Impossibility of Tomorrow (22 page)

My task complete, I stash my hammer in the janitor’s closet in the hallway, then wander around the ballroom, feeling disconcertingly like a ghost among my friends. Reed and Echo are perched atop matching ladders, draping the chandeliers with snowflakes. Bryan and Leyla are decorating the buffet tables with antique telescopes that we borrowed from the shop where I work. Chantal and Nicole are on stage, doing complicated things with the soundboard and moving speakers around.

A peal of bright laughter comes from Madison’s direction, and I see her throw back her head at something Noah said. He’s smiling too. Everyone’s laughing, I realize. Everyone’s having a great time as I slink around in the shadows.

My phone rings, the sound muffled from the folds of my deep cargo pockets, though I feel its vibration against my knee. I fish it out—an unknown 510 area-code number flashes insistently on the screen.

“Hello?”

“Is this Jane Smith?” asks a throaty voice that I immediately recognize. My pulse begins to race, and I hurry out to the hallway so no one will hear me.

“Lucia! I’m so glad you called,” I say, trying to keep my voice down but unable to muffle the joy I feel. “How are you?” I fish a pen out of my pocket as I speak, ready to take notes.

“Your words ask Lucia how she’s doing, but your tone says you need this info quickly. So I’m not going to do the small-talk thing, okay?”

“Okay,” I reply, a grin stealing across my face.

“I have good news and bad news. Which one do you want first?”

“I could definitely use some good news right now.”

“One of the e-mail addresses came from a book dealer in the UK. Sterling Books in London. Does that mean anything to you?”

My heart sinks. It sounds like a run-of-the-mill dealer. Cyrus is definitely in Berkeley, however much I wish he were overseas. “No. What’s the bad news?”

“The other e-mail address was untraceable.”

Damn it. “Untraceable? How?”

“I don’t know the technical details, sweetie. Sorry. But clearly the person at that address doesn’t want to be found.”

It’s Cyrus. It has to be. “Can you ask your guy to keep trying?”

She sighs heavily. “I thought you might ask that. He’s already working on it. It’s possible, he told me, but no guarantees.”

There’s still a chance. “Thank you, Lucia. Thank you so, so much.”

“Don’t mention it, sweetie. I’ll call you when I know more. Take care,” she says, and hangs up.

I briefly tuck my hand inside my boot, verifying that my knife is inside, before striding back into the ballroom. Echo is nowhere to be seen, but Reed stands at the base of the ladder she was on earlier, one hand draped across its rungs.

In his other hand he holds his phone, tapping away on the keys. I watch as he presses a button, then drops it into his pocket.

Just then, my iPhone vibrates to announce a new e-mail has come in. The movement reverberates through my whole body. I break out in a cold sweat, my breath coming faster as I open the e-mail. Somehow I know what it’s going to be before I read it, but the confirmation brings a riot of goose bumps to my arms.

It’s a new bid, from the same untraceable address and beating the offer from Sterling Books in London. It was
submitted only moments before, at the same time I saw Reed typing on his phone.

Reed glances up and catches my eye. The smile he shoots me is laced with evil.

And tomorrow, I’ll be staying at his winery. His turf. Where he could have god-knows-what kinds of traps laid for me to walk into.

One of us will win. Right now, I am not certain it will be me.

THIRTY-TWO

Leyla spends the entire car ride to the Looking Glass Winery extolling the epic coolness of Reed and Rebecca to Bryan, who’s not so easily convinced.

“They both seem to me like kids who are trying to pretend they’re someone else. What’s with the weird clothes?” he says.

“What’s wrong with expressing yourself through fashion?” she retorts, tossing her magenta-streaked hair. “I
like
it when people do something different. Otherwise—how boring would life be?”

“My life is perfectly complete without suspenders and bowties and that stupid hat Reed wears.”

I silently cheer Bryan on from the back seat, my eyes trained out the window to hide my amusement, pretending to be absorbed in the sun-soaked late-autumn landscape.

“It’s a bowler,” Leyla explains. “It’s quirky.”

“It’s lame,” he retorts.

She turns to look at him for a moment, and I want to gently turn her attention back to the winding road.

“What?” Bryan asks. “Would you like me better if I wore a stupid hat?” He flips down the mirror, regarding himself in it. “Perhaps a top hat? Perhaps I should wear a tuxedo to school?” He catches my eye in the mirror and winks.

Leyla tries and fails to keep a straight face. Her laughter is contagious. “I’m trying to picture you in a top hat,” she sputters.

“What?” Bryan complains. “If Reed can pull it off, so can I.”

“Leyla, the road? Perhaps look at it?” I say, from the backseat.

We almost drive past the sign for the Looking Glass Winery, the letters barely legible in sun-faded paint.

The road turns to gravel, marred with deep ruts that make Leyla’s Honda shudder alarmingly. Bryan grabs the
handle above the passenger-side window, earning him a challenging glare from his girlfriend. “You don’t trust my driving?” she asks, jerking the wheel hard to avoid a large rock in the middle of the road.

“I totally do,” he says.

“Then stop grabbing the ‘Oh shit’ handle,” she orders, pointing to his hand.

“Yes’m.”

When we finally reach the main house, I see only two other cars: Noah’s VW and Reed’s candy-apple red SUV.

“Chantal’s mother wouldn’t let her come,” Leyla explains, putting the beleaguered Honda in park and applying a fresh coat of lip gloss in the rearview mirror.

“Are Reed and Rebecca’s parents here?” I ask. It was the one condition the Morgans had required. They weren’t too thrilled about their underage children spending the night at a winery, but a quick phone call to Mrs. Sawyer seemed to assuage their fears. Reed’s mother assured her that there would be no underage drinking, that the bed-and-breakfast was nothing but wholesome, and that the vineyards were a perfect excuse to teach us about local agriculture. By the end of the phone call, Mrs. Morgan had even made reservations for herself and her husband to visit Looking Glass this coming June.

“I don’t think so,” Leyla says, opening the door. “Not
that it would matter to Chantal’s mom. That girl’s going to go crazy one day, mark my words. Shaved head, punk band. The works.”

I contain the smile that curls the corner of my mouth. I have to admit that the idea of preppy, dignified Chantal screaming in front of a throbbing mosh pit is kind of appealing, if only for the comic value.

“Finally,” says Reed, his arms held open in an expansive gesture as he walks up to the car, feet crunching on the gravel path. “You’re the last to arrive.” He’s wearing a pair of fitted tan riding breeches tucked into leather boots similar to my own. I just hope he’s not also concealing a knife in his.
Cyrus hasn’t armed himself in years,
I remind myself.
Although that’s because he always had Jared to protect him.

We retrieve our overnight bags from the trunk of Leyla’s car and follow Reed toward the rambling farmhouse that looks out over the rolling vineyards. The grapevines are a riot of late autumn color, scarlet and gold and orange, making it seem like the hills are in flames.

“Welcome to the Looking Glass Inn,” Reed says, pointing to the house. “Built in 1892.” The house is admittedly incredible, a three-story Victorian with a wraparound porch, its white siding brilliant in the late afternoon sun. A weather vane tops its ornate peaked roof, lazily spinning back and forth in the gentle breeze.

“You grew up here?” Leyla asks. “Lucky.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “Though we gutted the whole thing a few years ago. Completely modernized.”

We ascend the tall wooden staircase leading to the covered porch, and Reed opens the door. He’s right: The inside is nothing I would have expected from the historic exterior. It’s stark and modern—Cyrus’s style. A stainless steel reception desk stands to the right, its shiny surface reflecting the chocolate-colored wide-planked wood floors. A placard sits atop it with the name of the inn’s open wireless network spelled out in a sans-serif font. Thick rugs in geometric patterns cover the wood, and the walls of the lobby are lined with many framed mirrors. Everywhere I look, I see my own face reflected in them. The effect is unsettling.

“What’s with all the mirrors?” asks Leyla, regarding herself in one of them and patting her hair.

“Well, it’s called the Looking Glass Inn, genius,” Bryan answers with an amused tone.

“Duh. Got it.”

“Are there any other guests staying here?” I ask, wandering over to a tall window that overlooks the vineyards, feeling the weight of the inn’s remote location settle over me.

“It’s just us.” Reed smiles, his teeth very white. “We always close the inn for the winter. We have the whole place to ourselves.”

“I thought your parents were here too?” I ask, my voice faint.

“They’re in Berkeley. My dad agreed to speak at a winemakers’ conference tonight. I think we’ll have a
lot
more fun without them.” He winks, and I shiver. Just what does he have planned?

“Come on,” he says, “everyone else is in the great room.” Reed leads us down a short hallway, the bright white walls covered with more mirrors. Even without the lights on, the space feels startlingly bright.

We emerge in a large, open room with high ceilings and a slate-tiled fireplace that’s large enough to walk into. One whole wall is made of glass, revealing a terraced garden dotted with iron tables and furled umbrellas. Stretching away from the house is another gravel path leading down the hill.

Noah looks up from the coffee table book he’s reading when we enter, giving a stiff wave and managing to avoid my gaze. Madison sits closely next to him, her feet splayed on the matching ottoman in front of her, seemingly oblivious to the scuff marks she’s making with her dusty Doc Martens. Rebecca is sharing the ottoman with Madison’s feet, looking elegant, as usual, wearing a beaded black drop-waist dress and a long, embroidered sweater.

At the other end of the backless couch, Nicole and
Chantal are sitting very close together. I’m surprised to see Chantal and even more surprised that Nicole’s not cozying up with Noah. Looks like Madison beat her to the punch.

“Chantal!” Leyla squeals, rushing in front of me and plopping onto the couch next to them. “I thought you couldn’t come?”

Chantal smiles angelically. “I wasn’t supposed to,” she replies. “But Rebecca convinced me to lie to my mother. Supposedly I’m staying at a friend’s house in Oakland tonight. If I go to hell for this, I blame the Sawyer family.”

My stomach twists. Her presence must mean she’s still on Cyrus’s list of suspects.

“Hell is more fun anyway,” Reed replies. “All those sinful rock stars are down there having a party.”

“Now that everyone’s here,” Madison interjects, “maybe we can take that tour you mentioned?”

“Definitely,” Reed agrees. “Although first we’ll show everyone where they’re sleeping. There are only four guest rooms, so we’ll be sharing.”

“I’m with Madison,” Rebecca chirps quickly, and I notice Chantal’s face fall slightly. Madison and Chantal have always been close—but it seems like Rebecca’s moving in on Chantal’s best-friend status lately.

“We can share, Chantal,” says Nicole. I’m sure she’d do
anything to avoid sleeping in the same room as me.

Leyla points at my chest. “You and me, Kailey.”

“Looks like we gentlemen will share the last room,” says Reed, gesturing to Noah and Bryan. I shiver at the thought of Noah and Bryan sleeping in the same room as Cyrus, utterly defenseless. Is Noah here because Cyrus wants to make him an Incarnate?

“Sounds good,” says Noah, with a genuine smile on his face. “Man cave.”

Bryan pounds his chest. “Man cave good.”

Reed and Rebecca lead us up the stairs to the second story. I follow the group in a confused fog, seeing myself out of the corner of my eye in one of the hallway’s mirrors.
Through the looking glass,
I think, remembering the story about Alice in Wonderland that bears the same name.

Leyla immediately flings herself onto the king-sized bed in our shared room. The hot pink bedspread is the only spot of color in the room’s palette of muted whites and grays. “Mmm, thread count,” she murmurs into a pillow.

I wish I could be so carefree. But I’ve been dying to check my messages since we arrived, to see if there are any more bids on the book or a missed call from Lucia. “Going to hit up the bathroom,” I tell her and dart out to the hallway, nearly colliding with Reed. He’s on his phone, tapping away on the screen.

“Excuse me,” I mutter, and shove past him into the bathroom’s door, which is slightly ajar.

And run straight into Nicole, who’s leaning over the sink, touching up her lipstick.

“Oh, sorry,” I say, turning to leave.

“It’s okay,” she tells me. “Stay. I wanted to talk to you, anyway.”

“About what?” I ask warily, bracing myself for one of her trademark bitchy remarks.

“Noah,” she answers, pulling a tube of mascara out of her unbleached cotton makeup bag.

My stomach sinks. I feel like I know what she’s going to say—she’s going to brag about being his date for the dance. I feel ill. “About how you’re going to the dance with him?” I ask matter-of-factly.

She opens her mouth and eyes wide as she recoats her already coal-black lashes. “Actually, he turned me down.” She laughs bitterly. “He wouldn’t say why, but I think I know.” She puts the tube back in her bag and faces me. “He’s obviously still in love with you.”

Even though my heart beats faster at the news, I make my face a mask. A cool, haughty façade. “Too bad for him, then. Because I don’t feel the same way.”

She appraises me. “Right,” she says, turning back to the mirror. “Well, then this won’t matter to you, but I’d watch
out for Madison. She was all over Noah before you got here.” I suspected as much, but it hurts to have confirmation.