TYRA KÄUTNER

Fireworks burst into bloom above the lake, hanging suspended in the clear night air, then drifting down in glittering clouds that settle on the water.

My father flinches at the first explosion. He doesn't like things that are loud or unexpected. Which is why I get on his nerves sometimes—I can be both of those things, even when I'm trying to behave myself. I see his scowl illuminated by the blue and gold light. Yup, definitely the same expression he gets when he looks at me.

"Do you want to eat inside?" Ryder asks him.

Because it's a warm night, we're all sitting out on the deck. Tokyo is not like Germany—you have to take the opportunity to eat outdoors whenever you can get it. Still, if it weren't for the sound of traffic below, you might think you were in an Italian vineyard.

The table is set with the rustic stoneware brought from the old country three generations ago, and the pergola overhead is thickly blanketed by the fox grapes Papa planted for shade. You can't make wine out of fox grapes, but they're good for jam at least.

My father shakes his head. "It's fine here," he says shortly.

Ryder grunts and goes back to shoveling chicken in his mouth. He's so big that his fork looks comically small in his hand. He always eats like he's starving, hunched over his plate. Ryder is the oldest, so he sits on my father's right-hand side. Hunter's on the left, with Nash next to him. I'm at the foot of the table, where my mother would sit if she were still alive.

Ryder Käutner Nash Käutner Hunter Käutner and me...Tyra Käutner

"What's the holiday?" Ryder says as another round of fireworks rocket up into the sky.

"It's not a holiday. It's Nessa Kaulitz's birthday," I tell him.

They're setting off fireworks to make sure absolutely everybody in the city knows their little princess is having a party —as if it wasn't already promoted like the Olympics and the Oscars combined.

Hunter doesn't know because he doesn't pay attention to anything that isn't basketball. He's the youngest of my brothers, and the tallest. He got a full ride at Tokyo State, and he's good enough that when I go visit him on campus, girls stare and giggle everywhere he goes, and sometimes pluck up the courage to ask him to sign their t-shirts.

"How come we weren't invited?" Nash says sarcastically.

We weren't invited because we fucking hate the Kaulitz, and vice versa. The guest list will be carefully curated, stuffed with socialites and politicians and anybody else chosen for their usefulness or their cache. I doubt Nessa will know any of them. Not that I'm crying any tears for her. I heard her father hired Demi Lovato to perform. I mean, it ain't Halsey, but it's still pretty good.

"What's the update on the Oak Street Tower?" Papa says to Ryder while slowly and meticulously cutting up his chicken parm.

He already knows damn well how the Oak Street Tower is doing, because he tracks absolutely everything done by Käutner Construction. He's just changing the subject because the thought of the Kaulitzs sipping champagne and brokering deals with the haute monde of Tokyo is irritating to him. I don't give a shit what the Kaulitzs are doing. Except that I don't like anybody having fun without me.

So, while my father and Ryder are droning on about the tower, I mutter to Hunter.

"We should go over there."

"Where?" he says obliviously, gulping down a big glass of milk.

The rest of us are drinking wine. Hunter's trying to stay in tiptop shape for dribbling and sit-ups, or whatever the fuck his team of gangly ogres does for training.

"We should go to the party," I say, keeping my voice low.

Hunter perks up at once. He's always interested in getting into trouble.

"When?" he says

"Right after dinner."

"We're not on the list," Ryder protests, cutting into the conversation.

"Jesus." I roll my eyes. "Sometimes I wonder if you're even a Kaunter. You scared of jaywalking too?"

"I'm coming, aren't I?"

Ryder shoots us a stern look.

Lisa brings out the panna cotta. She's been our housekeeper for about a hundred years.

My father takes fucking forever to eat his dessert. He's sipping his wine and going on and on about the electrical workers' union. I swear Ryder is drawing him out on purpose to infuriate the rest of us.

When we have these formal sit-down dinners, Papa expects us all to stay till the bitter end. No phones allowed at the table either, which is basically torture because I can feel my cell buzzing again and again in my pocket, with messages from who knows who.

Hopefully not Zack. I broke up with Zack Zante three months ago, but he isn't taking the hint. He might need to take a mallet to the head instead if he doesn't stop annoying me. Finally, Papa finishes eating, and we all gather up as many plates and dishes as we can carry to stack in the sink for Lisa.

Then Papa goes into his office to have his second nightcap, while Hunter, Nash, and I all sneak downstairs. We're allowed to go out on a Saturday night. We're all adults, after all —just barely, in my case. Still, we don't want Papa to ask us where we're going. We pile into Nero's car because it's a boss '57 Chevy Bel Air that will be the most fun to cruise around in with the top down.

Nash starts the ignition, and in the flare of the headlights, we see Ryder's hulking silhouette, standing right in front of us, arms crossed, looking like Michael Meyers about to murder us. Hunter jumps and I let out a little shriek.

"You're blocking the car," Nash says drily.

"This is a bad idea," Ryder says.

"Why?" Nash says innocently. "We're just going for a drive."

"Yeah?" Ryder says, not moving. "Right down to the Kaulitz mansion." Nash switches tactics.

"So what if we are?" he says. "It's just some Sweet Sixteen party."

"Nessa's turning seventeen," I correct him.

"Seventeen?" Nash shakes his head in disgust. "Why are they even— never mind. Probably some stupid Kaulitz thing. Or just any excuse to show off."

"Can we get going?" Hunter says. "I don't wanna be out too late."

"Get in or get out of the way," I say to Ryder.

He stares at us a minute longer, then shrugs. "Fine," he says, "but I'm riding shotgun." I climb over the seat without argument, letting Ryder have the front.

A small price to pay to get my big brother on team Party Crashers. We cruise down the road towards the Kaulitz mansion, enjoying the warm early summer air streaming into the car. Nash has a black heart and a vicious temperament, but you'd never know it from the way he drives. In the car, he's as smooth as a baby's ass—calm and careful.

Maybe it's because he loves the Chevy and has put about a thousand hours of work into it. Or maybe driving is the only thing that relaxes him. Either way, I always like seeing him with his arm stretched out on the wheel, the wind blowing back his sleek black hair, his eyes half-closed like a cat.

I feel like I sprang forward thirty years just driving over here. Hunter, Nash, and I thought we might sneak in around the back of the Kaulitz property—maybe steal some caterers' uniforms. Ryder, of course, isn't participating in any of that nonsense. He just slips the security guard five Benjamins to "find" our name on the list, and the guy waves us on in.

I already know what the Kaulitzs' house looks like even before I see it, because it was big news when they bought it a few years back. At the time, it was the most expensive piece of residential real estate in Tokyo. Fifteen thousand square feet for a cool twenty-eight million dollars.

My father scoffed and said it was just like the Kaulitz to flash their money. "An Kaulitz will wear a twelve-hundred-dollar suit without the money in their pocket to buy a pint," he said.

True or not as a generality, the Kaulitz can buy plenty of pints if they want to. They've got money to burn, and they're literally burning it right now, in the form of their fireworks show still trying to put Disneyworld to shame. I don't care about that, though—first thing I want is some of the expensive champagne being ferried around by the waiters, followed by whatever's been stacked into a tower on the buffet table.

I'm gonna do my best to bankrupt those snooty fucks by eating my weight in crab legs and caviar before I leave this place. The party is outdoors on the sprawling green lawn. It's the perfect night for it—more evidence of the luck of the Kaulitz. Everybody's laughing and talking, stuffing their faces and even dancing a little, though there's no Demi Lovato performing yet, just a normal DJ. I guess I probably should have changed my clothes. I don't see a single girl without a glittery party dress and heels.

I do see Nessa Kaulitz, surrounded by people congratulating her on the monumental achievement of staying alive for seventeen years. She's wearing a pretty, cream-colored sundress—simple and bohemian. Her dark black hair is loose around her shoulders, and she's got a bit of a tan and a few extra freckles across her nose, like she was out on the lake all morning. She's blushing from all the attention, and she looks sweet and happy.

Honestly, out of all the Kaulitz, Nessa's the best one. We went to the same high school. We weren't exactly friends, since she was a year behind me and a bit of a goody-two-shoes. But she seemed nice enough. Her sister on the other hand . . . I can see Natasha right now, chewing out some waitress until the poor girl is in tears. Natasha Kaulitz is wearing one of those stiff, fitted sheath dresses that looks like it belongs in a boardroom, not at an outdoor party.

My brothers already split off the moment we arrived. I can see Hunter flirting with some pretty blonde over on the dance floor. Ryder has made his way over to the bar, cause he's not gonna drink froofy champagne. Nash has disappeared entire. I'm guessing he saw some people he knows; everybody likes Nash, and he's got friends everywhere.

As for me, I've got to pee. I can see the Kaulitz brought in some outdoor toilets, discretely set back on the far side of the property, screened by a gauzy canopy. But I'm not peeing in a porta potty, even if it's a fancy one. I'm gonna pee in a proper Kaulitz bathroom, right where they sit their lily-white bottoms down. Plus, it'll give me a chance to snoop around their house.

Now, this does take a little maneuvering. They've got a lot more security around the entrance to the house, and I'm skint of cash for bribes. But once I throw a cloth napkin over my shoulder and steal the tray abandoned by the sobbing waitress, all I have to do is load up with a few empty glasses and I sneak right into the service kitchen.

I find the closest bathroom down the hall. Sure enough, it's a study in luxury—lovely lavender soap, soft, fluffy towels, water that comes out of the tap at the perfect temperature, not too cool and not too hot. Who knows —in a place this big, I might be the first person to even step foot in here. The Kaulitz probably each have their own private bathroom. In fact, they probably get tipsy and get lost in this labyrinth. Once I finish up, I know I should head back outside. I had my little adventure, and there's no point pushing my luck.

Instead, I find myself sneaking up the wide, curved staircase to the upper level. The main level was too formal and antiseptic, like a show home. I want to see where these people actually live. To the left of the staircase, I find a bedroom that must belong to Nessa. It's soft and feminine, full of books and stuffed animals and art supplies. There's a ukulele on the nightstand, and several pairs of sneakers kicked hastily under the bed. The only things not clean and new are the ballet slippers slung over her doorknob by their ribbons. Those are beat to hell and back, with holes in the satin toes.

Across from Nessa's room is one that probably belongs to Natasha. It's larger, and spotlessly tidy. I don't see any evidence of hobbies in here, just some beautiful Asian watercolors hanging on the walls. I'm disappointed that Natasha hasn't kept shelves of old trophies and medals. She definitely seems the type. Beyond the girls' rooms is the master suite. I won't be going in there. It seems wrong on a different level. There has to be some kind of line I won't cross when I'm sneaking around somebody's house.

So, I turn the opposite direction and find myself in a large library instead. Now, this is the kind of mysterious shit I came here for. What do the Kaulitzs read? Is it all leather-bound classics, or are they secret Anne Rice fans? Only one way to find out . . . Looks like they favor biographies, architectural tomes, and yes, all the classics.

Besides the floor-to-ceiling shelves of books, the library is full of overstuffed leather armchairs, three of which have been arranged around a large stone fireplace. Despite the warm weather, there's a fire going in the grate—just a small one. It's not a gas fire, there are actual birch logs burning, which smells nice. Above the fireplace hangs a painting of a pretty woman, with several objects arranged along the mantle underneath, including a carriage clock and an hourglass.

Between those, an old pocket watch. I pick it up off the mantle. It's surprisingly heavy in my hand, the metal warm to the touch instead of cool. I can't tell if it's brass or gold. Part of the chain is still attached, though it looks like it broke off at about half its original length. The case is carved and inscribed, so worn that I can't tell what the image used to be. I don't know how to open it, either.

I'm fiddling with the mechanism when I hear a noise out in the hallway —a faint clinking sound. Quickly, I slip the watch into my pocket and dive down behind one of the armchairs, the one closest to the fire. A man comes into the library. Tall, black cornrows, about nighteen years old. He's wearing a black knitted jumper, baggy black jeans and a dark bandana across his forehead, and he's extremely well-groomed.

Handsome, but in a stark sort of way—like he'd push you off a lifeboat if there weren't enough seats. Or maybe even if you forgot to brush your teeth. I haven't actually met this dude before, but I'm fairly certain it's Tom Kaulitz, the oldest of the Kaulitz siblings. Which means he's just about the worst person to catch me in the library.

Unfortunately, it seems like he plans to stick around a while. He sits down in an armchair almost directly across from me and starts reading emails on his phone. He's got a glass of whiskey in his hand, and he's sipping from it. That's the sound I heard—the ice cubes chinking together. It's extremely cramped and uncomfortable behind the armchair. The rug over the hardwood floor is none too cushy and I have to hunch up in a ball so my head and feet don't poke out on either side.

Plus, it's hot as balls this close to the fire. How in the hell am I going to get out of here? Tom is still sipping and reading. Sip. Read. Sip. Read. The only other sound is the popping of the birch logs. How long is he going to sit here? I can't stay forever. My brothers are going to start looking for me in a minute. I don't like being stuck. I'm starting to sweat, from the heat and the stress.

The ice in Tom's glass sounds so cool and refreshing. God, I want a drink and I want to leave. How many fucking emails does he have?! Flustered and annoyed, I hatch a plan. Possibly the stupidest plan I've ever concocted.

I reach behind me and grab the tassel hanging down from the curtains. It's a thick gold tassel, attached to green velvet curtains. By pulling it out to its furthest length, I can just poke it in around the edge of the grate, directly into the embers. My plan is to set it smoking, which will distract Tom, allowing me to sneak around the opposite side of the chair and out the door. That's the genius scheme. But because this isn't a fucking Nancy Drew novel, this is what happens instead:

The flames rip up the cord like it was dipped in gasoline, singing my hand. I drop the cord, which swings back to the curtain. Then that curtain ignites like it's paper. Liquid fire roars up to the ceiling in an instant. This actually does achieve its purpose of distracting Tom Kaulitz. He shouts in german and jumps to his feet, knocking over his chair. However, my distraction comes at the cost of all subtlety, because I also have to abandon my hiding spot and sprint out of the room.

I don't know if Tom saw me or not, and I don't care. I'm thinking I should look for a fire extinguisher or water or something. I'm also thinking I should get the fuck out of here immediately. That's the idea that wins out—I go sprinting down the stairs at top speed. At the bottom of the staircase, I plow into somebody else, almost knocking him over.

It's Hunter, with that pretty blonde right behind him. Her hair is all messed up and he's got lipstick on his neck.

"Jesus," I say. "Is that a new record?" I'm pretty sure he only met her about eight seconds ago.

Hunter shrugs, a hint of a grin on his handsome face. "Probably," he says.

Smoke drifts down over the bannister. Tom Kaulitz is shouting up in the library for his twin brother Bill Kaulitz at this point.

Hunter gazes up the staircase, confused. "What's going on—"

"Never mind," I say, seizing his arm. "We've gotta get out of here." I start dragging him in the direction of the service kitchen, but I can't quite take my own advice.

I cast one look back over my shoulder. And I see Tom Kaulitz and Bill Kaulitz standing at the head of the stairs, glaring after us with a murderous expression on their faces. We sprint through the kitchen, knocking over a tray of canapés, then we're out the door, back out on the lawn.

"You find Nash, I'll get Ryder," Hunter says. He abandons the blonde without a word, jogging off across the yard.

I run in the opposite direction, looking for the tall, lanky shape of my brother. Inside the mansion, a fire alarm starts to wail.

TOM KAULITZ

Nessa's party starts in less than an hour, but I'm still holed up with my parents in my father's office. His office is one of the biggest rooms in the house, larger than the master suite or the library. Which is fitting, because business is the center of our family—the core purpose of the Kaulitz clan.

I'm fairly certain my parents only had children so they could mold us into our various roles within their empire. They certainly meant to have more of us. There's four years between me and Natasha, which makes me and Bill 19 and her 15 and two between Natasha and Nessa.

Those gaps contain five failed pregnancies, each ending in miscarriage or stillbirth. The weight of all those missing children lays on my shoulders. I'm the eldest and the only son. The work of the Kaulitz men can only be done by me. I'm the one to carry on our name and legacy.

Natasha would be irritated to hear me say that. She's infuriated by any intimation that there's a difference between us because I'm older and male. She swears she'll never get married or change her name. Or bear children, either. That part really pisses my parents off.

Nessa is much more pliable. She's a people-pleaser, and she wouldn't do anything to annoy dear old Mom and Dad. Unfortunately, she lives in a fucking fantasy world. She's so sweet and tender-hearted that she doesn't have the tiniest clue what it takes to keep this family in power. So she's pretty much useless. That doesn't mean I don't care about her, though. She's so genuinely good that it's impossible not to love her.

I'm pleased to see her so happy today. She's over the moon about this party, even though it barely has anything to do with her. She's running around sampling all the desserts, admiring the decorations, without a clue that the one and only reason for this event is to secure support for my campaign to become Alderman of the 43rd Ward. The election takes place in a month.

Next to the mayorship, it's the most powerful position in the city of Tokyo. For the last twelve years, the seat was held by Patrick Ryan, until he stupidly got himself thrown into prison. Before that, his mother Saoirse Ryan served for sixteen years. She was much better at her job, and demonstrably better at not getting caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

In many ways, being an Alderman is better than being a mayor. It's like being the emperor of your district. Thanks to Aldermanic Privilege, you have the final say on zoning and property development, loans and grants, legislation, and infrastructure. You can make money on the front end, the back end, and in the middle. Everything goes through you and everybody owes you favors. It's almost impossible to get caught.

I'm going to take control of Tokyo's most wealthy and powerful district. And then I'm going to parlay that into mayorship of the whole damn city. Because that's what Kaulitz do. We grow and build. We never stop. And we never get caught. The only problem is that the Alderman position is not uncontested. Of course it isn't—it's the crown jewel of power in this city. The two other main candidates are Kelly Hopkins and Bobby La Spata.

This is what I'm discussing with my parents. My father is leaning up against his desk, arms crossed over his chest. He's tall, fit, black hair cut stylishly, horn-rimmed glasses giving him an intellectual look. You'd never guess that he came up as a bruiser, smashing kneecaps at the Horseshoe when people failed to pay their debts.

My mother is slim and petite, with a sleek blonde bob. She's over by the window, watching the caterers set up on the lawn. I know she's anxious to get out there as quickly as possible, though she won't say anything about it until our meeting is over. She may look like the consummate socialite, but she's as deeply invested in the nuts and bolts of our business as I am.

I haven't actually wished Nessa a happy birthday yet or given her my present. I've been too damn busy. I jog up the stairs, and then all the way down the hallway to my suite. I don't love the fact that I'm still living with my family at nineteen years old, but it makes it more convenient to work together.

I don't bother to watch, taking the opportunity to scan the crowd for anybody I was supposed to talk to that I might have missed. Instead, I see someone who definitely wasn't invited—a tall dark-haired kid standing with a bunch of Nessa's friends. Towering over them, actually —he's got to be 6'5 at least. I'm pretty sure that's a fucking Käutner. The youngest one. But the next minute I'm distracted by Lucy Dowell coming up to talk to me again, and when I glance back at the group, the tall kid is gone. I'll have to speak to security, tell them to keep an eye out.

I head back inside, climbing the stairs to my end of the house. I've got a little bar in my personal office—nothing showy, just a few bottles of highend liquor and a mini icebox. I pull out a nice heavy tumbler, throw in three jumbo-sized ice cubes, and pour a heavy measure of whiskey on top. I inhale the heady scent of pear, wood, and smoke. Then I swallow it down, savoring the burning in my throat.

I know I should go back down to the party, but honestly, now that I'm up here in the peace and quiet, I'm enjoying the break. You have to have a certain level of narcissism to be a politician. You have to feed off the gladhanding, the attention. I don't give a shit about any of that. I'm powered by ambition alone. I want control. Wealth. Influence. I want to be untouchable. But that means the physical act of campaigning can be exhausting.

So as I'm walking back down to the hallway, instead of heading to the stairs as I intended, I turn into the library. This is one of my favorite rooms in the house. Barely anyone comes in here, except for me. It's quiet. The smell of paper and leather and birch logs is soothing. Over the mantel is the painting of my great great-great-grandmother.

She came to Tokyo in the middle of the potato famine, like so many other German immigrants. Just fifteen years old, crossing the ocean alone with three books in her suitcase and two dollars in her boot. She worked as a housemaid for a wealthy man.

When he died, he left her the house and nearly three thousand dollars in cash and bonds. Some people said they must have secretly had a relationship. Other people said she poisoned him and forged the will. Whatever the truth, she turned the house into a saloon. She was the first Kaulitz in Tokyo.

I sit quietly for a minute, sipping my drink, then I start scrolling through my emails. I can never be idle for long. I think I hear a sound, and I pause for a moment, thinking it must be one of the staff out in the hall. When I don't hear anything else, I return to my phone. Then, two things happen at the same time: First, I smell something that makes the hair rise up on the back of my neck. Smoke, but not the clean smoke from the fire. A harsh, chemical burning smell.

At the same time, I hear a sound like a sudden intake of breath, but ten times louder. Then there's a flash of heat and light as the curtains ignite. I jump up out of my chair, shouting for my twin brother Bill. I like to think that I know how to keep my head in an emergency, but for a moment I'm confused and panicking, wondering what the hell is happening, and what I should do about it.

Then, rationality asserts itself. The curtains are on fire, probably from a spark tossed out of the grate. I have to get a fire extinguisher before the whole house burns down. That makes sense. Until some person leaps up from behind a chair and darts past me out of the office. That startles me even more than the fire.

Realizing I wasn't alone in the library is a rude shock. I'm so surprised that I don't even get a good look at the intruder. All I register is that they're medium height, with dark hair. Then my attention is dragged back to the rapidly multiplying flames. They're already spreading across the ceiling and the carpet. In minutes, the whole library will be ablaze.

I sprint down the hallway to the linen closet, where I know we keep a fire extinguisher. Then, dashing back to the library, I pull the pin and spray the whole side of the room with foam until every last ember is extinguished. When I'm finished, the fireplace, the chairs, and the portrait are all doused in white chemical foam. My mother's going to be fucking furious.

Which reminds me, there was someone else involved in this debacle. I dash back to the head of the staircase, just in time to see three people making their escape: a blonde girl who looks a hell of a lot like Nora Woodberry. A brunette I don't know. And Hunter fucking Käutner. I knew it. I knew the Käutners had snuck in. The question is why?

Did they come here tonight to talk to some of the swing vote guests? I'd like to get my hands on one of them to ask. But by the time I track down the security we've hired for the night, the Käutners are long gone, including the tall kid. God DAMN it. I head back to the library to reassess the damage. It's a fucking mess—a smoking, stinking, soggy mess. They destroyed my favorite part of the house. And why were they even in here, anyway?

I start looking around, trying to figure out what they were after. There's nothing of significance in the library—any valuable papers or records would be in my father's office, or mine. Cash and jewelry are stored in the various safes scattered through the house. So what was it? That's when my eye falls on the mantle, spattered with decelerant foam. I see the carriage clock and the hourglass. But my grandfather's pocket watch is missing. I hunt around on the ground and even in embers of the birch logs, in case it fell inside the grate somehow. Nothing. It's nowhere to be found. Those fucking wops stole it.

TYRA KÄUTNER

We all pile into Nash's car, roaring away from the Kaulitz' house as quickly as we can without running over any partygoers. Nash and I are whooping, Ryder is glowering, and Hunter looks mildly curious.

"What the fuck did you do?" Ryder demands.

"Nothing!" I say.

"Then why are we running like we're about to have ten cops on our tail?"

"We're not," I say.

"I just got busted in the house. By Tom Kaulitz."

"What did he say?" Ryder asks suspiciously.

"Nothing. We didn't even speak." Ryder stares between Nash and me, thick eyebrows so far contracted that they look like one straight line hanging low over his eyes.

Nash is trying to seem nonchalant, keeping his eyes on the road. Hunter looks completely innocent because he is innocent—he was just drinking a Diet Coke with some redhead when we grabbed him.

I think Ryder's going to drop it. Then he lunges forward and grabs a handful of my hair, pulling it toward him. Because my hair is attached to my head, this yanks me forward across the seats. Ryder inhales, then shoves me back, disgusted.

"Why do you smell like smoke?" he demands.

"I don't know."

"You're lying. I heard an alarm go off in the house. Tell me the truth right now, or I'm calling Dad." I scowl right back at him, wishing I were as big as Ryder, with gorilla arms that look like they could tear you to pieces.

"Fine," I say at last. "I was in the library upstairs. A small fire started —"

"A SMALL FIRE?"

"Yes. Quit shouting or I won't tell you anything else."

"How did this fire start?" I squirm in my seat. "I might have . . . accidentally . . . let the curtains get a little bit in the fireplace."

"Oh mein Gott, Tyra!" Ryder swears.

"We just went there to drink their liquor and watch their fireworks, not burn their fucking house down!"

"It's not going to burn down," I say, without being entirely confident in my statement.

"I told you, Tom was right there."

"That's not better!" Ryder explodes.

"Now he knows you did it!"

"He might not. He might not even know who I am."

"I doubt that very much. He's not as stupid as the rest of you are."

"Why am I included in this?" Hunter says.

"Because you're stupid," Ryder replies.

"Even if you didn't do anything tonight, specifically." Hunter laughs.

"Where were you?" Ryder says, rounding on Nero.

"I was on the main level," Nash says calmly.