“Why?”

“There’s someone who would like to speak to you. Only to you,” the man says pointedly as I move forward with Jordan.

“I can’t let you wander off by yourself,” I protest.

“I’ll be fine. You go look for Nick.” She shuts me down with a firm look as I start to object. “Seriously, Daisy. It’s all good.”

She follows the staff member out of the library. For a second I stare at the snoring little man in the chair, and then I peek out into the hallway. Jordan and the server are headed up a dimly lit stairway at the far end of the hall.

This party has been way more of a mindfuck than I expected, and even though I try to tell myself it’s perfectly safe, I can’t let Jordan disappear into the depths of this house, not after that woman’s warning in the bathroom. Not after who I thought I saw on the dance floor. Not when there have been so many surprises tonight.

The best thing to do is to follow them and see what’s up.

I trail behind them, keeping my distance so they won’t notice. There are a couple of partyers right by the steps, huddling in a shrouded corner. The guy is pressed to the wall, head tilted and eyes closed, while the girl kisses his neck. A chunky silver bracelet shines on her wrist. Awkwardly, I move past them, up the stairs.

When I reach the top, I scan the hallway. The server or butler or whatever is ushering Jordan through a door. Once she’s inside, he turns and walks in the opposite direction from me, probably toward another staircase.

Thick blood-red carpet deadens my steps. On the walls hang dramatic abstract paintings, marbled, swirled, and textured in rich jewel tones. The wall lamps have shades of dark, faceted glass that don’t yield nearly enough light. There’s a definite horror movie vibe to this hall, and my stomach keeps tightening, twisting, like a warning. The air is thick with a heavy rose fragrance, like the potpourri my grandma keeps in her bathroom, only this scent has another layer, a metallic sharpness.

I sidle closer to the doorway where Jordan disappeared. I have zero qualms about eavesdropping, especially in this place full of questions and mysterious men who look like old friends.

The man downstairs resembled the Gatsby I knew—Jay Gatsby from Ashmore Valley in Easley. But the man downstairs didn’t have the same thick southern drawl. He spoke crisply, and his face was more dramatic and defined. My Gatsby had wide brown eyes and cheeks like rosy peaches and all the sweet earnestness of fifteen. I loved that Gatsby—until I moved away and he never spoke to me again.

Maybe the two Gatsbys are related. They can’t be the same person. And yet something about him was so very my Gatsby. If only the lighting had been better…less flashy and swervy…if only he’d come closer.

Jordan’s voice, bright and strong, emanates from the doorway, and I pause, pressing myself to the wall. Not that standing against the wall will do me any good if someone happens to look out of the room—but it feels more covert.

“Happy to meet you,” Jordan is saying. “My friends and I have heard a lot of things about you.”

“Don’t believe any of them.” I can hear the smile in the male voice that answers her, and I almost gasp, because it sounds like him, the man from the dance floor. The maybe Gatsby. “Listen, you must think it strange for me to pull you aside like this.”

“You in love with me or something?” Jordan laughs. “I’ve got my share of fans, and stalkers, and stalker fans.”

He chuckles. “I’m not a stalker, though I am a fan. I follow you on TikTok, and I admire your fearlessness. But what you do is very dangerous. You could die anytime.”

“There’s risk, yes.” Jordan’s voice turns stiff, like it does whenever someone questions her choices. “But what I do is important to me. I’m good at it, I enjoy it, and it helps me feel alive.”

“I get it, I really do. And that’s why I want to offer you something. You see, I provide a kind of—insurance. Something to minimize the risk for you and the people you care about.”

My shoulders sag with relief and disappointment. So he’s just an insurance salesman. I had no idea insurance brokers could make so much money.

“Insurance, huh?” I can imagine Jordan crossing her arms. “You’re not the first person to try to sell me life insurance. Forgive me if I don’t want to spend my money on something that won’t do me a lick of good once I’m dead.”

“But that’s just it.” The man’s voice is smooth and warm as rich leather. “This insurance takes care of you before death.”

“Like health insurance? I’ve got that. And if you’re trying to sell me something, let me stop you right there, okay? Let’s not waste your time or mine. You throw a nice party, but I don’t like salespeople.”

“It won’t cost you a thing,” he replies. “You’re Daisy’s friend, right?”

My lungs tighten, and a thrill of shock pulses through my chest.

“Y-yes,” says Jordan, slow and uncertain.

“I’d like to do this favor for you. For her sake.”

For my sake? Is he really—

A cheerful, drunken holler from behind me draws my attention. A cluster of the party guests are staggering along the hall, rejoicing in having made it all the way upstairs without collapsing. As the newcomers’ noise increases, the door of the room where Jordan is swings shut with a decisive click.

I gnaw my lip, aching to know what the two of them are saying behind that door.

The drunken group passes me, and I notice that two of the women aren’t just drunk—they’re completely unconscious, being dragged along by the others. And the others are all wearing the same style of burnished metal bracelet.

Anxiety wads itself up in my stomach. I don’t like to confront anyone, especially strangers. It makes me all trembly and tongue-tied. But given what I’m seeing, I don’t have a choice. If I was one of those girls, being toted off to god knows where by god knows who, I’d want someone to speak up for me.

“Hey.” I step forward. “What’s going on?”

A bleary-eyed guy turns to face me, adjusting the limp arm of the girl he’s hauling. He has shaggy blond hair, like some kind of hipster Thor. “Going to find them a place to rest.”

My throat is dry with nerves, but I push through it. “And we’re not touching anyone while they’re unconscious, right?”

“Nah,” he drawls. “Of course not.”

“Hey.” A girl in the group meets my eyes. Her moon-white skin practically glows in the shadowed hallway, and her scarlet dress plunges nearly to her navel. “They’re my friends, and I’ll keep an eye on things. Woman to woman. It’s all good.” She smiles, white teeth and red lips. “I’m Sloane.”

“Daisy.”

“Thanks for being so vigilant, Daisy.” She’s still smiling. “I’ll let the girls know you were looking out for them.”

And the group moves on, trickling into rooms farther down the hall.

Are those girls really okay? Did I do enough? Should I follow them?

No. Sloane gave me her name, which she probably wouldn’t have done if she was trying to hide something. She looked me right in the eyes and said she’s got it covered.

A tension headache is screwing slowly into the space behind my left eye, spiking the nausea in my stomach. I want to leave, and if I can’t leave, I at least need some fresh air.

I have to find Nick.

Swimming through the crowd downstairs is harder now—the numbers at the party have swelled in the last hour. For thirty minutes or so I navigate the swarms and pods of people, throwing my best smiles right and left when people greet me, asking for Nick at every turn. I’ve been through every first-floor room and part of the grounds, and I can’t find Nick or the guy he was with. He’s not answering my texts.

Finally a text from Jordan pops up. Where are you?

I text her back. Rear entrance. Can’t find Nick, looked everywhere downstairs. Can you check upstairs?

After more fruitless wandering and asking, Jordan and I meet behind the house. She keeps fidgeting with her bag, switching her weight from one foot to the other, plucking at the neckline of her dress. “Did you find Nick?” she asks.

“No, and it’s nearly three. Do you think he’s okay?”