bigger than the rest. And occupied. Lights are on in every room, classic rock music drifts from an open window, and I can see a woman walking between rooms inside, chatting on the phone. Great.
“I thought you said they were out for the night.” I turn to glare at her. I may have learned certain . . . skills when it comes to getting into places I shouldn’t, but that’s only when there’s nobody around to dial 911 and wield their desk-drawer handgun.
Bliss bites her lip. “Sorry. Does that mean it’s off?”
“Nope.” I sigh. “But we’ll have to find a Plan B, unless you want to just walk right in . . . Wait, I wasn’t serious!” But Bliss is already sashaying toward the front door.
“Follow my lead and look normal,” she whispers at me, smoothing down her hair.
I attempt a perky grin.
“I said normal, not psychotic.”
“Whatever,” I mutter, but I adjust my expression just as Bliss hits the bell. A moment later, Kaitlin’s mom answers, holding the phone speaker-down against her shoulder.
“Bliss, honey, what are you doing here?” She’s bronzed and rake-thin, wearing a crisp white shirt and khakis. You know, typical relaxed Friday-night clothes. “I thought you kids would be out for hours.”
“Hi, Mrs. Carter!” Bliss choruses. “We will be; don’t worry. But we’re having a fashion emergency. Kaitlin’s bra snapped!”
“Oh no!” Mrs. Carter looks suitably horrified.
“I know!” Bliss agrees. “She can’t leave the bathroom, of course, so Jo . . . anna and me volunteered to come pick up a replacement.”
She caught herself just in time. Even the mention of my name is enough to strike fear into the heart of every parent in town.
“Of course.” Mrs. Carter waves us into the vast marble hallway, already putting the phone back to her ear. “You know where her room is.”
“Sure I do!” Bliss beams again, hurrying toward the stairs. “We won’t be a minute!”
I follow her up to the first floor, pausing to scope out the framed family portraits covering every wall, full of dead-eyed creepy smiles.
“How’s that for fast thinking?” Bliss crows.
“We’re not done yet,” I remind her as she heads for the room at the far end of the hallway. I follow her inside, quickly closing the door behind us, already in attack mode. I figure we have about five minutes before Mrs. Carter comes to check; more, if she’s gossiping with an old friend. That means we need to —
I stop. “Somebody lives here?”
“Yeah.” Bliss flops down on the king-size bed covered in crisp white linens. “Kaitlin’s kind of a neat freak.”
Something of an understatement. The pale carpet is spotless, every surface is clear, and there’s nothing but a mirror and a makeup box out on the dresser. I shiver at all the perfection. My room may fit in the en suite bathroom, but at least it doesn’t look like a catalog shoot. “Weird. Anyway, you want to get searching?”
“Oh! Right.” Bliss bounces up again and heads to the gleaming flat-screen computer in the corner. “If we’re lucky, she won’t . . . Oh, crap.” She stops.
I look over her shoulder at the screen. The background is set to a big photo of Kaitlin, Bliss, and the rest of their shiny clique, but hovering in front of it is a little box demanding our password.
“Seriously?” I ask. “The girl is happy wandering around the locker room completely naked, but now she has to worry about privacy?”
Bliss shrugs. “She’s always complaining about her little sister snooping around. I guess she’s paranoid.”
“And has something on there worth protecting,” I say decisively. “Keep trying. Most people use basic stuff for their passwords: birthdays, pet names. I’ll see if she’s got anything stashed around here.”
“OK.” Bliss settles into the desk chair while I go lift the bedspread and peer underneath. It’s where I keep my contraband, but apparently I have a different definition of banned substances. Instead of cigarettes, a vibrator, or even coffee (Mom swears it will stunt my growth), Kaitlin’s got what looks like the entire back-catalog of ChicK magazines under the bed, neatly stacked according to year. Like I said: weird.
“Any luck?” Bliss is still clicking away.
“Not yet.” I pull out every box to be sure, checking for anything remotely illicit. It’s like peeking into another universe: a world of designer purses, stacked heels, and discarded makeup sets barely out of the box. MAC, NARS, Lancôme . . . God, she’s got my entire yearly paycheck down here, gathering dust.
I move on. The bedside tables are