Free rein espouses Lottie when her parents' old money pass as ancient tales. They're not dead. Unfortunately. Just galavanting megabucks South of damn France's vineyeard, too time-poor in pledging wealth to the angel's gates to play cop.

And Natalie. Impulsive Nat. She holds L's hand and yours because your parents—and hers—could never.

She was the idea's begetter: starve the Matthews' padlocked kitchen drawers of their booze. Gin, vodka, whiskey—hell, you three raided it all. Slurred medleys of yaps and giggles charred the sun's social battery, sparing yours.

Tick the clock to three, and exhibits get a little revolutionary.

Exhibit A: "We should—ah—go somewhere cooler." Nat's tongue uncorks a slur, and Lottie partakes a mumbled "...the walk-in freezer?" on your shoulder. Draping her arms as a picture-perfect scarf from behind you. Fucking lightweight.

"No dumbass. Cool, like..." dragging it out, N sobers through, "the old hospital. By the highway." Her smile spells trouble.

And L flares for two seconds, fist bumping air—“Fuck yes!”

"We really need to turn back—" Lottie's voice cracks. Her nails just dig sharks on your arm and your grasp is damn near cleaving Nat-in-the-lead's Nirvana hem in linked pain. A given.

Shadows gag white corners. Tile floors, a medley, a gamble. What comes gnarling for her sneakers next? A glassy crunch? Some skyward, pointed syringe, marring her toe? Squashing a wet and mush—

"Fuck—what the hell!" Lottie's shriek echoes in eerie fragments, curing tomorrow's hangover. Your stomach knotting, head jerking where Nat's flashlight is: the floor.

An actual, bloodshot, eye.

"Has—has to be fake, right?" The tallest queries, gaze bloated, and Nat brushes her own throat. Gulps down tremor before laughing. Eight shots of throat-burning drinks does that. "Pssh, it's nothing! Probably a Halloween decor someone left to fuck with us."

Lottie's done risky at TJMaxx, but when Nat tugs you along, says—"Come–ah—let's go upstairs—"this is the stupid shit headed south. Fast.