and had just seen for myself that Gabby Corrales was right about Port Royal. Every mansion was a gated island, crowns of brick or stone poking through the trees, with winding driveways shaded by oaks or, in Olivia’s case, a quarter mile of royal palms, solid as cement, the trees spaced like shaggy utility poles. Voice low, Nathan said to me, “Even he can tell. Did you see the way he stared? We need to get you home and put you to bed before he says something. Or calls the DEA.” My friend was referring to the uniformed guard who had signed us in at the security pavilion after stubbing out his cigar. Then he’d let us into the Seasonses’ mansion, using keys he had taken from a lockbox, and was now stationed at the door. “I am not stoned,” I whispered for the umpteenth time, which was untrue, possibly because I now at least imagined feeling spooked and sort of fuzzy. When I saw that Nathan was grinning, though, I slapped his shoulder and told him, “Stop doing that . . . please.
