBay." She laughed maniacally, and everyone couldn't help but join in. Sloane laughed the loudest for once. Turns out being a dumba.s.s had its moments.

Chapter 20.

It was the first time Sloane had seen James Gregory sober since Willa died. His aviators hid most of his face. Judging from the greenish tint of his complexion, she guessed he was recovering from yet another bender. But it was Sunday morning and that meant golf with the Captain. And lucky for the girls, his fancy watch got in the way of his golf swing. It was the only time he ever took it off.

Sloane watched him warm up at the driving range from a bench partially hidden by trees. She had a magazine as an alibi should it come to that. She was staring, after all. She had no idea what the perfect golf swing was supposed to look like, but her guess was that James had to be pretty close. Or maybe she was just making a.s.sumptions based on his perfect body.

Somehow she had landed the job of monitoring James while Rose stole the set of master keys from her mom's desk and slipped them to Kira and Nadia. Lina and Madge were supposed to be watching Trip at the basketball courts. If either Gregory made a move toward the Club lockers, the girls were supposed to text a warning to everyone. G.o.d bless technology.

James took a break from his practice and used his driver to stretch his shoulders, his pink golf shirt creeping up and revealing a sliver of toned, tanned stomach. Sloane couldn't stop herself from leaning forward on the bench to get a better look.

"If you're waiting for me to pa.s.s out midswing, it's not gonna happen," he called.

At first Sloane figured he had to be talking to someone else. He hadn't even bothered turning to look at her. She grabbed her magazine and pretended to read just to be safe.

"That's upside down, you know."

He laughed hoa.r.s.ely. His voice was louder. Footsteps approached. She looked up and found James standing directly in front of her. Close enough that she could smell last night's drinks on his skin and see this morning's stubble along his jaw.

She opened her mouth to say something, wrapped her lips around imagined words, but no sound came out. She thought about running. It would be safest to run. There was no telling what James might do to her. She should have thought of that before she agreed to do this alone, but none of the other girls were taking the Gregorys seriously yet. And now Sloane was on the golf course, blatantly spying on James. Calling their bluff.

Her movements were calculated and slow. Don't make eye contact, she thought. As if maybe if she didn't look at him he wouldn't be able to see her. Sloane looked up through her eyelashes. Yup. Still there. s.h.i.t. s.h.i.t. s.h.i.t. What the h.e.l.l am I supposed to do now?

"Can I ask you something." It wasn't a question. Gregorys almost never asked questions.

She nodded. Her head was light with adrenaline and fear. He was going to ask her about the pictures. Accuse her of plotting against them. He was going to threaten to kill her just the way he'd killed Willa.

"What do you remember about that night?" His voice was cold.

He couldn't be serious. Was this some kind of test? A joke? Maybe the girls had already been caught, and he was just toying with her before the Captain swooped in and exiled her to some SAT prep summer camp.

"Uh, you mean ..." Sloane stammered, hoping to buy herself some time.

"Yeah, that night. The Fourth of July. What the h.e.l.l night do you think I mean?" James ran his shaky fingers through his thick blond hair. "I don't remember anything. I ... just need to know, I need to know what I did to her." His voice cracked on the last word.

It was a trick. It had to be a trick. He was baiting her. Trying to get her to expose her friends. He had to be because there was no way he didn't remember that night. How the h.e.l.l could he kill someone and not remember anything about it? But when she looked up at him, she saw nothing threatening. In fact, he almost looked hopeful. Not to mention scared. Like she, Sloane, might be able to help him figure this whole mess out. He kind of looked like someone might look if they really didn't remember killing a person.

It was his eyes. They were bleary, yet somehow serious. Focused behind the alcohol and pain. She remembered watching Willa look up into his eyes that night. Jealous of how she laughed as she navigated the party. Jealous of her ease, of the way she moved, talked, and existed without even having to think about it. Sloane hung on her every word, wondering if she tried hard enough, if she could fake it. Like Corduroy. And when Willa left and wasn't around to watch, she moved onto Lina, Madge, and other girls at the Club. While her friend fought for her life, she was fighting to fit in.

"I remember ..." Just as Sloane began, a sharp voice cut her off.

"James!" The Captain stood on the green, his wiry grey hair perfectly combed, his golf shirt with Hawthorne Lake's monogram crisp. It was already close to eighty degrees, but his face didn't flush, his shirt wasn't damp. Apparently it took more than moderate global warming to make the Captain sweat.

"Just do me one favor. Tell Rose I don't remember, okay?" James's blue eyes pierced into Sloane. He was practically begging. Gregorys never begged. "I've seen you with her. I know you guys talk. Just ... just tell her."

Sloane nodded in silent shock, too confused to do anything but agree with whatever he was asking of her. Her phone vibrated on the bench next to her. It was a text from Madge.

GOT THEM.

A picture of two gold watches popped up on the screen.

Sloane should have felt excited. She should have been celebrating. The girls were on their way. But sitting on that bench, staring at those watches as James Gregory and his grandfather climbed into a golf cart, the only thing Sloane felt was terror. Terror that one of her best friends was dead, and she had actually spoken to the guy who had killed her. Terror that all of her friends were working so hard to destroy him. Terror because when James said he didn't remember, she believed him.

She needed a minute, an hour, a day to try to process what was going on. But she was smart enough to know that time was the one thing she didn't have. The watches were already ticking.

Chapter 21.

The rest of the hot day pa.s.sed in a blur. Madge's paranoia upon learning that the Gregorys were onto them had compelled her to set up an unnecessarily complex hand-off process (in Sloane's opinion, anyway)-one that involved Sloane fishing the watches out of a garbage can in the ladies locker room.

Now she was home alone with the watches, obsessing over their brand-spanking-new eBay listing. The ceiling fan above her head spun and rattled like it was on decapitation setting, seconds away from flying down and chopping her to pieces. Although maybe that would be a good thing. Maybe if the stupid fan fell down, it would dice up her guilt, along with the rest of her, into such small pieces that no one would ever know it'd been there in the first place. Maybe the fan's blades would open her up and reveal her guts, blackened and rotted for not being brave enough to save Willa and for failing her again when she'd spoken to James.

Of course if Sloane died in a freak ceiling fan accident, she wouldn't be able to check the status of their eBay listing.

She rolled over to the opposite side of her bed where her phone lay nestled on a pillow, once again swiping and clicking her way to the post she had created for the "Rare Vintage Cartier Men's Watches." It was fascinating to watch the bids roll in, to wonder if the Captain took the bait after Madge had sent him the listing. It was downright exhilarating to imagine their plan, Sloane's plan, working.

CCG1927 outbid a***y AGAIN. Up to $19,876.

She sent the message to the girls despite the fact that they could easily keep track as well. It felt good to be doing something right for once. Then again, she'd practically pulled her hair out over the listing, using a combination of a thesaurus, Wikipedia, and other eBay listings to cobble together what she hoped would be one coherent auction. But she was proud. She'd even learned how to return messages to potential buyers, copying and pasting vintage Cartier facts scored from a Google search. She liked to imagine the bidders-a creepy old man with gnarled fingers hunched over an old desktop computer buying back a watch from his glory days, a desperate housewife determined to win back her husband from his hot new secretary, a devoted mother buying a graduation present for her only son.

But there was one bidder who she didn't have to imagine at all. Sloane was positive that CCG stood for a scrambling Charles Cornelius Gregory. Perhaps he was this much closer to disinheriting his worthless grandsons. Madge had been the one in charge of sending the Captain the link to the listing via a newly set up email address. Sloane could almost feel the satisfaction Madge must have felt when she'd clicked send. The very thought of the Captain having to register for an eBay account was a small victory.

Sloane refreshed the auction again. Another two bids came through neck-and-neck.

James. James. James.

She couldn't stop thinking about him. The auction didn't distract her; it only heightened the obsession. Willa had once told her that James used to black out when he was drinking. They'd have entire conversations that he wouldn't remember the next day. It drove her insane. He'd been sober for the past year, so Sloane had nearly forgotten about James's alcohol-induced memory loss. But now ... what if James was telling the truth? What if he really didn't remember anything that happened on the Fourth of July? She remembered him swaying on the boat, his eyes bleary and unfocused. Would that make Willa's death a terrible accident or the murder they'd all a.s.sumed it was? Did murderers ever forget? The lines she'd always seen so crisply drawn were suddenly turning hazy, wavering along the edges. Destruction of the Gregory boys had only seemed fair when she was sure James had killed her best friend on purpose. Eye for an eye and all that. Now, the spark she'd felt that first day in the attic fizzled out, the smoke leaving a bad taste in her mouth.

But Sloane had to do her part. The War was for Willa, yes, but Madge was still alive and they all deserved to know the truth. Doing her part meant keeping the watches safe and hidden. Their housekeeper had come way too close to uncovering them earlier in the day. She could just imagine Helene reporting to her parents and the after-school-special-esque conversation that would inevitably follow. Her parents would probably think she was planning on selling them to pay for a b.o.o.b job. In the end, Sloane decided the safest place for the watches was on her body, in a small f.a.n.n.y pack that she had used on her cla.s.s trip to France to hold her pa.s.sport and Euros.

James. James. James.

She threw her phone in her bag and hopped out of bed. She needed something to do. Somewhere to go. Her legs were jittery and her brain was stuck on a new track, the one where it kept replaying James's voice.