If our beach home had been contemporary, the “dream house” was positively futuristic. Eleven thousand square feet of concrete and glass set at various angles on seven gated and terraced acres in Coldwater Canyon. Every piece of furniture and art had been purchased new by Gerard Piccard to fit his overall design. I hated every inch of the place with its cold Italian marble floors, travertine tables, and objets d’art. Our living room was about as cozy as a museum lobby. It was like residing in a mausoleum.

There were four levels and an elevator. The first level was devoted to the tennis and pool facilities; indoor and outdoor cabanas, a game room, and a massage, spa, and workout accommodations. The second floor housed the living room, kitchen, dining room, and maids’ wing. My room was on the third level, along with five unoccupied guest bedrooms, while the entire fourth level had offices for Daddy and Anna and an enormous master suite.

I would have been more depressed about the new digs, but in a miraculous turn of events, Nicole had moved to Beverly Hills just in time for our sophomore year. All Steffi’s hard work had finally paid off.

“This time, she caught a big one!” Nicole said the day she’d given me the news.

“How big?”

“A fucking whale. The guy’s name is Stan Kemper. He owns like half of Camden Drive. And guess what else.”

“What?”

“We’re moving in with him. And Jax, are you sitting? Guess where I’m going to school?”

That was three months ago.

“Hello!” My voice echoed in the foyer. “Anyone home?”

I threw my backpack down on the marble floor, then quickly checked inside to make sure nothing was broken. At school, I drank from mini airplane bottles which were easier to hide and cheaper to buy. The house was quiet. Daddy and Anna were at a film festival in London, Lupe was on vacation, Trini had quit when we’d moved up the canyon, and I couldn’t remember the new maid’s name. I was pretty sure it started with a C. Camilla? Conchella? What the hell was it? I walked into the kitchen and heaved open the door of the sub-zero. It was empty except for a few condiments and last week’s takeout from Spago.

“Jesus,” I muttered. I opened a cabinet, found some Ritz crackers and jelly, and climbed the two flights to my room. I refused to take the elevator no matter how tired or wasted.

I was almost at my landing when I heard the phone ring.

“Con…what the hell’s her…Concetta! Can you get that?” I called out. The phone continued to ring. Trying to keep the crackers from spilling, I ran back down the stairs and into the den on the second floor.

“H-Hello?” I panted.

“Hello, Jacqueline.”

I froze.

“Are you there? It’s your mom.”