When I step inside, Chandra is sitting right where I left her—waiting for me. She’s alone, not because she wants to give me privacy; this has nothing to do with her respect for me. This is about her, and wanting to make sure I don’t spread the poison. I won’t. It will spread on its own; it’s just a matter of time.

“Have second thoughts about running away, Paige?” she asks, her legs folded up in front of her, a pillow on her lap, her hands resting neatly on top. She’s anxious. I’ve learned some of her tells over the few months we’ve been friends, and when she’s sure of herself, she stands, lets her arms and hands be free—so she can make gestures and move with her speech. She’s compact right now, hiding under the chenille butterfly pillow. No matter what happens, I’ve won this round, because I intend on standing.

“I was gone for thirty minutes. I’d hardly call that running away,” I say, turning my back to her and taking my time to pull my bag from my arms, then removing the sweatshirt from over my head. I want her to think I’m making her wait, that I’m not nervous, but really…I’m just buying myself time until I can think of exactly what I’m going to say. I think it depends on what she asks.

“You’ll need to be out by tonight,” she says, speaking the second I’m done pulling the cloth over my head, trying to catch me off guard. And she has.

That is not what I thought she would lead with. Seems we’re not going to go through the pretense of checking my phone and social media. Just as I thought, that was all part of the performance. I’m sure she’ll tell everyone they did a thorough investigation, and everyone will believe it, because she’s checked everyone’s phone—but mine.

“Pretty sure you don’t have the right to kick me out,” I say. Benefit of being a lawyer’s daughter is a shallow understanding of the law. I know more than Chandra does, and that’s all that matters. Sticking to my promise to myself, I don’t move from my spot about twenty feet away from her. I stand there, in the open foyer, where my voice echoes. And I revel in how it makes her uncomfortable.

“How did you think this was going to go?” she asks, never fully admitting to anything—never really laying out what this is all about.

“Not sure what you mean?” I say, resisting the urge to fold my arms. I won’t close my body off to her. These might seem like tiny wins in the chess game of interpersonal communication, but I need every tiny win I can get.

Chandra looks down at the pillow, running her hands along it, pulling at the corners to make it even and straight. She lifts it from her lap and sets it to the side, then untangles her legs, walking over to me slowly. I hold my ground.

“You will be out by tonight, or I will make your life so fucking miserable, you will literally run home to California,” she says, each word coming out amid her steps, until her elbows are brushing my body and her breath is choking me she’s so close.

I don’t blink. Not once. Inside, I’m crumbling, because I didn’t expect Chandra to fight so hard. That picture; it will ruin her. But she’s acting as if she has it completely contained. I know how rumors spread. I’ve helped pass them along. I’ve watched my dad spend millions trying to stop them. And when there’s something as sexy as a photo of the campus it girl with a shitload of drugs—it’s only a matter of time.

“Do your worst,” I say, waiting for her to flinch. She doesn’t, and the only thing I have left is my sister. I think of my sister, and the shitty things I started, and the cruel things this girl standing across from me has done. I know I’m right, and good has to win. I’m not naïve enough to think it always wins, but this time, it has to. And I’m willing to be a relentless bitch just to get my way.

Chandra doesn’t respond. She let’s the half smile on her overly-red lips linger, and waits for me to back away, which I finally do, retreating to my purple room. I pull the small screwdriver from my desk drawer as soon as I step inside and take down the overpriced coat hanger I bought with my own money. I place it in the side pocket of my duffle bag.

One way or another, I’ll be out of this house soon. And I’ll be damned if I’m donating my good decorating taste to this place.

Chapter 3

Houston

“Remind me how much they’re paying you for this…and how much you’re giving me for being here?” I ask Casey while I lie under a table shielded by a black tablecloth. There are at least a dozen cords in my hands, and I’m trying to find a way to weave them through a one-inch space in the plywood, makeshift-stage we’re propped up on.