Get Dirty by Gretchen McNeil Page A

audience.
    “So,” her mom said, balancing the martini glass on her knee. “Are you, um, having fun?”
    Fun? Bree was a prisoner in her own house, guarded by a semiliterate muscle man who referred to himself in the third person. It was like San Quentin with a more comfortable bed and better food.
    “Sure,” she said instead, trying to sound upbeat. She needed her mom in a good mood.
    “I know being stuck in the house with Olaf and me isn’t your idea of a summer in the Hamptons . . . ,” her mom began, punctuated by a dainty sip of her cocktail.
    Bree had never experienced a summer in the Hamptons, but she took her mom’s word for it.
    “But this is only temporary,” her mom continued. “Soon we’ll both be back where we belong.”
    “Back where we belong?” Bree blurted out. What are you doing? Don’t antagonize her. But she couldn’t help it. “Don’t you belong here? With your family?”
    Her mom looked genuinely taken aback. “I have family in France, too.”
    “Really?” Bree planted her hands on her hips. “Are you a bigamist now? Do I have more siblings I don’t know about?”
    Her mom waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t be ridiculous. I mean—”
    But Bree didn’t wait to listen. “Fuck you, Mom. You hearme? Fuck you. Go back to your beach and your massages and your cabana boys. I don’t want you and I don’t need you.”
    She didn’t care about her phone or DGM or Christopher Beeman. As she stormed out of the room, hot tears began to pour down her face, and all she felt was anger.
    Olivia headed to Mr. Cunningham’s office after class. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on the opening-night video of Twelfth Precinct , and hoped she could convince her drama teacher to ask the police for a copy of it. They’d been lulled into a sense of safety while the killer had been planning something even more sinister. Maybe the next attack would be on her home? Or Margot in the hospital? She couldn’t waste a single moment. That video might hold the key to the entire mystery.
    She rounded the corner, and collided with someone coming out of his office.
    “Peanut!” Olivia cried.
    Peanut jumped and let out a sound somewhere between a squeak and a gasp, then seemed to choke on her own saliva and doubled over into a coughing fit.
    Olivia slipped her arm through Peanut’s. “Are you okay?”
    “Fine,” Peanut sputtered, as she straightened up, face still flushed pink from coughing.
    “I wanted to talk to Mr. Cunningham,” Olivia said.
    “He’s not here,” she said quickly.
    “Then what were you doing in his office?”
    “Nothing!” Peanut squeaked.
    Olivia arched an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”
    Peanut took a deep breath, then the words tumbled out of her mouth, one on top of another. “Sorry. I, um, guess I’m not feeling very well. My mom has me on a cleanse and the lack of calories is making me a little cray. She thinks the stress of what’s been happening at school has knocked my third and eighth chakras out of whack, so I need to purge the toxins from my blood.”
    Olivia had always been skeptical of Mrs. Dumbrowski’s alternative medical practices, which seemed only slightly more scientific than bloodletting and leeches. “Does that work?”
    “Dunno, but if I lose some weight in the process, it’s a bonus.” She shook her arm free of Olivia’s grasp. “So I have to go. See you tomorrow!”
    Olivia stared after Peanut as she practically raced down the hallway. Well, that was more like the Peanut she knew and loved—spacey and confused.
    With a quick laugh, she turned toward the theater, hoping Mr. Cunningham would be there. Instead, she saw John storming down the hall toward her.
    “You want to explain to me,” he said through clenched teeth, “why you threw me at Amber?”
    Olivia smirked, remembering the look on John’s face as Amber led him to drama class. “She’s single, you’re single. What’s to explain?”
    John’s face hardened. “I am