The scene unfolding before us is unlike anything we see before: a group of people from the club spilling across the streets to see the commotion.

There are screams and so much movement around me it feels like I'm backstage at a dress rehearsal. The world is fuzzy as we move out, I see a flash of ice-blond and coal black. Parker and Nadine swarming with Hanif and the boys, mouths agape at the scene. Parker's eyes meet mine and she mouths something at me- I can't read it. Everything feels heavy and slow; it feels like I'm underwater. And I'm drowning.

It's a grotesque sight. Georgina is stretched out on the street in front of a yellow taxi. One leg is bent beneath her, the other is covered in blood. She isn't moving. She isn't breathing. With the state of her, I think she's done for.

The cabbie is frantic, crying, worrying, on the street, and somewhere not too far off, sirens are zooming, closer by the second. I back away and almost fall backwards onto the curb. Orson stands beside with his hand cupped over his mouth.

"What . . . just . . . happened?" Orson says, all trembles—hands, mouth, voice.

The sounds of sirens echo from down the block.

A random passerby, a woman all cloaked up in wool, shakes her head. "I have no idea. She was kicked out of the club by the bouncers and I think she was trying to call a cab when she stumbled out onto the street and got hit."

A man beside us disagrees. "No, she was pushed! I saw it- this dark figure came out of nowhere and pushed her out and completely disappeared."

"No way," The woman says; she looks at me when she says this, "She was too drunk. It was an accident."

Orson's blue eyes give me a good long stare, and strange emotions pass over his face, one after the other in quick succession. He doesn't say a word, doesn't look away, just lets the feelings overcome him until he gets his voice back. "Where's Parker? Where are all the others?"

I tilt my head. "Over there."

We run through the crowd, dodging onlookers. Bodies blur around me, a mosaic of arms and legs and moving parts. For some reason, my heart is pounding hard but I'm relieved. She's gone. The only person who has ever found out about my true identity is finally gone.

"What the hell?" Parker's shaking, Hanif's arm is over hers. She's looking at me, eyes wet with tears, face full of shock. "What the actual hell?"

"Did you guys see what happened?" I ask, my voice rising in alarm.

"No, we came out around the same time you did."

Ahead of us in the street, the paramedics surround Georgina. Cops push back the crowds. They start asking questions. I bolt, and I try to blend into the crowd. I get farther away from the curb.

"Does anybody know this girl?" They ask us. I glance at Orson, whose face is frozen, and so I step up. The ambulance lights wash me in blues and reds. I grimly acknowledge the cops and make sure my face is the right amount of shocked, horrified and terrified. I speak up, making sure my voice is shuddering. 

"We do, officer."

Later that night, when I fall back to bed and Orson's fast asleep next to me, I text out a message on my burner phone. 

I can pass you the rest of the money after Monday.

-

On Monday morning, instead of sitting in the first-period bio, I stand next to Parker in the high-ceilinged marble-floored nave of Kensington's abbey. The choir girls are singing a sombre lullaby as our Principal, clad in a cowl-neck black dress, heels, and tiny freshwater pearls dabble her eyes with a napkin. I resist the urge to roll my eyes and force my expression to remain neutral and grim.

Other kids from Kensington are silent, heads bowed down in the high-backed wooden pews. Everyone's either hungover and coming down from the weekend or in shock at the sequence of events that have happened, trying to digest that popular socialite Georgina Kensington is dead.

The police have ruled Georgina's death as accidental. She just got too drunk and stumbled onto the street, when the taxi came out of nowhere and ran her over. The CCTV footage outside of the club shows Georgina, inebriated, staggering all over on a busy street in Manhattan on a Saturday night. I'm so glad my accomplice is smart enough to choose the appropriate time to do the deed because the streets that night were so full and busy that you couldn't even see a gloved hand amongst the crowd sticking out to push Georgina out into the traffic. The police didn't suspect foul play as a result and at the end, we just get a story of a poor girl who was just reckless with alcohol.

The abbey smells like incense and wood. Simple cylinder-shaped lamps hang from the ceiling, and the altar is covered with a billion white camellias- the same flowers used for her birthday. There's a lurch in my stomach when I see the flowers and I'm reminded of the fact that I ruined her birthday. A small shrine is dedicated to Georgina, featuring a photo of her being taken at the Princess Charlotte's Debutante Ball. She's luminescent in the photo, being styled in a vintage emerald-green-and-white-striped Anouska Hempel ball gown with her hair up and the Prince of Monaco as her escort. Next to the photo, piled to it, are all gifts to Georgina's family-  a mountain of colourful ribboned boxes, all from Ladurée in Paris. There are boxes upon boxes of chocolates and truffles, macaroons and cakes—all manner of delicious confections from the legendary dessert maker. Crowning this elaborate display is a croquembouche, with a large embossed gold card affixed to the front: TO THE LIFE AND TIMES OF GEORGINA CARLTON.

She brought it on herself, a sinister voice tells me. You had no choice.

And it's true. I didn't. Either risk Georgina living and breathing, knowing the truth with lips wide enough to tell anybody who would listen about me, or this.

My eyes flicker over to Parker, whose face is just as stone as mine. Parker is all class in her knee-length black dress with a white Greek key motif piping on the skirt and collar. She's fidgeting, fiddling with her delicate Bulgari bracelet.

Orson is with the boys, sitting on the other side of the room. They've separated the boys and girls for the memorial but it's always the same with every assembly, every gathering in Kensington. Boys and girls will be facing each other on all four corners of the room. The boys on the other set of pews are a wave of black, tailored suits but I still manage to make out Orson's tall figure, his familiar valleys of cheekbones and those glittering blue eyes.

From my side, I see Parker's hands are shaking so badly.

"Would you like a Xanax?" I ask her.

Parker shakes her head.

"I'll take a Xanax," Nadine says quickly from my other side. I pull out an orange bottle from my purse and press it into Nadine's hand. Without hesitation, Nadine takes two in her mouth and dry swallows.

The low pipe organ music lilting through the church starts to dwindle and the singing comes to a stop. Georgina's mother, Darlene, approaches the podium. She's a woman wearing a black hat with a dramatic black veil draped over her face. Like Georgina's, she's slim and fashionable in a black Akris suit with notched lapels. When she reaches the podium, she unveils herself and it's striking how much Georgina looks like her.

Georgina's mother resembles the pictures we've seen of her in the society pages of Vogue and the New York Times Sunday Styles. She has married a Carlton but before that she's a Daybrook, coming from a family of high-profile jewellers in the leagues of Bulgari and L'Orient, with their gleaming flagship stores on Fifth Avenue and Rodeo Drive. Like Georgina, she's a blond, French-twisted, Chanel clone with a ski-slope nose and a heart-shaped face. It's further evidence that a surgeon never got close to Georgina's face because she inherited her tall features from her mother.

Her mom makes a big speech about Georgina and all her accomplishments: published articles, debutante balls in Paris, nationally syndicated op-ed pieces, society awards, advocacy work for sustainable organic agriculture and social justice. She's also an expert rider, a blue-ribbon winner for polo and horse-riding. She talks about how Georgina will be remembered and during this speech, I uncomfortably twist the three-carat Tiffany Legacy ring Orson gave me last week and think about how if it wasn't for me, it'll be sitting on one of Georgina's dainty fingers.

I push the thoughts away. Georgina has made her bed. After her humiliation, she could've skulked off to Europe and reinvent herself or something. For a Carlton, reinvention and some time away will always help people forget your scandal. Because of her money and her bloodline, people will always find it in them to forgive her. Instead, she decides to come after me. And well, it's either her or me, right?

And I'm not going to apologize for picking me.

After the memorial service, students are milling about by the steps. School is out for the day- a courtesy thing for the students. I think Kensington has no idea how to deal with the death of a student so instead they rather not deal with it at all. As a decency thing, they let Georgina's family host the funeral and the memorial at the school's cathedral.

We're filling out of the pews. Everyone from Kensington is hanging at the back of the church, from the lacrosse boys to the video game–obsessed geeks the Elite pay no mind to. Mrs Abbey, the Associate Principal, stands in the corner, talking quietly to Georgina's dad. Even Georgina's European friends had flown in; they all stood in a teary huddle near the door.

Parker grabs my arm. "Georgina's mom," she hisses. And sure enough, Georgina's mom is walking towards me- no, we, and my blood turns to ice.

"Are you Amory Scout?" she asks me.

Do I want to be Amory Scout at this moment? I nervously nod yes. Georgina mom's face breaks into a smile but it doesn't reach her eyes due to the Botox injections. "Oh, there you are! You're one of Georgina's friends, aren't you?"

Huh? Parker looks helplessly at me for an answer but I'm just as lost as she is. "Um, yeah," I say awkwardly. Clearly, Georgina hasn't told her mom about how I fucked her boyfriend and humiliated her on her birthday.

"Ooh yes, I saw you two in the press photos for the Couture Benefit," Georgina mom's lips purse together in a line, "I can't imagine how it must be for you, losing your best friend."

So Georgina's mom's idea of her social life in New York must be sorely behind on what the truth is. My guess is that Georgina and her mom aren't close, not even a little bit, and all the information Georgina's mother gets about her life is what's published in society pages and Page 6. And Georgina doesn't really follow VieuxRiche, neither does she listen to the Twittersphere of the Elites. 

"Yeah, we're all really sad about what happened." I fight to make my expression sad.

"And you two, are you all friends with Georgina?" Georgina's mom looks towards Parker and Nadine, whose faces are like deers in the headlights. Luckily, as Queens of Kensington, they've mastered the poker faces because Nadine dutifully nods and Parker answers:

"Yeah, we were her friend group when she was here."

"Oh well, if that's the case, come to the wake we're hosting in our backyard. I want all of Georgina's friends to be there- to honour her."

And basically, that's how we three, plus Orson, got dragged to the massive funeral party in the Carltons' back garden behind their townhouse. A white tent has been erected across the backyard and every one of Georgina's close friends and family are mingling over an elaborate afternoon-tea buffet.

Hundreds of pots of orchids in full bloom hang from the ceiling while towering topiaries composed of roses commands each of the tables covered in Battenberg lace. A battalion of wait staff roll around antique silver carts arrayed with steaming cups of Darjeeling tea and ice-cold flutes of Lillet champagne, while chefs in white toques man the tables filled with afternoon-tea standards like finger sandwiches, scones with clotted cream, and sponge cakes.

"You all should try these selections of jam with your scones. Smear it with the cream; Georgina's favourite was the redcurrant," Darlene, Georgina's mother, instructs at our table. She reveals a box with four different jams nestled against the packing hay: Seville Orange Marmalade, Redcurrant Jelly, Nectarine Compote, Lemon and Ginger Curd. Stamped on the minimalist glass jars in elegant white type are the words DAYLESFORD ORGANIC. "Daylesford is an organic farm in Gloucestershire owned by our family friends, the Bamfords. They make the most glorious foods. Please try them."

The tea selection is pretty much Daylesford's entire product line. There are crackers with sea salt, shortbreads, and biscuits of dizzying variety to go along with the fine cheeses, farmed Shetland Isles Smoked Salmon, and exotic chutneys. And there are sparkling wines, cabernet francs, and exotic teas to wash it all down.

My stomach growls but I stand up and push my chair back, "This all looks so lovely, Mrs Carlton, but I've been needing the bathroom for a bit. Would you mind telling me where it is?"

"Oh, of course, no problem. The bathroom is in the house, on the third level, and on your right."

The Carltons' townhouse is over three stories high, with green-painted window boxes filled with geraniums, and ivy cascading from the roof. The insides of the foyer are all marble and gilded gold with a cascading staircase leading up to the bedrooms. I check my surroundings and notice the coast is clear. All the maids and cooks are in the kitchen, preparing meals and cleaning dishes. And all of the guests are in the backyard.

Perfect.

I head down the hallway on the second floor and realize I'm in the wing of the main bedrooms. I walk down the hall and then stop at a closed-door, which announces the place I'm looking for: Georgina.

Using a piece of tissue from my purse, I make damn sure not to get any fingerprints on the handle of the door as I open it. Georgina's bedroom is a decorator's dream: walls covered with pale blue vintage wallpaper and contrasted with vibrant pink accessories and lacquered white accents. The colour scheme is bold and glamorous—perfect for someone like Georgina.

I close the door behind me and quickly get to work- opening up bedside drawers to see if Georgina had a diary or something she would have written any information about me and my true identity, looking for clues that Georgina has told anybody else about what she learned about me. Instead, all I find is the crusty yearbook she had shown me when she came to my house, a laptop and her iPhone on her desk. I look at the time on my diamond-encrusted Chopard watch and curse.

I've been gone for almost ten minutes. Feeling anxious, I hurriedly shove Georgina's MCM-monogram phone into my quilted Chanel purse when all of a sudden, the door swings open and I jump.

"Amory, what are you doing here?" I turn my head to see who's standing by the doorway and my breath hitches. It's Orson; lurking at the entrance, eyes narrowing when he notices my clutch is open. I twist it shut and straighten up.

"Nothing, I got lost." I pad over towards him and adjust the tie on his collar. I smile in his face and land a kiss on his cheek. "How come you came looking for me?"

He blinks at me. Suspicion screams in his every syllable. "You were taking a while."

"Her house is so big, it's easy to get lost." Distract him. I know he doesn't buy it- who wouldn't? But I need to take his mind off it before someone more important- say Georgina's parents- notices we're in her room. I fiddle with his tie and give him a look- that look, all bedroom eyes and hooded lids and dreamy expressions, the kind of look you give a boy when you want him to kiss you, and he returns my look with a warm smirk.

He knows I've been ruffling through Georgina's things. He knows I'm trying to distract him with sex. He knows I'm lying but he doesn't question it- the holes in my words. In fact, he pretends to play along- going along with my manipulation.

"Babe, it's a funeral," Orson says, removing my hand from his clothes. I pout and he sighs, "Sleepover mine tonight."

"Okay, fine," I relent and take his hand, "Let's head down before they wonder where we are." 

-