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xv. To Kill A Mocking Girl
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Blair Cameron was late but, really, no one was nervous about it. Blair Cameron was always late.
She once read in an article about Kate Moss in one of the beauty magazines she collects (buys every week from her very trusted source, Mona Schneider, who spends her afternoons chewing bubblegum behind the counter of a vintage-dress-shop ten minutes away from her house) that the icon liked to arrive late and calculated it perfectly so people would miss her just the right amount. They'd be even more ecstatic when she arrived. She was high when her eyes skimmed over the text printed askew on the page for effect, it must've been the weed on her brain that made her memorize it from the first letter to the last period.
Now, she made a habit of being late and people knew all about it. And the best part was that they waited all the same, wether she showed up ten minutes later or twenty-seven with to-go double-malt chocolate milkshake.
They were ready to kill her by the time she showed up at the Château, but they waited nonetheless. She hopped in the passenger seat of the Twinkie as John B drove them to the Crain House with Sarah and Kiara sitting together in the backseat. It wasn't peace, they told the boy when they went to pick the pair up, but as soon as they reunited with the girl on land, they spilled everything. Their plan worked; they were friends now.
And they were dressed in hideous, dark clothes hoping not to get caught and murdered while stealing four hundred million dollars in gold from the basement of an murderous old woman. Blair had gone shopping for that exact occasion earlier that morning and, unlike them all, she was well-dressed to cheat death. Again.
And Blair had done a lot of stupid things in her life (drugs, car heists, breaking into clubs, etc.) but she had to be breaking some type of record with that. Sneaking (breaking and entering, really) into a damn axe murderer's house with nobody behind her but a group equally lost, adrenaline-fueled teenagers was a recipe for inevitable disaster and she knew it. Still, her bones were warm with adrenaline and the only thing she saw when she closed her eyes was a surf trio with the boy that had been spinning her around in the kitchen the night before. She spent a whole day avoiding Rafe; she had no clue how he'd react when he'll see her.
Maybe she could melt in the small crevices between the bricks of the wall that led up to the house if she wanted to, but she knew their bones didn't break like hers. If they did, she'd cry for them because muscles aches and bones rumbled because she so desperately needed rest, but she remained on her feet anyway.
"You got rope?" John B asked, going over his mental checklist. The Pogue boys were perhaps dressed in the most ridiculous outfits Blair could ever envision. Thankfully, Sarah and Kiara had taken it a little easier. Sarah Cameron . . . her sister couldn't convince her to stay away from the murderous hunt, and so she embraced it instead. One more person could only help them, no? Pope held the thick rope up, nodding in approval. "Good. Grappling hook?"
