Then the patio door opened, and Nolan Hotchkiss, the man of the hour, sauntered onto the lawn with a smug, I’m-the-lord-of-this-party look on his face. He strolled to two boys and bumped fists. After a beat, they glanced Mac’s way and started whispering.

Mac sucked in her stomach, feeling their gazes canvass her snub nose, her glasses with their dark hipster frames, and her large, chunky knit scarf. She knew what they were talk­ing about. Her hatred for Nolan flared up all over again.

Beep.

Her phone, which sat next to her on the tiled ground, lit up. Mac glanced at the text from her new friend Caitlin Martell-Lewis.

It’s time.

Julie and Ava received the same missives. Like robots, they all stood, excused themselves, and walked to the ren­dezvous point. Empty cups lay on the ground in the hall. There was a cupcake smashed on the kitchen wall, and the den smelled distinctly of pot. The girls convened by the stairs and exchanged long, nervous glances.

Caitlin cleared her throat. “So.”

Ava pursed her full lips and glanced at her reflection in the oversize mirror. Caitlin rolled back her shoulders and felt for something in her purse. It rattled slightly. Mac checked her own bag to make sure the camera she’d swiped from her mom’s desk was still inside.

Then Julie’s gaze fixed on a figure hovering in the door­way. It was Parker Duvall, her best friend in the world. She’d come, just as Julie hoped she would. As usual, Parker wore a short denim skirt, black lace tights, and an oversize black sweatshirt. When she saw Julie, she poked her face out from the hood, a wide grin spreading across her cheeks and illuminating her scars. Julie tried not to gasp, but it was so rare that Parker allowed anyone to see her face. Parker rushed up to the girls, pulling the hoodie around her face once more.

All five of them glanced around to see if anyone was watching. “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Mackenzie admitted.

Caitlin’s eyebrows made a V. “You’re not backing out, are you?”

Mac shook her head quickly. “Of course not.”

“Good.” Caitlin glanced at the others. “Are we all still in?”

Parker nodded. After a moment, Julie said yes, too. And Ava, who was touching up her lip gloss, gave a single, deci­sive nod.

Their gazes turned to Nolan as he wove through the living room. He greeted kids heartily. Slapped friends on the back. Shot a winning smile to a girl who looked like a freshman, and the girl’s eyes widened with shock. Whispered something to a different girl, and her face fell just as quickly.

That was the kind of power Nolan Hotchkiss had over people. He was the most popular guy at school—handsome, athletic, charming, the head of every committee and club he joined. His family was the wealthiest, too—you couldn’t go a mile without seeing the name Hotchkiss on one of the new developments popping up or turn a page in the news­paper without seeing Nolan’s state senator mother cutting aribbon at a new bakery, day care facility, community park, or library. More than that, there was something about him that basically . . . hypnotized you. One look, one suggestion, one command, one snarky remark, one blow-off, one public embarrassment, and you were under his thumb for life. Nolan controlled Beacon, whether you liked it or not. But what’s that saying? “Absolute power corrupts absolutely.” And for all the people who worshipped Nolan, there were those couldn’t stand him, too. Who wanted him . . . gone, in fact.

The girls looked at one another and smiled. “All right, then,” Ava said, stepping out into the crowd, toward Nolan. “Let’s do this.”

Like any good party, the bash at the Hotchkiss house lin­gered into the wee hours of the morning. Leave it to Nolan to have an in with the cops, because no one raided the place for booze or even told them to cut the noise. Shortly after midnight, some party pics were posted online: two girls kissing in the powder room; the school’s biggest prude doing a body shot off the star running back’s chest; one of the stoners grinning sloppily, holding several cupcakes aloft; and the party’s host passed out on a Lovesac bean­bag upstairs with something Sharpied on his face. Partying hard was Nolan’s specialty, after all.

Revelers passed out on the outdoor couch, on the ham­mock that hung between two big birch trees at the back ofthe property, and in zigzag shapes on the floor. For several hours, the house was still, the cupcake icing slowly hard­ening, a tipped-over bottle of wine pooling in the sink, a raccoon digging through some of the trash bags that had been left out in the backyard. Not everyone awoke when the boy screamed. Not even when that same someone—a junior named Miro—ran down the stairs and screamed what had happened to the 911 dispatcher, did all the kids stir.

It was only when the ambulances screeched into the driveway, sirens blaring, lights flashing, walkie-talkies crackling, did all eyes open. The first thing everyone saw were EMT workers in their reflective jackets busting inside. Miro pointed them to the upper floor. There were boots on the stairs, and then . . . those same EMT people carrying someone back down. Someone who had Sharpie marker on his face.Someone who was limp and gray.

The EMT worker spoke into his radio. “We have an eighteen-year-old male DOA.”

Was that Nolan? everyone would whisper in horror as they staggered out of the house, horrifically hungover. And . . . DOA?Dead on arrival?

By Saturday afternoon, the news was everywhere. The Hotchkiss parents returned from their business meeting in Los Angeles that evening to do damage control, but it was too late—the whole town knew that Nolan Hotchkiss had dropped dead at his party, probably from too much fun.

Darker rumors posited that perhaps he’d meant to do it. Beacon was notoriously hard on its offspring, after all, and maybe even golden boy Nolan Hotchkiss had felt the heat.

When Julie woke up Saturday morning and heard the news, her throat closed. Ava picked up the phone three times before talking herself down. Mac stared into space for a long, long time, then burst into hot, quiet tears. And Caitlin, who’d wanted Nolan dead for so long, couldn’t help but feel sorry for his family, even though he had destroyed hers. And Parker? She went to the dock and stared at the water, her face hidden under her hoodie. Her head pounded with an oncoming migraine.

They called one another and spoke in heated whispers. They felt terrible, but they were smart girls. Logical girls. Nolan Hotchkiss was gone; the dictator of Beacon Heights High was no more. That meant no more tears. No more bullying. No more living in fear that he’d expose every­one’s awful secrets—somehow, he’d known so many. And anyway, not a single person had seen them go upstairs with Nolan that night—they’d made sure of it. No one would ever connect them to him.