Get Dirty by Gretchen McNeil

British accent sounding more prim and proper than ever.
    Olivia nodded eagerly. “I’d love to see, er, how the finale turned out with all that choreography.”
    Mr. Cunningham sighed, his eyes rolling back in his head in ecstasy. “Ah, yes. It was a glorious sight. One which we absolutely must watch in class.”
    “When?” Logan asked.
    “Alas,” Mr. Cunningham sighed, “I know not. The police have confiscated the camera, and though they’ve promised to give it back to me in due course, as of yet, I’ve had no word.”
    Dammit. She had to get her hands on that recording.
    “Mr. Cunningham,” she began, laying on her sweetest voice and widening her eyes. “Do you think you could call Sergeant Callahan and ask when it might—”
    “Miss Hayes! There you are.”
    Olivia turned and saw Fitzgerald descending the steps stage right. Behind him, the entire class was walking around—chestsraised, arms in a ballet first position—trying not to bump into one another. Dammit. She hadn’t been paying attention and now Fitzgerald was going to think she was a diva.
    “I’m so sorry, Mr. Conroy,” Olivia said, hurrying toward him. “I was asking Mr. Cunningham about the video of opening night and I didn’t hear your instructions.”
    Fitzgerald waved his hand dismissively. “No matter. This isn’t really an exercise you need.”
    Olivia smiled at the compliment, proud that he’d noticed her command of the stage.
    “Mr. Blaine, however . . .” Fitzgerald jutted his thumb toward the stage.
    “Right,” Logan said. “Sorry.” He cast a backward glance at Olivia as he scurried up the steps.
    “I was hoping I could speak with you after school today,” Fitzgerald continued, as soon as Logan was out of earshot. “To discuss the details of your internship this summer?”
    Olivia froze, all thoughts of the Gertlers momentarily forgotten. Fitzgerald had mentioned the internship on opening night. He came up on stage during the final bows and kissed her hand, then said, “You’d make an excellent addition to our company at Aspen.” But she hadn’t had any sort of formal offer. This was it. The beginning of her professional career. Working with a director of Fitzgerald Conroy’s caliber would put her on the map in theatrical circles, not to mention the lifetime’s worth of stage experience she’d learn from him. For the first time in days, she forgot about the killer she washunting, and thought only of herself.
    “Of course,” Olivia said.
    “Meet here in the theater?”
    Olivia nodded eagerly.
    Fitzgerald winked at her as he turned back to the stage. “I shall see you then.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
    HarperCollins Publishers
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FOURTEEN
    BREE WAITED A FEW HOURS BEFORE SHE APPROACHED HER mom. She’d been rehearsing the speech in her head since Sergeant Callahan left: It’s Dad’s fault we’re both trapped here, it’s Dad’s rules that are keeping us cut off from everyone. Wouldn’t it be an epic “fuck you” to Daddy if you let me have my phone back?
    She needed to get in touch with DGM. It was a matter of life and death.
    Bree’s mom was in the library, manhandling a cocktail shaker in an earsplitting cacophony of ice and metal like she was the lead maracas player at the Copacabana. She watched silently as her mom cracked open the shaker and poured a long stream of clear liquid into a martini glass. She took a quick sip, wrinkled her nose, and then added two olives from a crystal bowl on the tray. The second sip proved more satisfactory, and her mom closed her eyes, inhaling deeply as the liquor began to take effect.
    After a few seconds, she seemed to notice that Bree had entered the room. “Oh,” she said. “You frightened me.”
    “Sorry.”
    She stared at her daughter for a moment, as if unsure how to proceed, then took a seat in a wing-backed leather chair near the bay window and crossed her legs, ready for an