“Marlitt?” Oliver’s voice, low and hoarse from somewhere far away. “It’s two in the morning.”

“Yeah.” I cup the phone with my hands, eyes still on Teddy. “I’ve got something you need to see.”

“Where—” I can hear him fumbling around for something. “Where are you?”

“I’m at the Kap-O house. It’s a Hawaiian nights party, and I’m calling with an anonymous tip.”

There’s a pause, and I hear him swallow before he clears his throat.

“Teddy’s here, too, but he has to leave.” I stare daggers at him in the dark.

“Teddy’s there?” Oliver repeats, sounding a little more awake.

“Yeah, but he’s gots to go.” The roundness of letters escapes me and I’m losing the shape of my sentences. My mind flickers to the warning label on my pain meds about not mixing with alcohol.

Teddy waits with me wordlessly until Oliver arrives, holding back Cindy’s hair while she vomits onto the concrete. I almost prefer the sound of her getting sick to the silence that stretches beneath the thuds and yells of the ongoing party. I feel something irreparable shattering, threatening to break entirely between us, but have no idea what it is or how to hold it together.

Twenty minutes later, I see Oliver’s VW Golf pull down a side street. He turns off his headlights immediately, and Teddy flashes his phone so he can find us in the dark.

“Hey,” Oliver says, frowning at my blond wig and too-short dress. He’s wearing street clothes, but not a pirate shirt or board shorts. He looks like a detective, which means he believes me. Means he’s not dressed to blend in, take a look around, and leave. He’s prepared to flash his badge and bring a team in.

“What’ve we got?” He’s looking at Teddy.

“This is all Marlitt,” Teddy says, and waves his free hand in my direction. His voice sounds tired. “I have to take Cindy home.” And as if on cue, Cindy vomits, nearly missing Oliver’s shoes.

Under the fluorescent kitchen lights, Oliver’s green, with his shirt clutched to his mouth when he opens the basement door.

I’ve been standing guard, in a manner of speaking, replacing the vomiting bikini girl, making ungodly heaving sounds, and yelling “I might be contagious!” whenever someone wanders into the kitchen.

On his way down, I handed him the footstool and warned him about the bucket—I kicked it when I made the leap for the stairs and sent its contents flying everywhere.

Oliver’s gulping in the kitchen air and shaking his head, wide-eyed, at me. “That was … worse,” he says between breaths, “than I thought it would be.”

He pulls out his phone.

“Leave before anyone sees you,” he tells me.

I stare at him. For a brief moment he meets my gaze, and I see him bristle at the distrust he finds there. Then the person on the other end picks up and he walks away, leaving me standing alone in the kitchen.