The author of this book is solely responsible for the accuracy of all facts and statements contained in the book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Level 4 Press, Inc.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
This book is printed on acid-free paper.
Published by:
Level 4 Press, Inc.
13518 Jamul Drive
Jamul, CA 91935
www.level4press.com
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019943901
ISBN: 978-1-64630-004-4
Printed in USA
Other books by Dani Lamia
The Raven
Demonic
666 Gable Way
Hotel California
Younger
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
1
It is 1987. I have never been drunk before because I am an eleven-year-old girl. I haven’t yet done a line of cocaine off a glossy board game box top or screwed one of our summer interns just to watch them squirm when I make them get me coffee afterward.
My entire family is fucking terrible, and so am I. It is Scavenger Hunt Day in Ditmas Park, Brooklyn, where we have one of our weekend homes.
Alistair and I are partners again this year, which is probably frustrating for him, on account of the fact that I have basically no interest in winning or even participating in this game. I don’t know what I was thinking, not demanding that our father partner me with Pomeroy Egan (who we currently all call “Pom-Pom”—later in life, he will be “Roy”). Was I hoping Dad would somehow read my mind? That he would somehow know what I want in my secret soul and help me get it?
I know that I was protecting my heart by not telling him. I don’t want Pom-Pom’s affections to be something that can be purchased like a new Nintendo game and delivered to me instantly. I want to earn his affections with my deserving heart and deserving body. I want to fascinate Pom-Pom Egan on my own, beyond my father’s money and power and beyond all the fear and desire that the name Nylo strikes in the Pom-Pom Egans of the world.
Where I went wrong tactically on this summer afternoon was not at least insisting that Pom-Pom Egan be separated from Bunny Applewhite. All I can think about now is them together. In my head, I see them giggling, not trying to win, having fun, spending the whole weekend together, hands brushing hands, braces grinding against braces. My heart flutters with bruised despair every time I see them traipse across a cul-de-sac together, arm in arm, prosecuting this dumb scavenger hunt with maximum disengaged irony. My partner is my own splotched and anxious brother. What could be worse?
“So, these sprinklers,” I mutter.
“We need one of the kinds that slowly and silently waves back and forth like a fan,” says Alistair, studying our list. “You know, the kind that sits on top of the grass and you can run through it? We also need one of those sprinklers that is just a spike you stick in the ground, and it shoots out water on a ratcheted spring at a ninety-degree angle.”
I usually don’t mind his fussy precociousness, but today he is getting on my nerves something fierce. I try to remind myself that he can’t help the way he is.
“Yep,” I say, looking down the block. Pairs of kids are moving around all over the neighborhood. Our father spends all year coming up with this stupid scavenger hunt checklist. I close my eyes and imagine stamping down into hell like Rumpelstiltskin. I try to remember all the times I enjoyed the scavenger hunt before, the times I marveled at the specificity and cleverness of our father’s game-making ability. This game is his attempt to give back to the neighborhood, to devise something personal and fun for all of us.
Gabriella, Bernard, and Henley are all too young to play without help from an adult, so they are being shepherded through the streets of Ditmas Park by Angelo Marino, our father’s long-suffering confidant, attorney, and attaché. Angelo Marino is very good with our younger siblings: he is patient while never losing his old-world charm. I can see the four of them rummaging through the field house of the Egans. There is a sheet of red construction paper on its door, signifying the building as fair game for ravaging.
Alistair and I already turned the field house inside out, but we found nothing. He insisted that somebody must have gotten there before we did, but honestly, who cares? We are woefully behind, and I don’t give a shit if we win or lose. This isn’t even a proper game. It is a zero-sum struggle for resources. There is no real strategy here. It is more like a sport.
The fact that there is no strategy means that all the other kids in the neighborhood have as much of a chance to win as us Nylos. But I am annoyed by Alistair treating this game with the same respect and competitiveness as he would a game of Diplomacy or chess.
“What’s the third kind of sprinkler?” I ask, trying to contain my misery and irritation. It isn’t Alistair’s fault that Pom-Pom Egan isn’t my partner today. It isn’t my father’s fault that Pom-Pom and Bunny are running around like free-spirited nature sprites in bathing suits, with their perfect matching tans on their long loose limbs revealing how compatible they are with each other. Neither of them has brothers or sisters. I try to tell myself that they must each be very lonely and that it is actually good and fine that they have found each other and that they will now get married and grow old together.
“What’s wrong?” asks Alistair. “Are
