“Put them on,” I hear Dax say.

I realize he means the spectacles and I shove them onto my face. The dark lenses mute the yellow glow, but only barely. After a few aching moments, my vision clears enough that I can discern the shapes of trees and rocks, and a great yellow orb on the horizon, peeking between what looks like two mountaintops. Garrick is huddled on the ground next to me, his hands clasped over his face.

“What the Tartarus is that?” I say, pointing at the orb without actually looking at it.

“Sunrise.” Dax pushes up to his feet. He’s wearing his own pair of dark lenses.

I hear a foreign noise from somewhere in the near distance. I blink several times and make out what seems to be the outline of a person emerging from the trees in front of us. The silhouette steps forward. “Welcome to Olympus Hills, my lords. I’m certain you will love it here,” a voice says in a tone so … perky … it hurts my ears.

I close my eyes but the light still burns behind my lids.

And humans call the place where I’m from hell?

Chapter eight

DAPHNE

This place is heaven, I admit to myself as I pull open the drapes in the main family room, revealing the incredible view of the lake. Seeing it in the daylight, I know why the real estate around here is so coveted. Jogging trails, trees, bushes, and flowers of almost every kind surround the lake, and I just can’t get over how lush everything is. I knew that Ellis was in the middle of the desert, but I never realized exactly what that meant before. Or exactly what I’d been missing.

Mom would love it here, I think with a pang of guilt. Although she probably wouldn’t be able to get over the fact that the long lake is man-made—according to Marta’s brochure. I can’t really tell, except for the odd figure-eight shape, that it isn’t naturally occurring. I snap a picture of the lake through the window with my new phone—one of the things Marta left, along with a map and a daily itinerary, outside my door this morning.

I text the picture to Jonathan and CeCe with the note:

Arrived just fine. This place is gorgeous! (Please show my mom.)

Mom doesn’t have a cell phone. She says she doesn’t see the point since everyone she knows lives within walking distance. But maybe if I can get Jonathan and CeCe to show her enough pics, she might change her mind about coming to visit when she sees how beautiful this place is.

“Daphne, is that you, love?” I hear Joe’s groggy voice from behind me.

I step away from the view. The light from the window hits Joe’s face where he’s splayed out on the family room couch. He cracks open one eye, then the other. He blinks a couple of times and then squeezes his eyes shut. “Be a good girl and go away.”

I sigh and shake his booted foot, which dangles over the side of the couch. “Get up, Joe. Marta’s itinerary says that you have an interview today. And I’m headed out. So if you don’t wake up now, nobody will be here to act as your walking snooze button.”

Joe lifts his arm and squints at his wrist, but his watch isn’t there.

I check Marta’s notes: “If Joe can’t find his watch, it’s probably in the fish tank. Again. He likes to test the water-resistance warranty.” I’d thought that was a joke when I’d first read it, but sure enough, I see a couple of clown fish pecking at the platinum watchband at the bottom of the aquarium, which takes up most of the north wall in the family room.

“Bloody hell, is it morning already?” Joe asks, his British accent almost as heavy as his hangover.

“No, Joe. It’s one in the afternoon already. And we’ve already had this conversation. Back when I woke you up at noon.”

“Well, then, why did you wake me up again?”

“I told you, some reporter is coming over. Marta had to go somewhere for the day, so she charged me with making sure you wake up.” Along with a laundry list of other tasks. I’d been here for fewer than sixteen hours, and it was already feeling like Marta was trying to shove most of her “babysitting” duties on to me:

1. Wake up Joe at noon. Check.

2. Wake Joe up again at one. Check.

3. Remind Joe that he booked an interview, even though I explicitly told him I’ll be gone for the day. Check.

4. Either I or Joe’s manager will be there in time for the interview to field questions. However, since Joe refuses to let me hire a decent staff for the house, remind him that he is therefore in charge of making sure things are tidy before the reporter arrives.

5. Make sure Joe wears pants.

Oh boy. “I think you might want to clean up a bit.” I hitch my thumb at the row of framed platinum records, hanging at precarious angles above the couch. A pizza box had been made into a tepee on the end table, and there are so many half-empty glasses and bowls residing on various chairs and tables in the family room and bits of ground chips living in the white carpet, you’d think he’d thrown a party after we got back last night. Yet from what I could tell from my room in the east wing, it had just been Joe and his greatest hits on Guitar Hero in here.

“A reporter? Why does a reporter want to come here?” Joe sits up. His rings clack against the glass-top coffee table as he searches for his glasses.

“I don’t know. Why doesn’t a reporter want to come here?” According to Marta, Olympus Hills is where the rich and famous come to live when they get sick of LA. If a reporter is being allowed inside Joe “the God of Rock” Vince’s mansion, it is probably quite the scoop. “All I know is that Marta said to make sure you’re up before the reporter arrives.” I check my list. “Also, to make sure you’re wearing pants.” Thankfully, he is. Very tight leather ones, but pants they are. “Marta said you want to make some sort of announcement to the press.”

I can only hope that announcement doesn’t involve outing the secret of his long-lost backwater daughter to the world. Mom always said it was a miracle that the paparazzi had never found us in Ellis. It’s almost like we were invisible to the rest of the world there.

“Oh, right, that.” Joe finds his glasses: thick-framed, nerdy, hipster specs that clash with his leather pants, skull rings, and long, rocker hair.

Three things I know for sure about Joe so far. The longer portions of his hair are extensions, he never wears his glasses in public, and even though he tries to pull off an übercool, leather-clad, Top Forty rocker persona for the press, when I listen real closely, I can hear that he has more of this geeky, Indie singer-songwriter vibe. It’s always baffled me, the few times we’ve met.