would I let this continue if I could stop it just by being honest?”
Tress is nodding along with me, like she knew I would say this, and a pit of fear opens in my stomach, my heart falling into it. I thought I was being clever, reconnecting with her and leading her through a logical chain that would undo the ones she’s got me in. But instead she’s just agreeing, like I’m following a script she already had laid out. Like she knew exactly what I was doing.
Tress stands up, selects a brick. “You wouldn’t tell me, because you’re not scared enough yet,” she says, reaching for the mortar pail. “You wouldn’t tell me because fear is a powerful motivator. But you know what’s stronger?”
She comes closer, toes touching the bricks she’s already laid, face close to mine. “Shame,” she says.
And she’s got me there. She’s got me dead to rights.
Chapter 22
Tress
Felicity’s face falls, and her knees go out, her wrists alone supporting her as she sags. Her head drops, the jester cap sliding to the front again, but I saw her expression when I hit her with shame, and it told me everything I need to know. She went from pretty to ugly with just one word, the spark behind her eyes when we laughed suddenly stomped out. I know what defeat looks like. I know shame, thoroughly and completely.
Felicity Turnado knows something. And I’m going to find out what.
But I need her full attention in order to do that, and right now it looks like she needs to stew for a minute. My phone goes off in my pocket—again—and I pull it out for a glance. Cecil is actually attempting to text for the first time in his life, since I’m not answering any of his calls.
Cat dance. Kill some odyssey were
I stare at it for a second, completely lost. I end up having to retype everything into my phone and take some suggestions from autocorrect to try to translate it. What I finally work out is: “Cat dangerous. Kills somebody and we’re done.”
“No shit,” I say to my phone. What Cecil didn’t do is send any suggestions about how a person is supposed to go about capturing a panther and leading it docilely back to its cage in the middle of the night. I know there’s a dart gun back at home, but stalking a cat is a dangerous business that becomes impossible when it’s a black cat in utter darkness.
Nope. Cecil will have to wait. Or sober up and do it himself—there’s a thought.
My phone vibrates in my hand, drawing my attention to a string of tweets and Instagram posts featuring the hashtags I’d set on notifications—#HonestUsher and #TrueLoser. There are hundreds of alerts, and they’re picking up steam. People I know are using it, but it’s being retweeted and reposted at an alarming rate, strangers getting in on the game. Someone even has a livestream going on Facebook . . . and it has over three hundred viewers at the moment.
I hop on to see Ribbit leaning dangerously to one side of his chair; the only thing apparently balancing him is a beer in the other hand. Somebody is keeping him refreshed, making sure the show doesn’t end before they’re done watching.
“Next question,” Hugh says, and the camera goes over to him, large and kingly in his stuffed chair.
“What are you doing?” I ask the screen. Hugh’s a good guy; we’ve got a friendship that’s rooted in my cock-and-balls shirt from freshman year. I know that if I send him a text right now and ask him to stop, he will.
But I don’t.
“This one is from . . .” Hugh glances at his phone, seems confused, then starts again. “This person wants to know if you’ve ever shit your pants.”
The camera swings back to Ribbit, who seems to be thinking very hard. “Yes,” he says, his face dead serious. “You know the pizza they sell at the pool?”
The whole crowd groans, and the camera pans them, some people nodding enthusiastically, wanting to know the rest, others covering their mouths in horror.
“It runs right through you,” Ribbit says, enjoying the reaction. “You know . . . runs?”
The camera swings back to Hugh for a reaction, but his eyes are on his phone as he scrolls through it.
“I tried to make it to the bathroom,” Ribbit goes on, turning to the crowd. “But even though I was running . . .” He leans into the pun, enjoying