The Sixes

it?”

Jen bit her lip. “Um, I think it’s about contacts or something.”

“Please, Jen,” Phoebe said curtly. “You don’t expect me to believe that the Sixes suddenly turns into the Chamber of Commerce once people graduate, do you?”

The girl looked off to some distant spot across the room.

“They give you money, too, I think,” she said quietly, looking back. “To help you get started.”

Money? Phoebe thought, taken aback. “Where does it come from?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Jen said. “I think there’s some kind of benefactor, you know. It might be something like that.”

Bullshit, Phoebe thought. But she sensed Jen truly didn’t know.

Phoebe dismissed her. Afterward she sat at her kitchen table, thinking, perplexed by what she’d learned. She’d once heard that members of Skull and Bones were all given a lump sum of money to set them up for life. She had assumed it was only a legend. Perhaps it was a legend too that the Sixes rewarded members with cash, or a fake carrot held out to entice girls to join.

And if it wasn’t a legend? The money surely couldn’t come from anything good. She wondered what they might be up to. They thought nothing of having sex with guys and posting about it. Maybe they blackmailed people. But about what? Or, Phoebe thought, stretching, they made porn flicks. But wouldn’t news of that have started to leak out? She had no clue how she would find out.

Sick to death of food deliveries, Phoebe made a meal for herself that night—just pasta with olive oil, garlic, and Parmesan, but it was heaven. She needed the fortification. As she leaned back on the sofa, finishing the meal and sipping a glass of wine, she made a plan for the next day. Seeing that Jen was a dead end, it was time to try a different approach.

She woke the next day feeling achy and sore and with a slight fever. She stayed in bed longer than she wanted. At around three she could feel herself rallying, and an hour later, she draped her coat over her shoulders and headed out on foot. She had found out earlier where Rachel lived—the student town houses directly across from the southern tip of campus.

Though she’d seen the town houses from a distance, she’d never been up close to them. There were twelve in a row. The school had built them to keep upperclassmen in student housing. They were all identical, though the one Rachel lived in had a blue bike locked to the front porch railing.

To Phoebe’s dismay, she felt uneasy as she mounted the steps. She knew that once she confronted Rachel, there would be a ripple effect, and she had no idea what it would entail. And yet she couldn’t let the Sixes paralyze her.

She knocked on the door and waited. There wasn’t a sound. She had picked four o’clock, figuring Rachel might be back from her classes by then, but not yet at dinner. She rapped two more times, and still nothing. Unable to resist, she twisted the doorknob, and to her surprise it gave way in her hand. She pushed the door open and stepped inside. What the hell am I doing? she asked herself. But something other than good judgment seemed to be guiding her.

She was standing in a combination kitchen, dining, and living area, not much different from a dorm lounge. There were a few dirty dishes scattered on the table, and an ironing board standing in the middle of the living space, with the iron flopped on one side.

From somewhere Phoebe thought she heard music playing, though she wasn’t sure if it was coming from upstairs or from the hall that shot off to the right of the living area.

“Anyone home?” she called out.

Without warning, a girl appeared from the downstairs corridor. She was Asian and striking looking, dressed in a T-shirt and sweatpants that read “Lyle College” in faded letters across the front.

“Yes?” the girl asked, advancing into the room. She seemed deadpan except for the small crease that had just formed between her brows.

“I was looking for Rachel,” Phoebe said. “Is she around?”

“She’s at soccer practice,” the girl said, as if anyone with a brain would know that.

That’s right, Phoebe realized. She should have remembered.

“They make you go even if you’re injured?”

“Oh, she was just out for a game.”

“That’s good. I’m Phoebe, by the way. You’re . . .  ?”

“Molly,” she said after a split second. The girl clearly had her antennae up, wary of Phoebe’s presence. Phoebe bet this was the Molly that Jen Imbibio had exchanged the look with on Stockton’s committee.

“Rachel’s in one of my classes, and I wanted to stop by to give her a book to read,” Phoebe fudged. “I haven’t been in class this week.”

“You can just leave it there,” the girl said, pointing at the table with her chin. She scooped her long black hair distractedly into a ponytail and then immediately released it. As she raised her arms, Phoebe caught a glimpse of a ridged white brace around the girl’s lower torso.

“Did you hurt yourself too?” Phoebe asked.

“I just pulled a muscle,” the girl said, shrugging. “In gymnastics. The doctor said I have to stay out for a day or two.”

Phoebe thought suddenly of the knee brace she’d seen in Blair and Gwen’s hallway.

“Can they deal with injuries like that in the school infirmary?” Phoebe asked.

Molly scrunched her mouth up into a twisted pout. “No. You have to go off campus.”

Phoebe glanced down at her own arm in the sling.

“I need someone myself—someone close to the school,” she said. “I’d love the name of your doctor.”

There was another hesitation. “Dr. Rossely,” Molly finally said. “But he’s very backed up, I hear.”

“Okay,” Phoebe said. There was something odd happening, she sensed. “That’s Rachel’s doctor, too, isn’t it? I believe she mentioned him.” Phoebe had no idea where she was going with the lie. But something had set off an alarm in her head.

“I guess,” Molly said. Her eyes were wary now.

“Well, I’d better let you go,” Phoebe said. “Have a nice night.”

“You’re not going to leave the book?” the girl said. It sounded like a challenge.

“You know, I think I’ll wait and give it to her in person,” Phoebe said. Funny, she thought. I’ve been forced to use one of Val Porter’s old tricks.

The girl didn’t see her out, but Phoebe could feel her eyes boring into her as she walked to the door and struggled to open it.

So what the hell is going on? Phoebe wondered as she walked home through the falling darkness. It could be pure coincidence that three seniors in the Sixes had injuries. After all, Alexis had said that most of the members were jocks—though that was interesting in itself. And there also had been that odd hesitation when Molly said her doctor’s name, reluctance on her part, it seemed, to divulge the information.

Were they faking their injuries, Phoebe wondered, so that they’d be sidelined from games for some reason, maybe hurting the chances for victory the way athletes did in big-league sports where people waged bets on the outcome?

Phoebe found her phone, and after scoring a number for the only Dr. Rossely in Lyle—first name Todd—she called his office. She said she was recovering from an accident and wanted a second opinion. The receptionist said they would be able to squeeze her in at two tomorrow. So much for being all booked up. She felt a weird current pulsing through her: a mix of worry, anticipation, and recognition of something—but she didn’t know what.

At home, she heated up the leftover pasta from the night before and dragged her duvet and pillow down to the couch, much to Ginger’s confusion. But Phoebe had already decided that she would spend the night downstairs. She had stirred the pot with the Sixes again, and there was every chance they’d come calling once more. She needed to be where she could hear them if they tried to sneak in.

At ten Glenda called. “Sorry not to come by today,” Glenda said.

“Well, your housekeeper dropped off a chicken pot pie for lunch, which was very yummy. I’m going to need liposuction by the time this is over.”

“Dr. Carr mentioned you were doing some class work online. Don’t push yourself, Fee, if you’re not ready.”