Page 171 of Five Brothers

“Uh-oh.”

“Exactly,” I state. “Do you mind if I …”

“Of course not.” He waves me off. “Talk to the host, and he’ll take you back.”

“Thanks.”

Spinning around, I keep walking, super glad he didn’t ask why I’m not driving. I left my car parked along the highway. I don’t want it seen up here.

Crickets buzz beyond the green, in the trees, and a few frogs croak at a nearby pond. I love my town at night. So many nocturnal creatures, and they’re loud. A reminder that a whole other party starts after the sun sets.

I glance to my right, seeing my father’s Bentley Continental, the windshield all repaired, and face forward again. I smile at Rafe as he opens the door to the clubhouse for me. His eyes take in my uniform. He doesn’t ask questions.

Stepping inside, I keep my eyes forward and head straight for the stairs. I try to look like I know where I’m going and what I’m doing, but not so fast that I look like I’m trying to hide it.

I swing around the newel post and head behind the stairs, not up them.

“Still here?” someone calls out.

I look over my shoulder, seeing Louis Fine, the host who works the restaurant, as he crosses the foyer into the bar.

I turn back around and keep going. “A few of us, yeah!”

“Good kids,” he coos. “Working hard.”

I keep going, rounding a corner and disappearing from view as I walk down a long hallway. Marymount Academy, my alma mater, schedules three service days a year as part of our civic credit requirement for graduation. We pick up a little trash off the streets, or mow an elderly person’s lawn, or walk some sick people’s dogs, so our parents and teachers can take pictures and say, “Look what good humans we’re putting into the world.”

But basically it amounts to a day off school where you half-assit, hang out with your friends, and then cut out early when no one is looking to go party at someone’s pool.

Except me. I was a little shit about a lot things in high school, but I liked service days. No one wanted to go to the assisted living centers, because the old people always wanted to talk to you, but I love to talk.

A lot of students opt for spending the day at Fox Hill, though. There are always famous pros around, lots of hiding places, and the food is excellent. If you’re lucky, you get a cart girl willing to serve you if you tip right. It looks like all the current Marymount students have already left after their service day today, so I won’t run into anyone calling me out, but … it’s also why no one working here is batting an eyelash that a uniformed minor is walking around alone.

I open a door and step through, closing it behind me. I walk past three racquetball courts on my right, the rubber balls like thunder as they bang against the walls.

Without a hitch in my step, I slip through another door, then down a hallway, and quietly twist the handle of the last door on the left.

I peer inside.

Rows of long and short lockers rise high in the room, towels strewn on the counters and on the floor, because rich men do not pick up after themselves. The women’s locker room is much cleaner.

A shower runs in the back, but at this hour, I don’t see anyone walking around. I slink in, closing the door behind me.

Stepping between two benches, I slide down a row, my back to the lockers as I come to the end of the aisle. Waiting, I slowly peek around the corner, but I don’t see anyone, so I hurry on to the next row. Stopping at 17-b, I punch in the code.One-two-seven-eight-key. Same code my father uses for his debit cards, the auto start on his cars, and—I open the locker and smile, seeing what I’mafter—his cell phone. Snatching it, I close the door, cross the aisle, and hide away in a bathroom stall.

Quickly, I pull out my phone, turn off the volume, and slip it back in my skirt before opening up my dad’s cell. Going to texts first, I see a thread from Blake Tyson, his girlfriend, and scroll through messages until I reach those dated last year.

While he was still living at home.

Florida is a no-fault state, and I’m sure my mother was unfaithful many times, so I’m not sure I’ll use this, but just in case. Proving infidelity could guarantee custody of the kids and alimony.

I start screenshotting and texting to my phone, feeling it buzz with every notification in my pocket. I see emails from his lawyer, but I bypass those, spotting bank statements instead. I don’t look. I don’t have time. I forward documents to myself, careful to delete any record of the texts and emails, as well as the screenshots.

Peering out into the locker room, I stuff his phone back with the rest of his stuff and close the locker up.

I blow out a breath, sweat covering my back. I’m not sure that I’m nervous. What’s he going to do if he finds me? But I don’t want him to know what I’m up to and give him a chance to cover his tracks.

I start to walk out, but I stop and look down in the direction of the shower where he’s no doubt washing off his Wednesday night racquetball game before he goes home to her.