“I bet Brandi went there.” I type the name of the group home into Google, but after a few moments of skimming the website, there’s clearly not much. “Shit. There’s nothing up here.”

“It’s probably one of those reform places where they keep you drugged up with that premium shit,” Mei says. “Sounds dreamy.”

“Think they’d give us anything if we called them?” I ask, because sometimes it’s best to just ignore some of the things that come out of Mei’s mouth.

“Probably no specifics, not unless we have some kind of authority.” She smirks. “I can do my hoity-toity HR lady voice if you want.”

Mei has this incredible ability to sound like a complete condescending asshole, a talent she perfected back in junior high when she used to call it the headmaster lady voice. I pop some proverbial popcorn as she dials the home and puts it on speakerphone, then sit back and watch her perform like a trained thespian. The woman on the other end sounds like she has a chronic case of halitosis and hasn’t had a decent fuck or night of sleep in decades, but Mei manages to stop her from hanging up on us twice. The woman won’t confirm that Brandi attended the home, says something about confidentiality, but she does share something even more interesting: tenants are typically transferred to their facility from a juvenile detention center, but are still considered threats to society and required to board in residences with higher forms of security than a typical group home.

This means Brandi Maxwell is an actual criminal. This is better than gold. This is genius.

I take the reins and google her name with “juvie” and “criminal record” and “mug shot,” but nothing comes up. Mei dips out for a cigarette while I make a call to one of my dad’s lawyers, the one who handles our family stuff. He’s this rich-as-hell sap in his sixties whose wife left him for his nephew decades ago, and he’s never recovered. I can see him twisting his index finger around the few thin white hairs still left on his head as I beg him to get his hands on Brandi’s rap sheet for me. He’s pretty bureaucratic and probably has his housekeeper iron his briefs, but his ex-wife was tall and brunette with light eyes like me, so he predictably caves when I promise him I will come to his country club upstate soon and let him teach me how to hit a hole in one.

Mei slips back into the room as I end the call, and I smirk at her.

“What’d you do?” she asks, sounding greedy.