Read Online Chaos Theory by M Evonne Dobson - Free Book Online Page A

spins the lock and cracks open the small door.
    There are photos of Julia and her horse at shows taped on the inside door. There’s a couple photos of Trish and Julia riding side by side and a selfie with the queen bees at the mall food court. Feeling Trish’s eyes on me, I go through Julia’s stuff, taking my time.
    Nothing unusual—nothing except for a thick wad of blond hair held together with a rubber band. I assume it is horse hair, but touching the fine strands, realize it’s human. I look at Trish, who has tears in her eyes.
    â€œThat’s Julia’s. She had me shave her hair with horse clippers, as close to the skin as we could get. I hated doing it, but she made me. The queen bees didn’t like it either. She said she didn’t want to be the old Julia. I loved the old Julia. I didn’t like what she turned into.”
    What? A junkie? A dealer? I pick up the small lightweight bundle to inspect it closer.
    With a gasp, Trish says, “I can’t take this.” She wipes at her eyes. The floodgates have opened. “I’ll walk home. Lock everything up and turn out the lights.” She backs up, spins, and runs out of the room.
    I’m left with a dead girl’s locker open in front of me. Alone, the sense of intrusion I’d felt with Trish turns into curiosity. The clump of hair is long…maybe six inches, laying it back into the locker seems final and sad. For no reason other than habit, I snap a couple of locker photos and then turn my attention to the grooming bucket. It’s loaded with the normal brushes, combs, tail wraps, and hoof picks etc.
    Stuffed down in the bottom is a single leather glove, smelling of horses and leather. It’s odd to find only one; riding gloves come in twos, of course. If she’d lost one, she would have tossed it. Why did she keep a single glove? I pick up the soft well-oiled glove, and feel the small conical shapes inside. Plastic crinkles.
    â€œOh no.” I whisper, opening it to see inside. Tucked within is a clear plastic baggy of pills. Pulling it out, the pills match the ones Daniel had the other night. After an age of looking at them, I open the baggy, figuring, in for a penny…The pills are the same colors and shapes, labeled the same as Daniel’s—a perfect set. I snap more phone photos, making sure that the printed codes are legible.
    Behind the grooming bucket is an ice-cream-sized container of Bute, a powdered drug like aspirin for horses. The cover isn’t on tight and picking it up, it pops open. No Bute. Baggies of drugs spill out, lots of baggies. Why would Daniel hide them in his sister’s locker? Wait, he hadn’t even been here. Trish said that Daniel visited the stable once and that was back in August.
    The answer comes in a flash. These pills are Julia’s. I reach for the banded clump of her hair, squeeze it gently, and then stuff it in my pocket.

Eight
    It’s eleven, and I’m rarely out past nine. When I walk in the back door, the smell of home-baked cookies fills the house. Uh, oh. Chocolate. I figured it’d be Friday before Mom’s guilt drove her to box me in on my friend-in-trouble. The TALK is going down now.
    In the kitchen, Mom and Dad sit under the breakfast nook’s overhead light in silence. The cookies are on a glass plate that reflects the hanging light. Three mugs of hot chocolate wait complete with marshmallows.
    It’s inevitable. I sit, pick up my mug, and take a long drink.
    Dad takes the lead. “Sandy called. She worried when she couldn’t reach you. Your phone’s been off.”
    â€œI’m sorry. I was at the stable helping Trish with chores. We started talking and it got late.”
    â€œAnd you couldn’t call us?”
    I’d decided not to call. Trish was already flighty. “I screwed up! Sorry!!” My frustration snipes out, and then wish I hadn’t gone Sandy’s exclamation route.
    Pause.