But wait—someone rode in the passenger’s seat.
Someone wearing a cape.
Someone young.
A teenager.
7:40 a.m.: Mr. Kosnitzky reports Connor to Principal Lincoln
∗ ∗ ∗
“Where’d you say this place was, kid?”
“On” (gasp) “the” (gasp) “other” (gasp) “side” (gasp) “of—”
“Would you stop crying?” Colt dug around the cup holder, pulled out a napkin from Smitty’s, and thrust it at Connor’s blubbering face. “And don’t you dare get any snot on the seats. They’re Italian leather.”
“Oh, okay. Sorry, mister.”
Connor then burst into a fresh batch of tears.
Colt’s lip curled. The sound of children crying was almost as painful as the sound of their laughter. “So tell me again—where is your friend now?”
“Trapped in a well!” Another sob. “We found this shack in the woods, and we thought it was an outhouse, so we went to investigate, and when we opened the door, there was just a big hole in it, and he fell in!”
“And how did you end up so far away from your friend?”
“I got lost!” Connor cried. “I’ve been wandering through the woods all night! I couldn’t find my way out! I had to eat a bug to survive!”
“Okay, do me a favor. Stop talking until we get there.”
They continued toward the mountain, when Connor let out a squeal. “There!” he said, pointing at the turnoff for Secret Service Way.
Colt set his jaw. How many godforsaken back roads was he going to have to ruin his car on today? “How far?”
“Just a few more—there!”
They came to a stop. Connor flung himself out of the car and huffed up a small hill, thrashing through the high grass. “This way!” he called to Colt.
Picking his way through the mud and ruining his expensive Italian leather shoes in the process, Colt followed Connor with no small amount of fuming. “This better be worth it, kid.”
When he finally reached Connor, the boy was standing next to a large wooden structure. “In there,” Connor said fearfully.
Colt rolled his eyes. “This isn’t a well, kid.”
“Yes it is!”
“No, it’s not.” He grabbed the handle of the door. “These aren’t even the deep woods. This is on the spa’s property—”
“Oh?” said Connor, moving up behind him. “Really?”
7:45 a.m.: Melt Colt Lamberty in a Paraffin Resort personal sauna
∗ ∗ ∗
Principal Lincoln strode down the hallway, his shoes clacking against the floor. He didn’t know much about the kid Kosnitzky had called about, but he thought he’d seen a cape-wearing boy often hanging around the auditorium. And if the boy was with Colt, then he obviously had a flair for the dramatic.
7:47 a.m.: Principal Lincoln
Colt
But Principal Lincoln had checked Connor’s files, and he’d never been absent from school—not once. Something was up. Something originating, Principal Lincoln had a feeling, with the Giddy Committee.
He knocked on Mr. Crawford’s classroom door. “Those kids who sang in the parade,” he said. “Is one of them named Connor?”
“How should I know?” Mr. Crawford said. “I’ve only been this guy for a day.”
Principal Lincoln gritted his teeth. “Come with me. I have a feeling about this.”
He led Mr. Crawford to the Gaudy Auditorium and paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the theater—when a bright spotlight snapped on. It was pointed at the stage, upon which sat a giant pile of weed.
Jesus.
Upon the weed sat a person smoking a joint and laughing.
JESUS.
“Hello, Lincoln,” Jesus said as the two men made their way down the aisle, their eyes popping out of their heads. “Crawford. Want some?”
Once the shock wore off, Principal Lincoln rubbed his hands together. “You,” he said, pulling out his phone, “are going to burn for this. Pun intended.”
Jesus shrugged, his eyes bleary. “Whatever. I just wanted to, you know, call a truce between us. Let bygones be bygones.”
“Shut up, you little pissant.”
“No need for language, Lincoln! I’m extending some goodwill here. I tried to kill you a couple times, and you wouldn’t die. You win. No hard feelings, bro. Come on up here and join me.”
Principal Lincoln ignored him, jabbing at his phone.
“Whatsa matter?” Jesus continued. “You don’t like to party?”
Mr. Crawford, who had hung back to watch the unfolding scene, now grasped Principal Lincoln on the shoulder. “Anita, wait—”
But Principal Lincoln shook him off. “Yes, hello?” he said into the phone, grinning evilly. “I’d like to report a felony.”
7:50 a.m.: Principal Lincoln calls the police
∗ ∗ ∗
Big Bob was sitting in his office, staring at the bust the town had given him.
It was a decent likeness. Tussaud could have sculpted a better one. But the talentless gutbags had tried their best.
First he put it on his desk, but that wasn’t high enough. He moved it to the top of his file cabinets, but those didn’t convey the air of import that the bust implied. It needed to be somewhere dignified, a place of honor and repute—
His phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Sorry to bother you, Councilman Bursaw, but this is Officer Reynolds down at the station. I’ve got Principal Lincoln on the line, ranting and raving about some kid down at the school sitting on a mountain of pot.”
7:52 a.m.: Big Bob
Principal Lincoln
Big Bob grinned and leaned back in his chair. “You don’t say.”
“It gets better. The principal says the kid is so high that he gave up the location of his stash.”
“What? That’s fantastic! Call the media. They can film the seizure live—”
“Yes, but—well—”
“What?”
“He says it’s in your swimming pool.”
“My pool?”
“Yes, sir. Apparently he and your son are friends, and that’s where they’ve been keeping it. Like I said, he’s stoned out of his mind.”
Big Bob grunted.
“What I’m saying, sir, is that we are the only people who know its location, and that I’m giving you a heads-up. Honestly, we’re a little short-staffed today—Chief Peltor hasn’t shown up for work, and no one knows where she is—so if there happened to be a delay, and the stash happened to be relocated to a less incriminating place before the media caught wind of it—”
Big Bob nodded. “I understand.”
“Or we can call it off altogether—lot of trouble for such a smalltime drug bust—”
“No, of course not!” Big Bob shouted, jumping out of his seat. “Drugs are not rad!”
“So . . . you’ll move it?”
“Of course I will. Hell of a photo op!” Big Bob cleared his throat. “I’ll call you when it’s all clear. Shouldn’t take too long. And, Officer—thank you for the warning.”
“No problem, sir. Good luck.”
“Over and out!”
News of the bust spread quickly. As Big Bob strolled down the hallway, the town hall employees erupted in cheers, slapping him on the back and giving him high-fives and shouting, “Drugs are not rad!” The smile remained on his face all the way to the mayor’s office, where it was replaced with a contemptuous scowl.
“So?” said Miss Bea after he’d filled her in on the situation. “Why bother sticking your neck out like that? Who cares about any of this?”
“Hey, you were the one who said we needed to keep up appearances as much as we could. Big Bob Bursaw cares about this stupid drug thing, so I have to care about this stupid drug thing!”
Miss Bea let out a frustrated sigh. “Fine.
But I don’t see why you need my help. Or the kid’s.”
He tossed her a set of car keys.
“Because many hands make light work.”
7:55 a.m.: Big Bob and Miss Bea head home
∗ ∗ ∗
“Don’t try to run,” Principal Lincoln told Jesus, climbing the stairs to the stage. “The police are on their way.”
Jesus laughed. “Like I’d get far! I’m high as shit!”
Principal Lincoln took a few more steps toward Jesus, then looked back at Mr. Crawford. “Preston. Get up here and help me.”
“I really don’t think—”
“Preston.”
Mr. Crawford walked up the steps, cowering slightly behind Principal Lincoln—until Principal Lincoln stopped abruptly. “What’s going on here?” he asked, studying Jesus.
“Hmm?”
“Why don’t you care that you’re being arrested?”
Jesus gave a lazy shrug. “I guess I just ain’t all that worried. I got a lot of dirt on you two. Lots of information that could be traded, say, to the Bursaws. To make a deal and whatnot.”
Principal Lincoln let out a loud, booming laugh. It echoed through the empty auditorium. “You’ve got dirt?”
“Yeah, all that wax shit. You’re imposters. That’s why I tried to melt you, bro.”
Principal Lincoln shook his head, chuckling as he stood over Jesus. “You’re such an idiot.” He knelt down to eye level, pulling Mr. Crawford with him. “I’ve got some unfortunate news for you, bro,” he said, relishing every second. He leaned in, as if to tell a secret, whispering, “The Bursaws are wax too.”
Jesus held his gaze. “Is that right.”
Principal Lincoln kept on smiling, but his nose began to twitch. “What’s that smell?” he asked, picking up a bag of the weed. “Is that oregano?”
“Nah.” Jesus grinned and stood up, opening the trapdoor in the stage. “It’s flame-broiled principal.”
8:00 a.m.: Melt Principal Lincoln and Mr. Crawford in the Gaudy Auditorium furnace
∗ ∗ ∗
“This is such a waste of time,” Miss Bea grumbled, the big blue tarp crumpling noisily as they removed it from the swimming pool.
“Seriously,” Blake added. “I was having a lovely morning snooping through these people’s tax files until you got home. I know we need to keep up appearances, but to get this involved—”
“Would you give it a rest?” said Big Bob. “For ten minutes of work, we keep the police out of our backyard, we get to seize the drugs and become local heroes, and the gutbags follow us more blindly than they already do. Where is the downside in this?”
He descended the steps into the shallow end and skidded down the slope into the deep end, where several taped-up packages sat in neat little piles. Blake sidled up behind him, followed by Miss Bea. “That doesn’t smell like pot,” she said.
“That’s . . . because it’s not,” said Blake, sniffing at a package. “What the—”
“Ahem,” said someone behind them.
All three Bursaws turned around and looked up. At the edge of the pool stood a very tall girl and a very short girl inexplicably brandishing a pair of enormous paintball guns.
“Happy belated Paraffin Day!” Banks and Louisa sang.
8:05 a.m.: Flamethrow the hell out of Big Bob and Miss Bea and Blake
∗ ∗ ∗
The wheels of Colt’s sports car left the ground. Connor was driving faster than he ever had in his life, his cape flapping out the window, singing, “The Phaaaaantom of the Opera is heeeeeere. . . . to meeeelt your faaaaace.”
He screeched to a stop in front of Jill’s house and reached for his flamethrower, grinning.
8:10 a.m.: Serenade Jill until she comes outside
∗ ∗ ∗
Poppy tapped her Sharpie on her knee. It was almost time.
Impatient, she got up and walked across the roof of Tank #2. It had been an ideal place for her and Dud to hide out for the duration of The Plan—it was out of the way, so none of the Hollows would spot them or grow suspicious, and at the same time it was so close to the bad-guy headquarters that none of the Hollows would suspect them of hiding there.
She looked across the way at Tank #1. Please be alive, Jill, she thought. Please be alive. She noted with relief that the flame had still not been lit—which meant that no new victims had been lured in. The ten Hollows the Giddy Committee had destroyed over the course of the morning were the only ones out there.
As for inanimate Hollows, hundreds of them still sat below her feet. Poppy looked through the lightning-made hole at the inventory inside, shuddering. The look on Mrs. Goodwin’s face as Poppy had barged into her bedroom that morning with a flamethrower was not one she would soon be forgetting. Though her kindly neighbor insisted on her innocence, Poppy forced herself to press on, knowing the woman was lying. The wax puddle that remained was all the proof she needed, but emotionally speaking, it was still harrowing.
Logistically speaking, it was way too easy.
“You’d think the Chandlers would have gotten a little more intelligent over all their years on earth,” Poppy whispered to Dud. “You’d think they’d maybe set the alarm system if they didn’t want to get burned up in their sleep. You’ve only been alive for a week, and I feel like you’re smarter than both of them, with all their years combined.”
“I have a good teacher,” said Dud.
“Why, thank you.”
“Oh. I meant Dr. Steve, but—you’re good too.”
Poppy glanced at Connor’s next task in The Plan, flinching at its words: 8:15 a.m.: Melt Jill. Then she looked at Blake’s watch again, wishing for the millionth time that her phone still worked. If something went wrong, there was no way for anyone on the Giddy Committee to contact her.
And immediately upon having this thought, she knew that something had gone wrong. She’d developed a sixth sense about these moments—every time failure was imminent, the hairs on the back of her neck twitched.
“Uh-oh,” said Dud, all but confirming it.
Poppy whipped around. How the intruder had climbed the metal stairs without either of them hearing, she didn’t know.
But there she was: Wax Jill, grinning like a monster.
24
Lose all hope
ANY SENSE OF RELIEF OR SUCCESS THAT HAD BUILT UP OVER the course of The Plan vaporized in an instant.
She needs to be in the tank! Poppy’s mind was screaming. Or The Plan won’t work!
“What are you doing here, Jill?” she asked instead, trying to keep her voice even.
“Oh, drop the act,” Jill said, advancing on her. “One of the Bursaws texted me about the pot thing. Tipped me off that something was up—even some idiot pothead wouldn’t do something that moronic. This was a pretty terrible plan from the start, if you want my opinion. Melting us one at a time without giving us a chance to warn one another? I mean, it’s fine, I guess, but only if every one of us suddenly forgot how to use our phones. What’d you do, Tackety Wax the OUT door to trap the Hollows in the tank?” she said, laughing as she saw the tube of wax at Poppy’s feet. “Pathetic.”
“Shut up, Anita—”
Before Poppy could make a move to escape, Jill pinned her arms to her sides with an impossible amount of strength for her size. She picked Poppy up with no effort at all and walked to the edge of the tank’s roof, dangling her over a hundred feet of nothing.
She was squeezing Poppy too tight for her to scream. Why wasn’t Dud jumping in to help? Poppy closed her eyes and wriggled, panic flooding her brain so fast, she almost didn’t hear the voice.
“Oh, put her down, my doll.”
She felt Jill’s hands get tighter, but not intentionally—more in a surprised, flinching way. Jill backed up from the edge and set Poppy down on the roof, still restraining her as she glared at the source of the voice. “What’s going on?”
Dud took a few steps towar
d Jill and gave her a pitying look. “Dear me, Anita. And here I thought you were the smart one,” he said.
Or rather, she said. Though the voice was Dud’s, the inflection was unmistakably Madame Grosholtz’s—that musical, lilting pitch that anyone who’d heard her speak would recognize in a flash.
The stern look remained on Jill’s face, but her eyes were questioning. “Tussaud? That you?”
“Indeed it is.”
Poppy’s body went ice-cold. Instantly she flashed back to Jill/Anita accusing Dud of being one of them, speaking those words that Poppy had refused to hear.
Snake.
Dud coyly shook his head. “I know, I know, you tried to get rid of me,” he said. “And it was a good plan, yes, it was! It worked for a little while. But you should know by now that I am not so easily discarded.”
Jill released Poppy. Poppy rubbed her arms but remained silent, and she didn’t make a move to run away. Jill was captivated; Poppy didn’t want to break the spell.
Plus, Poppy hadn’t the first inkling of what was going on. Madame Grosholtz had said in her message candle that she had set the fire on her own. Was it all a lie? Had the Chandlers tried to get rid of her themselves?
Jill studied Dud, trying to look calm. But Poppy could tell it was an act. Jill was scared. “I didn’t try to kill you,” Jill said. “I didn’t set that fire.”
“Of course you didn’t,” said Dud. “Preston did.”
Jill’s face went slack. “What?”
“He said . . . Oh, what did he say . . . ?” Dud said, remembering. “He said that our interests did not align, and he decided that if you two were to continue to live on, to go ahead with your plan, the only thing standing in your way was me. And so I had to go.”
“Preston said all of that?”
“Oh, and he said it wasn’t personal.” Dud gave his hand a flighty little wave—it looked funny on him, but it was dead-on, just as Madame Grosholtz would have done. “I beg to differ, of course,” he said with a chuckle. “In fact, I wish . . .”