Page 143 of Winterveil

Now Julian just scoffed and said, “Wow, I’m quaking in my boots. Is he coming here alone to defend your honor, or is he bringing the crew team, too?”

Christabel’s face crumpled. “You’re such an ass.”

She rose from the bed and stormed out of the room. Julian lay back, squeezing his eyes shut.

When he came back downstairs, the plates had been cleared and the mood was subdued. Christabel had taken the empty seat beside her mother, gaze tearful. Mr. Downing and his father were chatting quietly. Mrs. Downing was staring down at the table, as if trying to commit the grain of its wood to memory.

Feeling slightly more sober and wanting to avoid a confrontation with Blake, Julian announced that he and Landon were going to a last-minute concert at the Fens. It was such a bad lie that he was sure he would be caught out, but the adults had polished off three bottles of wine between them and no one had the presence of mind to prod his story for holes.

Landon immediately jumped to his feet, looking grateful. Just as the two of them turned to go, Mrs. Downing grasped Julian’s wrist.

“You’ll get him home safely?” she asked quietly.

“Of course,” Julian said.

With a soft sigh, Mrs. Downing released him. Julian cast one last glance at his parents. At his father, who didn’t even look up. At his mother, who was nursing her fifth glass of wine.

Suddenly it all seemed so inane. The juvenile little game he played with Christabel. His childish desperation to please his father. Even his futile efforts to hold his mother together. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

Julian stalked out of the house and into the cool dimness of the garage, Landon at his heels.

They passed his father’s Rolls-Royce and his mother’s Land Rover before reaching his Porsche. Cafferty had been concerned about the optics and advised him to get a Cadillac, a “nice American car,” at least for the duration of the election. But he had wanted the stupid Porsche. Julian couldn’t recall why it had ever mattered so much.

He hadn’t driven it since the week before his arrest. As soon as he put the key in the ignition, Public Enemy’s “Rebel Without a Pause” blared from the speakers. Julian winced and turned it down.

Landon climbed into the passenger seat. The garage door whirred open. In another moment they were out, onto the dark, gusty Boston streets.

Julian drove in silence for a while, listlessly circling the neighborhood. He felt devoid of any will, any desire. He could only feel the hum of the car’s engine through his grip on the steering wheel.

Landon, who had been staring out the window, suddenly turned to him and said, “I got expelled.”

“What?”

“They started drug testing the lacrosse team. Some kid from Andover was juicing.”

“Shit.”

“My dad wanted to kick me out. My mom convinced him to send me to rehab. I leave tomorrow.”

“Shit.”

That explained Mrs. Downing’s quiet despondence, and Mr. Downing’s compensatory effusiveness. Julian chewed the inside of his mouth. He had always seen himself as Landon’s caretaker, protecting him from his worst impulses. In his absence, Landon had spun out.

So Julian said nothing when Landon removed a bag of white powder from his pocket. He watched the road as Landon inhaled, groaned, and spluttered.

“Might as well make the most of my last night,” he said.

Julian slowed at a yellow light, directional ticking. His mind was utterly empty.

Several more minutes passed in silence. Julian came to the cross streets that separated Back Bay from the rest of Boston. After a beat of hesitation, he drove through them, exiting the neighborhood.

“Dude,” Landon said, his voice a hoarse wheeze, “I can’t believe you actually met Chane. What’s he like in real life?”

“Insipid.” Julian’s gaze flickered toward Landon and then back to the road. “Wait, how did you know I met him?”

Landon took out his phone and opened the web browser. He mumbled inaudibly to himself as he typed something in the search bar, then held out the phone to Julian.

Pausing at a stoplight, Julian glanced over. It was a rather seedy-looking blog post, titled who hates chane renier-BOTHA more? the wage slaves in his factories, or his hairdresser? They had posted several grainy photos of him from the gala, clearly trying to smear Chane by revealing his association with such a disreputable character as Julian Joyce-Young III.