“One,” I replied.
He nodded. “Have fun.”
I stumbled while stepping to the curb. I’d barely slept. Hiding Chance had frazzled my nerves. As had the prospect of a new encounter with the Tripod.
Taking a moment to gather myself, I repeated Chance’s advice in my head.
Stand your ground. Fight back. No fear.
Shoulders squared, I strode into the foyer.
Expensive Persian rugs covered a dark hardwood floor overhung by a massive crystal chandelier. Twin grand staircases curved upward along each wall.
A regency table held a flower-filled vase and a silver-framed placard announcing that brunch would be served outside by the putting green.
Standing next to the table was Rodney Brincefield.
Dear God. What was he doing here?
“Tory.” Brincefield smiled broadly. “What a pleasant surprise!”
“Hello.” Startled, I said nothing more.
“I didn’t know you frequented the club.” Brincefield wore a charcoal suit and black wingtip shoes. I was unsure if he was an employee, guest, or member.
“I’m here for the garden brunch,” I said. “For cotillion.”
“Wonderful. How goes the treasure hunt?” He lowered his voice. “Any clues?”
Flashbulb image. An antique red station wagon weaving through traffic, tracking the Virals to Morris Island.
I opted for directness. “Mr. Brincefield, have you been following me?”
“Following you?” The bright blue eyes bored into me. “Why on earth would I do that?”
“It’s just, I keep running into you.”
“I’ve been walking the same treads for decades.” Brincefield chuckled. “It’s you that recently appeared in my world.”
Fair point. I’d only seen Brincefield at places I’d never been before.
Maybe I was following him.
I didn’t notice Brincefield inching closer. When he next spoke, the snowy eyebrows nearly brushed mine.
“Have you found it?” he whispered. “Do you know the volume?”
I hopped backward. “What are you talking about?”
Footsteps sounded behind me. “Tory?”
I turned to see Jason bang into the room, a pair of wooden folding chairs tucked under each arm.
“Did you just get here?” Jason shifted his weight, searching for a comfortable grip. “Everyone’s out on the lawn. I got stuck hauling things again.”
“On my way.” I turned back to Brincefield. “Sorry, gotta run!”
I hurried to the rear doors. In the mirror, I saw Brincefield watch me exit.
Outside, I suppressed a shudder.
Had Brincefield been waiting for me? His last question had been intense, almost manic. What did he mean? Perhaps the old man wasn’t harmless after all.
Focus. You’re exposed.
I stepped behind a stand of trees just as Jason emerged. After glancing around, he lugged his payload over to a white pavilion.
Screened from view, I surveyed the scene.
Most of the cotillion crowd had arrived. Blue bloods milled, chatting, wearing their newest finery. Women in bright sundresses held tiny plates heaped with sliced cantaloupe, honeydew, strawberries, and cheese. Fake laughter floated on the air.
Impulsive decision: no more surprises.
If an attack was coming, I wanted all my powers in place.
SNAP.
The transformation came swiftly, leaving me trembling and gasping as usual. I held position, willing the burning in my limbs to cease.
My receptors kicked into high-definition.
Slipping on my shades, I stepped from the trees and joined the party.
The adults had congregated by buffet tables under the pavilion. My classmates strolled the putting green a few dozen yards away.
Jason spotted me and waved.
Swallowing my apprehension, I walked to his side.
“There you are.” His tie was loose, his top button undone. “You disappeared.”
“Bathroom break. Still on setup crew?”
“Indentured servitude. The geniuses only set out fifty chairs.”
Eyes hidden, I covertly searched for the Tripod. Nowhere in sight.
Then a deeply southern voice called Jason’s name.
“Again?” He groaned. “This woman is a grade-A dingbat. Back in a minute.”
Jason followed an elderly woman inside the clubhouse.
I was alone.
Determined to make the best of my situation, I mingled, hanging on the fringes of a few group conversations. No one spoke to me, but no one chased me away, either. Progress.
Then my finely tuned ears caught the sound I dreaded.
Madison. Somewhere behind me.
I flexed my sonic ability, trying to tease her voice from the cacophony of gossip and giggles.
“… be sorry this time. Someone has to teach her …”
“Now.” Ashley. “Jason’s gone inside.”
Fabric swished in my direction.
I took a deep breath. No fear.
“Boat girl.”
I ignored the taunt.
“Boat. Girl.”
Slowly, I turned.
Madison stood a few feet from me, arms crossed, flanked by her sycophant flunkies. She’d spoken loudly, intending her performance to be very public.
My pulse raced. I didn’t trust myself to speak.
Madison arranged her features in a puzzled expression. “I thought we made it clear you weren’t welcome here?”
Conversations halted. A loose circle formed. Feral excitement gleamed in the onlookers’ eyes. The crowd smelled blood.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Courtney parroted.
“Nope.” Ashley flashed a predatory smile. “This isn’t for you.”
“It’s a free country.” But my voice was shaky.
“Actually, it’s not.” Madison giggled. “It’s quite pricey. But I imagine you wish that were true, since you can’t afford places like this.”
Scattered chuckles. I could sense the crowd holding its collective breath. Not a voice spoke in my defense.
The silence lengthened, but I was determined not to break it. This was Madison’s show. If she wanted drama, she’d have to carry the performance.
Then a familiar scent drifted my way.
Beneath the Dior perfume and La Mer body lotion, Madison emitted the aroma of nervousness.
Outwardly, she looked relaxed. But my enhanced vision noted her tense muscles, saw the tightness to her jaw. The vein in her neck was pumping mile-a-minute.
The confident pose was an act. Madison Dunkle was wound tighter than a snare drum.
“You’re out of your depth, Tory.” Madison pitched her voice to carry. “And not just here. Bolton Prep is far too prestigious to accept riffraff out of misguided pity.”
“Pity?” My face was burning, but I kept my tone calm.
Ashley laughed. “Everyone knows you can’t afford the tuition. They only let your pathetic group attend because some lame administrator needed a good deed for PR.”
“But we’re the ones who suffer.” Madison shook her head in solemn distress. “Deserving students, forced to share classrooms with a band of island hicks. It’s a wonder we learn anything at all.”
Enough. Chance said to attack? Done and done.
“I’m not deserving?” I rolled my eyes. “Last I checked, I outscored you in every class we shared. You know, the sophomore courses I took as a freshman?”
Madison’s eyes widened. She covered her anxiety with a smirk, but the nervous smell ripened.
I didn’t let up. “Unlike you, I bust my ass every day. That’s why I’m a Bolton Scholar and you’re not. We’ll both be taking the AP schedule next year. If you ask nicely, maybe I’ll agree to tutor you.”