Something in my voice makes a few of them bolt immediately.
The rest protest under their breath but still scramble for the door, heels clicking, whispers hissing.
Tristan’s girl peels off his lap, clearly offended.
X’s girl sulks away after he lifts one eyebrow in warning.
When the door shuts and it’s just the three of us, Tristan throws his hands up.
“Hey! We werepartyinghere, bro.”
I take another drag, flick ash onto the expensive rug, and deadpan:
“Yeah. Do you need another lawsuit?”
Tristan goes pale. “No, bro. Nope. Definitely not.”
X huffs a laugh. “The high-end skanks didn’t do it for you, huh?”
I ignore the term—because I don’t have the energy to police anything tonight—but my voice is colder than ice.
“I’m not here to party. I’m here to get answers.”
Tristan runs both hands through his hair. “So, what now?”
I blow out the smoke slow. Controlled. Razor-sharp.
“Now,” I say, “we figure out which one of these rich, feral idiots destroyed Jade’s life.”
And for the first time tonight?—
For the first time since homecoming?—
I feel something that isn’t grief.
I feel purpose.
Tristan tosses a cushion across the room and slumps back, defeated.
“Bro, I got nothing,” he admits. “And I swear I was trying everything.”
I give him a flat look. “Yeah. Clearly.”
He throws his hands in the air. “What? I was working the girl! Like you said. Loving her up, kissing her neck, whispering sweet nothings. You know how it is. spill easy between sexy kisses.”
I stare at him.
“Tristan,” I say, “you weren’t getting anything.”
He groans, covers his face. “I hate our generation. No one snitches anymore.”
X laughs once—dry, humorless. “Guess loyalty is the new accessory.”
We sit in silence.
Pour more drinks.
Smoke more.
