But Saylor Stark’s house was the real deal. Built in 1843, it was the oldest house in Pine Grove. According to The Aunts, it used to have a name. Ivy Hall, or Moss Manor. Something silly like that. The name had even been worked into the iron of the giant double gates. But Saylor had had new gates made when she moved in, something that, again according to The Aunts, was a supremely bad idea. “Houses are like boats,” Aunt May had sniffed. “They should always keep their original names.”

I didn’t know about all that, but I did know that the Stark house was one of the prettiest I’d ever seen. It wasn’t as grand and imposing as Magnolia House, but it was pretty in its own way. There was a wide front porch covered in ferns and white rocking chairs, and lamplight spilled out of the big windows lining the front of the house. Ivy crept up one brick wall, and the curving driveway was made, like the one at Magnolia House, out of crushed shells rather than gravel. I parked behind Miss Saylor’s Cadillac, and, gingerly taking the cake, headed up the brick steps to the front door. I was about to ring the doorbell when I heard Miss Stark say, “Done with that paper.”

“I can’t,” David replied. I’d heard that tone of voice before. I didn’t have to see David to know that he was clenching his teeth and scowling.

“You can and you will,” Miss Saylor fired back. “No more late hours, no more riding around in fast cars with girls—”

“Oh my God,” David groaned. “Like Harper Jane Price is some kind of bad influence on me.”

“I want you to stay away from that girl,” Miss Saylor said, and I nearly reeled.

That girl?

Since when was I someone people called That Girl? That Girl didn’t wear pearls. She wasn’t SGA president. She didn’t volunteer her time on teen counseling hotlines. I was most definitely not That Girl.

“I don’t know what’s going on with you,” David said, his voice getting louder. I had the impression that was because he’d moved closer to the front door. “But since when do you care where I go or who I spend time with?”

“I have always cared,” she replied. “But I worry about you. I’m your aunt, David; that’s allowed.”

“Whatever,” David replied, and I cringed. Saylor Stark didn’t seem like the kind of woman you could say “whatever” to. “I’m nearly eighteen, and the last time I checked, that means I get to see who I want to see and go where I want to go. And right now, I’m going to the library.”

Wait, what?

Suddenly, the front door swung open.

Shoot.

David took a step forward, nearly bumping into me. His eyes widened as he pulled himself up short. “Whoa, sorr— Pres?”