“Thick metal bands.” She points to her wrist. “Look for them, and don’t drink what they give you.”

“Um, okay.” I hesitate, questions surging in my mind, but the woman clamps her lips together and moves into a stall, a clear signal that she’s not open to further disclosure.

As I walk the hall, my gaze darts to the arms of the guests. There are bracelets of all kinds—braided twine, embellished leather, delicate gold, simple hair elastics strung in colorful rows.

And then I see an unusual one—a thick, smooth bracelet, maybe brushed titanium, on a girl’s slim wrist. Probably a smart watch or something, though I don’t see a screen. But who even cares?

And then I see another bracelet, identical to the first, this time on the arm of a burly dark-haired guy a handful of years older than me. He’s got two girls draped on his shoulders, and they’re all laughing hysterically as they sidle past me.

The matching bracelets freak me out a little, like maybe there’s some underground-society shit going on here. But I’m not panicking. I’ve been to plenty of parties, and I know how to be careful. Besides, I have enough to worry about right now. I refuse to let paranoia ruin my fun.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have backup I can trust, in case Tom shows up again. The staff guy said they would kick him out, but I don’t know if they’ll follow through, or if he’ll stay gone. I have no idea where Jordan has wandered off to, but Nick might still be in the dance hall, so I head that way and look for him in the flickering purple dark, among the shifting shoulders and bending bodies. He’s nowhere in sight, but the band is playing “Hallucinate” and I can’t resist joining the dance again. Jordan used to make fun of me for liking Dua Lipa—too pop for her taste—but I don’t care.

The music drives through me, racing faster and faster like a passionate heartbeat. The magic in the room is grittier now, the crowd all elbows and sweat and desperation, glory and grinding, fists raised and feet pounding painfully through heels, and none of us mind. Little pills shift from hand to hand through the crowd; a girl passes me one and the dilemma breaks my rhythm. The automatic, ingrained no resounds in my head, clashing with the beat. But I need something to take my mind off Tom—what’s the harm, maybe it would feel good—so I nearly pop the pill in my mouth before it slips between my fingers and bounces away among all those rattling feet, and I smile because the choice was made for me and because I’m feeling pretty hyped up on nothing at all.

The song comes to an end, and with a brilliantly executed key change, the band brings up a jazzy version of “Gold Rush,” from one of Taylor Swift’s 2020 albums. There’s an audible sigh of delight from throats all across the room because new music meant something more that year; it melted under your tongue and circled through your thoughts and softened the constant worrying.

I close my eyes and forget everything else except the side step, hip sway, delicate swirl of the lyrics, like a gold chain unspooling across the room—

My shoulder bumps someone, and I laugh an apology.

“No worries,” a male voice responds, pitched low to be heard under the music. “Are you having a good time?”

“A great time,” I answer. “I love this song.”

“Well, who doesn’t like a little Tay-Tay once in a while?”

I turn to look at the speaker, but he’s in a dark spot of the room, where the ever-changing laser lights sweep past without touching him. He’s tall and lean, I can tell that much. There’s a lithe, buzzing energy about him, though he’s barely swaying to the song.

“Not all guys will own up to liking her music,” I say.

“I always own up to the things I like.”

There’s something familiar about him, like when you’re watching an animated movie and you know you’ve heard the voice actor before, but you can’t quite place them. “Have we met? Did you go to Blue Ridge High? I graduated from there about four years ago.”

“No,” he says. “I never went there.”

“College, maybe? I went to UNC at Chapel Hill.”

“I did my degree online.”

“Oh,” I say vaguely, because I just noticed the gleam of a thick metal bracelet on his wrist, and my warning sensors are lighting up. “So now that you’ve graduated, it’s party time, huh?”

“Something like that.” He’s moving closer, and I ease backward, luring him into the path of the sweeping lights.

“I’m glad you came,” he says.

A swath of violet light cuts across his face for one blinding, world-cracking second.

And then he’s gone, vanished into the churning crowd.

“Wait,” I whisper. And then, louder, “Wait!”

I’m paralyzed, turned to stone, while the dancers jostle and bump around me like boats caught in the current of the music.

4

It was him. I’m sure of it.

Actually, I’m not sure at all, because the light was weird and he didn’t look like I remember and it doesn’t make sense, because he was worse off than me, broken shoes and shaggy hair, thin as a light pole, and now—now he’s got all this, and it’s simply not possible.

Someone snags my elbow and I startle wildly, snapping around to face Jordan’s surprised eyes. “Chill out! I’m just checking on you. You okay?”

She’s trying to yell over the music. I can barely hear her, so I tow her to the edge of the room, through an arch and into a hallway. I’m looking for somewhere, anywhere—a quiet space.

“Daisy, you’re scaring me. Did someone hurt you? Touch you? You show me who it was and I’ll—” She clenches her fist, and her biceps bulge in her upper arm.

“Down, girl. Nobody hurt me.” I push a half-open door and rush in, dragging her with me. For a second I lose my words, because the room is a library, full of floor-to-ceiling bookcases with an ornately carved rolling ladder for accessing the upper shelves. There’s an immense free-standing globe, couches of shiny dark leather, and velvet tasseled pillows.

This luxury can’t belong to the boy I used to know. There’s no way.

I whirl on Jordan. “What do you know about the guy who hosts these parties?”

“Told you already. Nobody knows much about him. I heard he made his money selling drugs. He’s some kind of genius chemist and he cooked up his own unique formula.”

“And you believe that?”

Jordan shrugs. “Makes as much sense as anything else I’ve heard.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” croaks a voice.

We both turn to see a dumpy little man flopped in an armchair to our right. He’s completely relaxed and completely still, as if he ran out of energy and someone laid him there to recharge. He’s the oldest person I’ve seen at this party—late fifties, maybe, with round black glasses much too big for his face.

“Do you know him?” I ask, desperate.

“Gatsby? No. But I heard he seduced a rich older widow and married her when he was only seventeen. She died a few months later and he inherited everything.”

“Ew.” I exchange disgusted glances with Jordan. “No way that’s true. That wouldn’t even be legal, would it?”

The little man shrugs and sucks a few swallows from a flask. His head rolls back against the chair.

Someone taps on the open door of the library. “Miss Jordan Baker?”

It’s one of the ubiquitous staff members who have been quietly circulating through the house and grounds, providing drinks and taking keys. Since half the people at this party are under the legal drinking age, I’m surprised the entire event hasn’t been shut down. Of course, not all the drinks here are alcoholic. I had one cocktail-looking thing, but I don’t even feel a buzz. And maybe Gatsby has a monetary understanding with law enforcement. It happens, especially in areas like this where money can accomplish almost anything.

Jordan looks at the server curiously. “I’m Jordan Baker.”

“If you would come with me, please.”