A soft laugh escapes my throat, and I shake my head. Fuck me. Breonna is one in a goddamn million, isn’t she?

“And also, nice change of subject, but I’d really love to know how you and your boys managed to take half of Oak Valley’s scholarship spots for displaced Prescott students. Oscar Montauk, I can see since he was on track to be the valedictorian.” Sara exhales and crosses her arms over her chest, mimicking my pose. “And Victor Channing, good grades, connections via his mother …” And here she trails off in just such a way that I know she’s no fan of Ophelia Mars. “But the rest of you? No offense, Bernie, but I know a trick when I see one.”

My turn to sigh. Also, to decide how much information to give her without falling into snitch territory. I decide that children being purchased by pedophiles supersedes the snitch rule entirely.

“I won’t go into details with you, but like, two of the schoolboard members have husbands who tried to buy kids to abuse. We found out about it and blackmailed them. Does that help your neat little world make a bit more sense?”

Sara just stares at me for so long that I wonder if I haven’t made a mistake, if she isn’t going to take this information and use it to finally nail our asses to the proverbial cross.

“I just want you to know that your mother has now been officially charged with your sister’s murder,” Sara says, her smile grim, her expression dark. She reaches out a hand and rests it comfortingly on my shoulder. When I don’t immediately throw her off, she gives a small squeeze. My pulse races, the sloshing of blood in my head so loud and so deafening that I almost miss the next thing that leaves Sara Young’s mouth. “And … I want to apologize to you.”

“Apologize?” I ask, that one word cutting through the pain and horror of her previous statement in a way that nothing else could. Constantine takes a seat at a table nearby, within earshot but far enough away that it feels like my conversation with Sara is private. “About what?”

“About … the plea deal,” she says, sighing and dropping her hand to her side. “About asking you to testify.” I’m still staring at her like she’s grown horns, but Sara’s smile never falters. She sweeps a loose piece of blond hair back from her forehead and takes a deep breath. “I’m sure you’ve heard by now about Ivy Hightower.”

Ivy.

Shit.

I’d almost forgotten about Ivy … almost. Then again, you never really do forget the sight of your boyfriend coming in the house after getting his ass kicked by the former chief of police turned local VGTF lackey and telling you about the dead girl on your other boyfriend’s front lawn.

“I’ve been a little busy today, to tell you the truth. First day at a new school and all that. Why?”

Sara sighs again and moves toward the counter, gesturing me to follow. I glance briefly over my shoulder to see all five letters of Havoc watching me intently. It’s comforting to know that in the event of a crisis, I’d have all of them at my back, ready to kill for me, ready to die for me.

I wonder if they know that I’d die for them, too?

“Can I buy you a coffee? A pastry?” Sara asks, waiting for me next to the register. I step up beside her and select a chocolate croissant from inside the glass display case, pointing it out to the salesgirl before informing her that I’d love a coffee—sans cat shit, thank you very much.

We end up at a table much farther away from Constantine than I think he likes, but also a bit too far from the boys for my liking. But I concede, if only to hear what the fuck this news about Ivy Hightower is.

“If you haven’t heard already—and I assume you will shortly—Ivy Hightower was an informant of mine.”

I just stare across the table at Sara Young and try to decide what it is I’m supposed to be feeling right now. Pamela and Penelope … I shut the thoughts down with an iron door, one crafted of self-preservation and twisted hope. Any lingering ideas I had about Pam valiantly accepting that she would go down for Neil’s death, if only to make up for her past transgressions, has been dashed. Also, finding out that Ivy was Sara’s informant both makes a ton of sense and also infuriates me. Likely, that’s the reason we found her dead on Aaron’s front lawn in the first place.

“Your informant,” I repeat, and Sara nods, even though I wasn’t asking a question. I lift my coffee to my lips and take a sip, enjoying it black while Sara loads hers with enough cream and sugar to choke an Asian palm civet cat.

I drag my phone from the pocket of my gray blazer and do a quick search. Sure enough, there it is, plastered over every local news site and several national news sites as well. Local Girl Killed While Under the Protection of the Violent Gang Task Force.

I look up. Sara’s face is sad and distant, but there’s no less steel in her expression than before. If anything, she looks even more determined than usual. When I set my coffee cup down, and it clinks against its saucer, she finally turns back to me.

“I put Ivy in danger, and I shouldn’t have asked the same of you. I’m glad you’re safe at Oak Valley.” She pauses and sits back as I scroll the article. Apparently, Ivy’s body was found on an unnamed piece of rural property near Veneta. Tom’s property.

“Neil killed her?” I say, and I phrase it as a question. I mean, thus far that was just theory on our part anyway. But Sara’s slight nod gives me a sense of … not peace, exactly, but understanding. Everything makes sense now. Every person in my story is connected, somehow, to the Grand Murder Party.

“I want you to know that everything you’ve ever told me, I’ve taken to heart,” Sara continues, exhaling sharply and glancing in Constantine’s direction, like maybe she’s about do something she shouldn’t but is planning on it anyway. She flicks her doe-eyes back to mine as I pick at the edge of my croissant with my perfect fingernails. Vera’s aunt is basically a nail goddess. Not sure if I’ll ever be this happy with another nail artist for as long as I live. “That tip about Neil’s father and brother … You’ve given me all the ammunition I need, Bernadette.”

“How so?” I ask, thinking about all the times I wished I could call the cops on Neil, report him to the authorities, all the times the Thing and Pam got in trouble and found their records wiped clean.

“I can’t talk about the details of an active investigation,” Sara begins, sipping her milky coffee carefully and giving me a look that I know I’m supposed to read into. “But the connections between those two men and the GMP are astounding.”

I just stare back at her, the clinking of cups and the dancing of silverware a comforting murmur of normality in a life that’s been anything but normal thus far, that’s likely to be anything but normal ever again. But in a good way, the best way, because if Neil’s family goes to prison, and Pam goes to prison, and the GMP is neutered and twisted by the VGTF, and they stop selling and hurting kids … what could happen to me?

Could I live a fabulous live surrounded by men that I love? Could I be a queen in so many other ways beside violent, dark, shadowed ones?

Something strange happens inside of me, this odd bubbling sensation that feels like a champagne bottle about to burst. Like fireflies dancing. Like the feel of hot fingers on your skin after you come inside from the rain. Happiness.

Pamela’s face flickers into view again, but I crush it down.

This could really be it, the end of everything I’ve ever suffered. The bodies on Tom’s land blamed on the GMP, the deaths of the Charter Crew, the atrocities of the Pence family. All of it wrapped neatly into a black silken bow.

“Anyway, what I meant to say was … I’m sorry. You and your boyfriends,”—and here her mouth twitches slightly—“should try to enjoy your time at Oak Valley. I’m leaving your police detail outside the school, just in case. But for now, at least, I’m not pursuing any charges against you.” She levels a look on me that also very clearly says, just because I’m being nice now doesn’t mean I don’t suspect y’all of mayhem and chaos elsewhere. “I would, however, like to know about Heather Pence. And Kara and Ashley Fadler.”

Motherfucker.

“We’ve hidden them from the GMP,” I say, taking another sip of my coffee. “Wouldn’t you do the same, if they were your sisters?”

Sara’s mouth pinches, and I know this goes against her clear-cut rules of what’s right and what’s wrong, but eventually, she just sighs and gives me a look.

“You used your contacts to get them into Oak River, didn’t you?”

I say nothing, but fuck this woman for being perceptive beyond belief.

“Well, after failing to track down Aaron’s mother, I’m starting to put together a picture, one where the care of two minor children are in the care of yet another minor child.” She glances across the café toward where Aaron sits, his mouth in a pretty sulk, a chestnut curl flopped onto his forehead. A minor … child. With his jacket off, and his white button-down undone at the top, showing just the faintest dusting of chest hair. Child. Hilarious. Sara looks back at me. “Besides that, CPS is aware that Heather has been living with you until recently.”

CPS. Child Protective Services. An organization I stopped trusting the day Coraleigh left Penelope and me with the Kushners. I’d rather die than give Heather or Kara or Ashley up to a system that doesn’t care.

“They’re safe,” I tell Sara, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms over the front of my stupid ass prep school uniform. It’s like, as soon as Oak Valley started using this hideous Catholic schoolgirl rip-off uniforms, I swear to fuck, every other school within three hundred miles started doing the same.

Jesus H. Christ, but I hate mimics.

Just because one prep school does it, doesn’t meant the rest of them need to start going all Single White Female and trying to wear Oak Valley’s pompous skin.

“They might be safe, but you and your husband will need to legally challenge Heather’s custody with the court. Because you’re emancipated, you have a chance to fight this. Aaron … is in a much worse position than that.”