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“You’ll get yours!” he yells through the din. “Pathetic Lacie—” He’s laughing now, a harsh screech. “Kitten not a cat, kitten not a cat!”

Holy shit.

I dart away from him, throat closing. What is he talking about?

I need to find Marcella. Something isn’t right: they’re all mad here, all chomping the air like rabid dogs and I’m too close to understand why. I need someone to zoom out with me, show me the landscape instead of the trees.

Panting, I squeeze through gyrating, jostling bodies, heart pounding in my ears. The incense room closes into a claustrophobic hall lit in bright washes of blue, bass thumping through the thin tent-wall junctures. Through the clear plastic window, the next chamber is a rave, all neon flashing. My glasses chafe uncomfortably against my nose, sticking in my sweat, lenses fogging.

“Fuck,” I murmur, gathering a breath. Loud parties have never been it for me. I much prefer a book. But if she’s in there, I’ll go find her. It’s going to be impossible to get any information at this thing. We need to regroup.

A tidal wave of sound hits me as I enter the next room. Music moves through the air, an alive thing, as people press close. Masks obscure, sure, but they also expose in a strange way, let out animals, claws slipping under dresses and down shirts. It’s unclear whether the screeching comes from their mouths or from the speakers sending vibrations straight through me.

But then I catch the slip of a burgundy silk dress, a fox mask with slick teeth, under strobing light, and I’m off again.

It has to be her. I’ll catch her hand at the next room juncture.

Bracing myself, I elbow through the gyrating dance floor, twisting to avoid loose arms and sweating faces. I’m pouring sweat beneath my dress, panting as I push through.

“Marcella,” I call, my voice lost in the din. “Marcella, wait!”

And just as quickly, she’s gone again.

Shit.

Gasping, I push through to the back of the tent wall and lay my thudding head on the white plastic. My heart is triple-timing. It feels useless to try to catch up with her. How is she moving so quickly? How did she get through that crowd like liquid through a sieve?

I raise my head.

There she is: outside the tent, in the bitter black night, snow sifting from the sky. She’s with Dr. Sims, his arm slung around her waist, walking toward the back door of Dean Shea’s house. I’ve come around the side inside the tent, but they must have slipped around and out somewhere.

Okay. Okay, okay.

Gathering my mettle, I push along the back wall of the tent, fingertips searching in the strobing black-white-black for a break. Any break, in the plastic. The song turns raucous, screaming.

I put my head down and squint my eyes shut.

I just have to get to her. She shouldn’t be alone right now. Why did she leave me alone? Anger and panic war inside me.

Until my fingertips find a seam in the tent, bumping over Velcro and heavy stitching.

Yes.

I turn back to the crowd, to the anonymous animal faces and sweating bodies, and slip into the frigid night air.

My sweat sticks my hair to the back of my neck. Breathing hard, I shut the tent wall and rip my mask off. It’s all I can do not to sink to my knees to gulp coolness down. Snow chills my bare arms as I cross the sleet-and ice-crusted lawn. The back door to Dean Shea’s house is slightly ajar, scant light spilling across the lawn. Shimmering frost crystals hook in broken-backed grass, winking like stars. She must have just gone inside.

It occurs to me that Marcella’s dangerous sojourn into the house is because of me. I was the one who insisted we were here to gather information. I was the one who even brought up the idea of breaking into Dean Shea’s study, however indirectly. How stupid I was to think they wouldn’t know it was us—they probably invited us because they do know we’re onto them, they got the card swipe record and retaliated by killing Therese. And Marcella likely knows all this. But she’s doing it anyway—because I said so.

I’ll never be able to live with myself if she gets hurt because of me.

Picking up the pace, I crunch to the back door. Peeking through the window gets me a glimpse of a shadow-bitten kitchen. I look down at the cutesy mask in my hands, then put it back on. They’ll know who I am if they spot me, but at least it’s a single layer of protection.

I push the door open and creep inside, careful that my heels don’t clatter.

The kitchen is empty, fusty oil and smoke tamped down by the brisk, chemical scent of cleaner. In the deepest parts of the shadows, I swear I can see eyes. Glinting, glittering, blinking. Watching me.

My pulse kicks up and I race as quickly as I can toward a swinging door in the back wall.