“Say the word and it’ll be taken down. Or…” Little Spencer tips his wineglass, taking a dainty sip before setting it down. “We can make it official.”
“Make what official?”
“The podcast. There aresomany comments asking when episode two is coming. Like, this can be a real thing.” Little Spencer is practically bouncing with excitement. “We even have a name for it!”
His partner nods and says, “Fringe Benefits.”
“We thought we could structure it in seasons. You know, like every season we discuss one topic. Season one: ghosts. Season two: aliens. There’s so much cool shit we can do with this, Blake.” Little Spencer implores me with his eyes. “Please say yes.”
“I have to go back to school,” I remind him.
“We can do it while you’re in school. New York isn’t far from Boston. You can take the train, stay for a weekend. We’ll knock out a bunch of episodes, stockpile them, and stagger the releases. Or we’ll do a video call setup. We’ve got options.”
“We can make a lot of money,” Big Spencer says, which is definitely a selling point.
“And you’ll have fun,” Wyatt says quietly, finally joining the conversation.
He’s right. I will have fun. Because all the research I’ve done about this one measly mystery? I’ve had more fun this summer thanin my three years of college combined. The only time I enjoyed doing schoolwork at Briar was when researching and writing papers about topics I was able to choose myself. The rest of the time, it’s been a boring chore.
“Okay,” I say slowly.
Little Spencer’s eyes light up. “Okay as inyes?” He gasps. “Are you accepting my podcast proposal?”
A smile springs free. “I think I am.”
“Oh my God!” He claps his hands together. “This definitely calls for a champagne toast!”
Although I’m not feeling a hundred percent, I can’t resist accepting the wineglass he hands me. This does feel toast-worthy. Our Darlie episode earned usten thousand dollars. Even if we never get a fraction of those views again, that is still pretty fucking cool.
“To our new venture,” Big Spencer toasts.
“Oh, you’ve gotta dream bigger, honey,” Little Spencer chides. “To our new podcasting empire!”
The four of us clink our glasses. But the moment the champagne slides down my throat, my insides rebel. Oh no. My stomach starts to gurgle, and I gag when I feel the bile burning a path up my throat.
“Oh shit,” I blurt out. “I’m gonna be sick.”
Gagging, I shove my wineglass at Wyatt and sprint to the hall bathroom. I shut the door and proceed to empty the contents of my stomach.
And as I curl over on my knees, retching and hugging the toilet of Spencer and Spencer Hanz, paranormal podcasters, it occurs to me that my period is two weeks late.
Chapter 42
BLAKE
THE TILES ON THE FLOOR feel like ice beneath my bare feet. I’m sitting on the edge of the tub, staring at the plastic stick in my hands.
Two pink lines.
Not one, two.
I repeat: two.
I blink. Then blink again. And again. Waiting for the image to blur or fade or do something that will prove I’m hallucinating this.
But the lines remain, taunting me.
Twoof them. Did I mention that?
