Something rumbles in my stomach. Not from hunger, but something else. Anxiety. An ominous tension bubbles in my gut as the minutes tick by.
Out of nowhere, raised voices break through the wall from the lobby next to us, sending a hushed silence over the table. Without warning, Nick Gould’s massive form shoves through the door as he emerges into the room red-faced and seething.
Despite myself, I flinch. He yanks the chair at the head of the table away, but before he can sit down, Randy comes rushing in after him.
“You can’t do this,” Randy says, his greasy hair standing on end, his eyes wild.
“Do. Not. Tell me what I can or cannot do.” Nick’s voice fills the entire room, and Randy flinches.
“But I was dependent on that money. Those bookings. I’d made plans.”
“Enough,” Nick booms.
And that is that. Randy looks as if there are a million more thingshe wants to say, but Nick is done, his body turned away from him, facing the rest of us.
Nick holds up his water glass, which looks miniature in his hand. “Merry Christmas,” he snarls towards the rest of us as Randy slinks off back to the front desk.
None of us have any idea what’s happened, what we’ve just witnessed. But on autopilot, we raise our glasses anyway—mine filled with water, like Nick’s, everyone else’s with wine—terrified of what his reaction will be if we don’t follow suit.
Moments later, as if on cue, two people walk in, hands laden with food. Locals the program apparently hired to cook for us. They deposit the food on the table, not sausages for once, but plates stacked high with reddened beef, bowls of roasted vegetables, a side of fried potatoes.
I feel my stomach flip. I know I need to eat, but I don’t think I can force any of this down. In contrast, the others at the table eagerly pass the plates and dig in, ravenous. Crowns of broccoli and burnt edges of meat tip over from the bowls with their tipsy handoffs.
“I’d like to make a toast.” Nick’s gruff voice once again cuts through the conversation, and we all halt. “I know this wasn’t the experience some of yous had hoped for. And I know we’re still upset about Tomas. What happened was a horrible accident, but I hope that—”
A loud, upbeat tune blasts through the room as Nick scrambles for his phone. “Goddammit,” he says, although I can tell he’s relieved to be spared the rest of his speech. “This is the school. I’ve got to take this.”
As Nick hurries out into the backyard, an excited hum returns to the table.
“What do you think that was?” Ellery asks.
“I heard Tomas’s mother is suing Hamilton. That the college is cancelling the Adventure Abroad program,” Josh says.
All eyes shift to Hari, her fork raised halfway to her mouth.
“I can neither confirm nor deny.”
Josh continues. “Based on that showdown we just witnessed, I’m guessing Randy wasn’t too happy about the news.”
“It’s not right.” The comment comes from two seats down on my side of the table. Adrien, her words sluggish. Clearly, she’s hit the wine hard already. “Randy shouldn’t be punished for what happened to Tomas. The only person at fault is her.”
She extends her long manicured finger in my direction in front of Claire, and I resist the urge to grab it and snap it back.
“It was an accident, though,” Ellery says. I would be grateful, but she says it halfheartedly, as if convincing herself. Adrien acts as if she doesn’t hear her.
Keep it together, Phoebe, I say to myself.Just let it slide. But Adrien’s finger doesn’t move, and every second it remains pointed in my direction, my rage grows.
“Get your fucking finger out of my face.” The words come out like a growl.
Adrien finally lowers her hand, but before I can feel any relief, her mouth is open again. “He would never have gone in that water if it wasn’t for you. And all for what? Because he tattled on you? Because you were jealous of me and Kyan? Because—”
“Oh, honey, you flatter yourself. As if I could ever be jealous of you andthis.” I let my eyes graze over Kyan.
The remark escapes my mouth before I can think better of it, and within seconds, chaos erupts. Kyan shouting, Ellery trying to calm everyone down.
Adrien, hand wrapped tightly around her glass of red wine, stands up so abruptly that her chair falls backward. The noise must alert Randy, who flies through the door of the room, curiosity clearly piqued.
“Whoa,” he yells, which startles Adrien, who spins around quickly. Too quickly. The wine flies out of her hand and directly into Randy’s chest, dousing his white shirt—one of those horrid pieces you get from souvenir shops that readsFBI: Female Body Inspector—in red. It looks like he’s been shot.
