Page 24 of First Verse

“I’ll never understand your obsession with Rye,” I grumble as I slowly accelerate.

“That’s because he’s basically your brother and incest is gross,” she says flippantly, then peers out the passenger window. “Whoa, take a look at these houses.”

Stately homes line the curbs, two- and three-story facades gleaming from the rain. Custom exteriors and manicured front yards glow beneath artfully placed lighting—and not the kind you buy from a hardware store and shove in a ground, either, like the ones all over my tiny front yard.

Lily’s next laugh is shrill. “I had no idea we were headed torich-rich territory. How close are we to the water?”

I swallow another surge of uneasiness. “A few blocks.”

“I think I see the party,” she murmurs, leaning forward in her seat. “Dang, that’s a lot of people.”

We’re still a block from our destination, but the street ahead of us is lined with cars on both sides. To avoid having to circle around—or worse, attempt parallel parking in the dark in front of spectators—I pull against the nearest empty curb and park.

As I turn off the car, Lily says in a small voice, “I’ve changed my mind. Let’s go back to your place. Hot tub and movies and bad tequila.”

“Aw, honey.”

My own nerves forgotten, I unbuckle my seatbelt and grab her cold hands. I’m one of the only people she allows to see beneath her tough exterior, and it doesn’t happen often. On the rare occasion it does, there’s only one way I know to help her—summoning the version of myself who grew up in a house like these, who walked the red carpet at the Grammys when I was eleven, and who isn’t easily intimidated.

“We can leave, sure. Or we can walk in there like we belong,which we do, and give it twenty minutes. If no one impresses us, we’ll bail. Just because we were invited doesn’t mean we owe anyone our presence.”

She cracks a smile. “I love it when you do the diva voice. I’m sorry, Ev. I know you don’t even want to be here. You’d be in pajamas by now.”

I nod. “Truth.”

She laughs. “Fine, fine. If you can do it, so can I.” With a sharp inhalation, she straightens and unbuckles her seatbelt. “You’re right. We belong here. I’m an alchemist on a new-music frontier, and you’re a powerhouse frontwoman. We’re basically famous now.”

After tucking my purse in the trunk, I lock the car, slip my keys and phone into my jacket pocket, and join Lily on the sidewalk. Worries forgotten, she links her arm with mine and propels us swiftly toward the split-level mansion.

We pass a few small groups loitering outside and approach the oversized front door. A massive deck facing the water sits a level above us to our right, packed with people talking, smoking, and laughing. Beat-heavy music punches into the damp air through open glass doors behind the crowd.

Inside is the same story—people, people everywhere. Even with Lily’s arm against me, I feel exposed. Off-kilter. A few smiles and nods are aimed our way, but I don’t recognize anyone.

“This place is insane,” Lily whispers, and I nod.

I hate to admit it, but I’m impressed. The style of the home is a classic for the area, but it’s been fully remodeled into a contemporary-modern masterpiece. I can’t imagine the mortgage payment this close to the Sound. No doubt there are mountain views, too.

We walk up a short rise of stairs into the crowded living space that leads onto the deck. The first thing I see—besides morepeople—is the massive wall opposite us. My jaw drops as I take in the colorful, graffitied mural that spans the entire space from the baseboards to the high, beamed ceiling. Within the mostly abstract design are whorls of distorted musical notes and skewed instruments.

I instantly recognize the style of the artist who did the murals at Side Stage.

An artist I personally know.

“Whoa,” Lily says with quiet awe. “That’s a Riv original. Do you have any idea how much that probably cost?”

“A lot more than we can afford.”

Unless they did it for free.

My stomach does a slow, downward roll, my skin prickling as I turn my head sharply to look around the room. I scan the crowded couches, deck, and nearby kitchen. When I don’t see who I’m looking for, I release a slow breath.

I’m being paranoid. This isn’t Wilder’s house. It’s simply a weird coincidence that his nineteen-year-old brother, River, graffitied an entire wall when I know for a fact he rarely takes commissions for private homes.

“Lily! You made it!”

The shout turns us toward the deck, where Tyler breaks away from a group of guys. He weaves his way toward us, a huge smile on his face. As Lily’s body relaxes against mine, I have a sudden suspicion I’ll be leaving alone.

She confirms it with a whisper in my ear. “I’ll text you when I get home?”

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