Rushing to Die by Lindsay Emory Read Free Book Online Page A

voice.
    Now Casey lowered his voice. “A stupid idea for a date dash.”
    A date dash was a fun, impromptu social event where the ladies were given short notice to run out, grab a date, then meet up for a party at a club or for a fun activity, like bowling. In my mind, it was the pinnacle of the social calendar.
    â€œHow could anyone mess up a date dash?” I wondered aloud. It was inconceivable.
    â€œThey had a theme. They called it a Mexican roundup. They dressed up as immigration officers.”
    They didn’t . . . Ugh. I felt sick to my stomach. “You sure it was Debs?” I asked, grasping at straws. Maybe someone had put them up to it.
    From the hesitation in his voice, I could tell Casey didn’t want to believe it either. “We’re going to spin it as a social-­awareness experiment.”
    â€œOh. Well . . .” My voice trailed off as I tried to be encouraging. “At least you’ve got a plan!”
    â€œYeah.” Casey was glum, then brightened. “But I have one chapter I don’t have to worry about. I don’t know if I’ve told you, but headquarters is so psyched about your being in charge there at Sutton. You’ve done such an amazing job, hardly anyone remembers the scandal.”
    Then I remembered the news that I hadn’t told Casey . . . the part about the dead woman in our backyard. Alternately ignoring it and telling myself it didn’t matter, I hadn’t called headquarters to report it. Even during the last five minutes, caught up in the joy of talking to my best friend and savoring his presents, I hadn’t spared a thought for the great black threat that hung over this chapter. Again.
    Could I do it? Should I? Should I tell Casey and headquarters and send them all into hysterics again? And what if they lost their trust in me? There would be no more sweet care packages. No more encouraging phone calls and uplifting notes on stationary monogrammed with the Delta Beta crest.
    This time, no one would count on Margot Blythe to save the Deb chapter. This time, they’d install a new sister. One who could avoid death and mayhem.
    I flipped open the card that was signed, “DEB LOVE” and listened as Casey rattled on about the men in Austin. The combination of hipster beards and tight cowboy jeans was apparently exciting to some. Finally, I blurted out: “So someone might have died in the backyard.”
    Casey paused. “Might have?”
    â€œYeah, they pretty much died.”
    â€œAnyone we know?”
    â€œNo,” I said definitively. I told Casey about the situation and the fact that I hadn’t recognized the DOA.
    Which seemed to relieve his worries until he asked, “You haven’t heard from Nick Holden, have you?”
    â€œNo, not technically.” I relayed my conversation with Brice about Holden’s worming his way into Sutton to prepare for a follow-­up news story.
    Casey swore elegantly. “I have a friend in New York who mentioned something about the network’s wanting another exposé on sororities. I can’t believe they’re doing it now.”
    I fingered the edge of the basket’s cellophane wrapping. Another Nick Holden antisorority special report would undo everything we’d been working for. The Sutton College administration would have a fit, and the ­people who thought sororities were awful would have a truckload of ammo.
    â€œWhy did I agree to talk to him?” I moaned to Casey. “I have a trillion and one things to do. I don’t have time to aid and abet the enemy.”
    â€œYou did the right thing,” Casey assured me. “You can’t let his only contact with sorority life be a sit-­down with Sheila DeGrasse. He’d think we were all insane!”
    â€œTrue.”
    â€œAnd anyway . . .” Casey’s voice turned thoughtfully sly. “Who said you had to help Nick