by Nancy Holder
JACKSON’S RULE #1: Never let anyone take what’s yours.
Despite being located in wine country and surrounded by local wineries, Callabrese had seen far better days. The sea fogs could be brisk, even in late May. Although Jackson White’s breath was making ghosts, his sweat was burning him like acid.
In their “clubhouse”—a burned-out brick building that had once been a bookstore—his homeys were staring at him with seventeen pairs of stone-cold killer eyes. The Free Souls had been planning to break into DeYoung’s, the fanciest restaurant in Callabrese, but the cops had caught wind of it. Change of plans. Now they were all gathered together and staring at Jackson in a way that made him uneasy.
“You know we take care of our own,” Macho, their leader, said. “And nobody takes what is ours. I shot this three days ago.”
He handed Jackson his phone, which displayed a picture of a girl grinding on a guy. She had on a baby tee and the world’s tiniest shorts, her black hair balanced on top of her head like a bubble. And that girl was his girl, Thea, who had broken up with him yesterday. She had cried and told him she needed her space. Just until things got better at home, because her parents didn’t like him. No, she said, there was no one else. She had sworn it. Staked her life on it.
While he stared in shock at the screen, he shook with shame. He was so mortified and enraged, he couldn’t even look at the guys around him.
Jackson recognized that guy Thea was dancing up against. He was pretty famous around Callabrese. A-hole must figure that because he’d made it, he could do whatever the hell he wanted. Guys like him sent guys like Jackson into gangs. Because where else could he define himself?
Jackson’s skull began to sizzle.
He handed back the phone and then stomped to his rusted-out electric-blue El Camino, got in, and drove off.
His hands shook. His head pounded.
I swear to God I’m going to kill her.
LYING UNDER OATH
ROBIN’S RULE #1: Never cheat.
“It’s the knife, isn’t it?”
Robin Brissett’s little brother Carter mock-stabbed the Clue board with his yellow plastic Colonel Mustard token. He pushed up his black-rimmed glasses and examined his clue list, then speculatively eyed the murder envelope in the center of the board, which contained cards naming the weapon, room, and perpetrator.
Robin kept her face carefully neutral. She had the knife card in her hand, which meant that it couldn’t possibly be the murder weapon. If Carter made an accusation, he would lose, and that meant he would have to do her weekend chores. She hated vacuuming.
Beth leaned over to whisper into Robin’s ear, “Hey, Merida, we gotta go.”
Merida was Robin’s old nickname because of all her wild red hair. It trailed down her back in crazy spirals. Robin hadn’t cut it in years despite pressure from the girls at school to get a “look.” She had her own look, and it included lots and lots of fiery red hair and very casual clothes—ripped jeans and comfy fleece sweats. You couldn’t lose the fashion race if you didn’t run in it.
In addition to a Teen Vogue–worthy cashmere sweater, peacoat, and her geometric, blue-black bob, Beth was wearing leggings, flat boots, and a raw silk plaid micromini. Robin’s self-confidence faltered as she looked down at her own red Henley, jeans, bomber jacket, and hiking boots. She’d figured scavenger hunt equaled dressing down. Maybe she’d miscalculated.
They were sitting in Robin’s kitchen just like old times, before Beth had dumped Robin as a friend at the end of sophomore year. Now it was almost the end of junior year, and Beth was acting like nothing had ever happened. In fact, yesterday after last period she had zoomed up to Robin in the hall and invited her to one of the legendary parties the superelite of Callabrese High threw for themselves. This one would be extra-amazing because August DeYoung was the host and that meant scavenger hunt, and they were the most fun. Despite a major quirk factor, August had become the king of the school, and Beth was the duchess. Robin had to wonder why she had been included. She never had been before.
“Motive,” Robin said, tapping the Clue board. “Why do these people murder the victim? That’s never discussed.”
“Who cares?” her little brother said. “That’s not the point.”
Just then, Jinny Brissett, Robin and Carter’s mom, walked into the kitchen. “It’s so good to see you, Beth. It feels like the old days.”
The better days, Robin silently translated.
Robin forced herself to smile at her mother, feeling kind of panicky. She probably shouldn’t have lied about where they were going.
They say that somewhere, down deep, you always know. That voice inside your head can tell you if you’re off on an adventure or headed for a disaster. That’s the same voice that tells little kids there’s a monster in the closet and that magical beings like Santa and the Easter Bunny bring you gifts on special days.
The thing is, the presents do arrive, right on schedule.
So do the disasters.
And Robin had a funny feeling about tonight.
“It was great to see you, too. We have to get going now, though,” Beth said.
“Say good night to Daddy for me?” Robin asked her mom. He was in the master bedroom, drifting in and out of consciousness on his pain medication. He’d been riding a bicycle to the mini-mart to save gas after he’d been furloughed as a coach at Callabrese High. Budget cuts. He never even saw who hit him and left him there in the foggy darkness. His spine had snapped. Now he was on disability, and the doctors were saying he’d never walk again. Her dad said differently. He said he would be walking by her high school graduation, one year and three weeks from tonight.
Robin looked at Carter. “By the way, I hid the answer cards.”
He blinked comically, like a shocked turtle. Then he snatched up the packet and hefted it in his hand. His mouth forming an O in outrage.
“You took them! You cheater!”
“I didn’t look at them. I swear it. I just removed the temptation for you to look.”
“That’s not fair!” Carter bellowed at the top of his lungs.
“Easy, honey,” Jinny said.
“I’ll be back tomorrow and then we’ll finish,” Robin reminded her brother. “And by the way? It’s not the knife. Got it?” He looked so lost sitting there as she got ready to party. She mimicked holding a hand of cards, and his face lit up. He crossed KNIFE off his clue list.
“Knives are the second most common murder weapon.” Carter had a thing for true crime statistics. “In real life.”
“Sweet,” she said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He grinned at her and mimicked slicing her neck with his wee tiny blade.
“And Saturday is the most common day to be murdered,” he added cheerfully. “Today.” He waggled his brows, slicing the air again.
Beth had already gone outside, and Robin gave Carter and her mother a farewell wave as she followed her. Cell phone coverage at Beth’s had always been spotty, and Robin had told her mom that the Breckenridges had gotten rid of their landline. That would give her a cover story if her parents tried to get in touch with her since she was supposedly spending the night there. She felt guilty for lying to them, but they really were too preoccupied to notice. Anyway, she was sixteen, all grown up.
“C’mon, c’mon!” Beth said. “The last ones there die horribly!”
Across the street from the house, blurry moonlight bleached fields of twisting grapevines heavy with fruit. Thirsty vineyards lapped up moisture like vampires sucked blood. In wine country, fog was a friend.
Unless you were pedaling a bicycle through a thick nighttime mist and someone hit you. Robin had sworn to find that person someday. She used to daydream about running them over, and then she had nightmares about torturing them to death. Now the hatred had burned out of her and she just wanted them to go to jail forever.
The fog was on the move, so thick an entire army of the walking dead could be headed their way and they�
�d never know it. Robin thought back to all the ghost stories she and Beth used to scare themselves with. It was hard to believe that once upon a time, she had been afraid of pretend things. The real world was pretty darn scary on its own.
OPPORTUNITY
THEA’S RULE #1: Never get caught cheating.
Thea Ward slunk out of her house in black leather pants and a fuzzy black sweater and popped into the front seat of Beth’s new Beemer—new to Thea, anyway—like she was on a spy mission. Her long black hair was pulled into such a tight ponytail she looked like she’d had a face-lift. At least, that’s what her little sister said.
Thea was amazed that Beth had invited her to this party. Freshman and sophomore years, Thea, Robin, and Beth had been “the three amigas,” but then Beth had started hanging out with August DeYoung and Mr. Brissett got hit by a car and she’d gotten involved with Jackson.
And nobody but Thea liked Jackson. Crazy, that’s what people said about him.
Tonight the amigas were back together again, Robin tucked in the backseat, Beth at the wheel, except they were going to the Callabrese High equivalent of the People’s Choice Awards. It was like Thea was living in an alternate universe. But every time her phone dinged, her reality intruded:
“Oh God, you guys, Jackson has texted me, like, fifty times,” she said with a quaver. “He’s so mad that I broke up with him.”
“Ignore him, sweetie.” Behind the wheel, Beth glanced away from the road and held out her hand. “Better yet, give me your phone.”
“You don’t know what he’s like when he’s upset,” Thea said. He was positively homicidal, but she didn’t say that. “He can’t help it. He had a brain injury,” she added quickly.
“Oh my God. So what’s your excuse?” Beth asked. Just then Beth’s own phone trilled like a bluebird, signaling an incoming text message. “I’m betting that’s our first clue!” She held her phone out to Thea. “Read it, please.”
Thea grunted but did as she was told. “It’s from August. It says, ‘On your mark! Square root of one hundred sixty-nine?’ ”
“Type in thirteen,” Beth said without hesitation.
Thea blinked. “Wow, super math woman,” she said. “Unless August already told you all the answers.” August and Beth were tight. They had been odd-couple besties for a year. Robin spent all her time with her family, and Thea must have lost her mind when she decided it would be a good idea to fill her empty Friday and Saturday nights by dating a gangbanger.
It’s not Jackson’s fault that he has a brain injury, she told herself. And if he didn’t, he’d be really sweet all the time. It was just that he had what he called “episodes.” He would go completely berserk. Everyone at school judged him for them. Jackson told her the Free Souls accepted him exactly as he was. But she couldn’t. Jackson was all wrong for her.
Plus she kind of had someone cooler on the back burner.
“August didn’t give me the answers,” Beth replied. “He wanted me to have fun, too. This is the last hunt. And? Math makes us free.”
Thea raised her brows. Beth used to hate math. But then old Beth would never have thrown herself in with August DeYoung and a cynical clique. Only new Beth liked running with the big dogs, buying August’s old car from him for peanuts, and doing precalculus. Thea didn’t even know what calculus was.
“Type it in,” Beth insisted.
“One-three. Sent,” Thea reported. They all waited.
“ ‘Thirteen is your lucky number,’ ” Thea read off the phone screen. “Go you, Bethie-B! Okay, here’s the clue: we’re supposed to drive to Second and Vineland, then go north on Vineland for thirteen blocks and then text for further instructions.”
“And we’re off!” Beth cried. “This is how it works. How we find the fun, girls.”
A wind chose that moment to blow strands of fog across the two-lane blacktop county road. Thea leaned back in her seat, looking out over the grape fields to the scattered houses with their glowing porch lights. You are sixteen and free. And you are going to find the fun, the little voice in her head promised her. Especially if you-know-who is in the mood.
She quirked a half smile, feeling both guilty and sad at the same time.
MICK’S RULE #1: Practice makes perfect.
Mick, Stacy, Drew, and Hiro were Maximum Volume and had been for almost three years. All their blood, sweat, and song stealing were finally going to pay off: they had one more gig in Callabrese, and then they were moving to Los Angeles to record their first album with a major label. August DeYoung had told Drew that only Maximum Volume would do for his hush-hush party, and he had backed up that statement with some serious cash. Now they had arrived at the cannery right on schedule. But where was their audience? And why the heck was the party going to be held here?
“Whoa,” Stacy murmured from the backseat. “Look at that.”
Mick braked too hard, and Drew dropped his dark blue Bic lighter into his lap. The van reeked of Drew’s weed and Stacy’s clove cigarettes. If there was any justice in this world, Drew’s nads would catch on fire.
Maximum Volume had played some crazy venues on their way to the top. They’d chased their sound, hopping around from grunge to power metal to operatic metal and finally to their own indie vibe, which they called “metal rhapsody.” When you changed your identity as many times as they had, you learned to be flexible. One week you banged out box chords in a scummy bar in Fresno and the next week you were the darling of a fringe festival in Old Sacramento. But this…
They’d driven for two hours and had just reached their final destination. About twenty steep feet below the van sprawled the hulking remains of an abandoned cannery. What appeared to be party central—as it was the only building with lights—was a large brick factory or warehouse covered with graffiti, sliced by dozens of rows of thin, rectangular, blasted-out windows. A pitted roof featuring a drooping smokestack and a listing black metal bell tower completed the view. The building looked as unstable as Drew, the bassist and their founder. Drew had once been awesome, his dreams fueled by talent and lots of hard work. But drugs were taking him down, and fast. Their new manager, Pascha Haimes, had even hinted to Mick, the lead guitarist, that Samurai Records might be open to developing Maximum Volume as a trio: Mick on lead guitar, Stacy on vocals, Hiro on drums. They could get a studio musician to take the bass line until they found Drew’s permanent replacement. That sounded great to Mick. Except that he didn’t know how they could pull it off.
Beside the warehouse, a wicked Porsche was parked at an angle in a huge lot of crushed shells, as if the driver had roared in and skidded to a halt so he could get his orders from MI6 or seek shelter from the zombie apocalypse. To the right of the Porsche, midway into the lot, stood a lumpy wall made out of cement, rocks, and abalone shells that wound on down to what appeared to be a lower lot, the details lost in the thick fog. Above that turnoff, darkness poured like black paint across the landscape to a very steep cliff dotted with ice plant and weeds. Well behind the warehouse and beyond the slope to the lower parking lot, a long, low half-demolished building stood below a faded billboard that said AZUL CANNERY—HOME OF THE FINEST SALMON AND SARDINES. ASK FOR AZUL! To the left of the warehouse, the fog thinned, revealing a falling-down wooden dock stretching out over another cliff, tumbling at a forty-five-degree angle into the ocean of inky blackness. On the other side of the dock, pine trees and woody California manzanita shrubs formed a barrier that trailed on down toward the ocean.
One car. Just one. The place looked like a junkyard. Directly ahead of the van, a rusted wrought-iron sign stretched across both sides of the road. It was decorated with outlines of fish and the letters Z U L. Between the open gates, fog rolled toward them like a pack of starving ghosts.
“What the hell, Drew?” Mick said. “Is this a joke?”
“It looks like the House of Usher. I like it,” Stacy said, rolling down the window. She was guzzling water from her omnipresent travel tumbler. Mick was positive it was perman
ently attached to her left palm. And that there was more vodka in it than water. “I am Zul, the Gatekeeper.”
“Home sweet home, Morticia Addams,” Mick teased her. He could see her in the rearview mirror. Little lost goth girl stuck in a time warp. Her hair was a smudge of black and her face was heavily made up. Her one arm, chest, and back were covered with super-colorful floral tattoos in red, blue, and purple. She was dressed perfectly for a haunted mansion gig: a black leather corset, matching leggings, and lace-up knee-length boots with heels so high Mick couldn’t figure out why her feet never slid out from underneath her. Especially because she was loaded for twenty hours of the day.
“Hey, we’re getting paid a lot,” Drew pointed out. He sounded like his usual whiny, defensive self. “A lot. And we need moving money.”
God, if only we could leave you here, Mick thought. Getting signed by Samurai Records was the big time, but only if Maximum Volume proved they were worth the investment. They’d get one chance to make good, and one chance only. Mick was ready. He’d been practicing for at least six hours a day for years. Working out. Taking care of himself. Doing everything he could to be an excellent bandmate.
But there were problems. Most of them were named Drew. Years of playing dive bars and tiny clubs would have taken a toll on any normal person. No musician was normal, but at this point, Drew was weaker than most people. It didn’t show to the casual observer yet. But sooner rather than later, it would. Drew was going to flame out. It would be better if he died in some epic tragedy, like the great ones, say, in a plane crash. The band would sell a ton of records if that happened. But overdosing was far less sexy and much too cliché. Mick was sure he and Pascha agreed on that.
The problem was, Maximum Volume had gotten Samurai’s attention because of the three songs Drew had written on the demo. If Drew was out, they wouldn’t be allowed to play those songs. He owned them and no one could record them without his permission. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to give permission if they booted him out of the band.
