white-haired woman looking at pictures of her grandkids on Photobucket (letting out the occasional coo at how cute they were) and a guy wearing three coats, two pairs of socks, and a week-old beard. I made sure to sit upwind from the overdressed guy, then logged online and made my way to MySpace to find the fake account that Josh had set up last night.
Honestly, I hadn’t been on MySpace in years, not since fourth grade. As soon as Jessica Hanson had enticed me to join her mafia, I’d been strictly a Facebook user. But, as Josh had pointed out, if everyone was on Facebook, MySpace was the virtual equivalent of a hideout in the woods. Deep, deserted woods.
I clicked on HHHRunner94 and came to a page tricked out with a red background, flaming cursors, and about twenty different songs on an automatic playlist. Granny shot me a look as the Kings of Leon blasted from the PC speakers. I quickly hit Mute, sending her an apologetic smile. Clearly being on the run left Josh with way too much time on his hands.
I scrolled down, hitting the Message Me button shaped like a skull and crossbones (Really, Josh? That didn’t strike you as just a little bit inappropriate?) and typed a quick note into the message window. I kept it short and cryptic on the off chance that Raley had somehow cracked Josh’s online alias.
Need to talk. Be online 2nite. 9 p.m.
I hit Send, hoping Josh was monitoring the account as vigilantly as he’d promised, then packed up my stuff and headed home.
To kill a few more minutes, I stopped at Jamba Juice for a Peach Pleasure smoothie. School wasn’t technically out yet, and the last thing I wanted was the third degree from Mom on why I was early. Which, as it turned out, was the least of my worries. When I turned the corner onto my street, I spied an unmarked beige sedan with police lights on the dash parked squarely in front of my house.
Raley.
I closed my eyes and thought a really bad word as I did a mental assessment of the situation. If Raley was inside, he was likely talking to Mom. The upside? If they were talking about murder, she probably wasn’t going to focus on the fact that I was home a little early. The downside? Mom tended to be a tad overprotective. And by a “tad,” I mean I was seven before she let me go down the twisty slide at the park for fear of “owies.” I could only imagine how she’d take this.
I had a fleeting fantasy of just turning around and walking away. Hiding out at the mall for, oh, say, the rest of my life. But it was short-lived. Anyway, it was a total pipe dream to think that Mom wouldn’t find out about Courtney’s death. I mean, hello? A girl at our school was murdered. Of course she would find out. In fact, I was sorta surprised it had taken this long. While Mom never watched the news (she said all that negativity interrupted the flow of her chi), she was as connected to the momvine as someone could be.
And clearly Raley was giving her the gossip motherlode.
I took a deep, fortifying breath and forged up the flagstone pathway to my front door. I opened it to find Mom and Detective Raley in the living room—Detective Raley standing near the empty fireplace, Mom perched on the edge of our brown microfiber sofa, her forehead etched with a line of concern I’d grown to know well. It was the same one she’d flashed at me when I pointed to the twisty slide, the same one she’d pulled out when I’d taken up Tae Kwon Do in third grade, and the same one that had frozen on her features all through driver’s ed last spring. It was her SMother face.
And it was never good.
As soon as she spotted me, she popped up from the sofa and crossed the four steps to the door to tackle me like a linebacker.
“Oh, Hartley, honey, are you okay?” she mumbled into my hair.
“Mom, I think you’re breaking my ribs.”
She eased up on her grip, stepping back to look at me as if finding a dead girl might leave a mark. “Detective Raley told me everything. Oh, honey, why
Honestly, I hadn’t been on MySpace in years, not since fourth grade. As soon as Jessica Hanson had enticed me to join her mafia, I’d been strictly a Facebook user. But, as Josh had pointed out, if everyone was on Facebook, MySpace was the virtual equivalent of a hideout in the woods. Deep, deserted woods.
I clicked on HHHRunner94 and came to a page tricked out with a red background, flaming cursors, and about twenty different songs on an automatic playlist. Granny shot me a look as the Kings of Leon blasted from the PC speakers. I quickly hit Mute, sending her an apologetic smile. Clearly being on the run left Josh with way too much time on his hands.
I scrolled down, hitting the Message Me button shaped like a skull and crossbones (Really, Josh? That didn’t strike you as just a little bit inappropriate?) and typed a quick note into the message window. I kept it short and cryptic on the off chance that Raley had somehow cracked Josh’s online alias.
Need to talk. Be online 2nite. 9 p.m.
I hit Send, hoping Josh was monitoring the account as vigilantly as he’d promised, then packed up my stuff and headed home.
To kill a few more minutes, I stopped at Jamba Juice for a Peach Pleasure smoothie. School wasn’t technically out yet, and the last thing I wanted was the third degree from Mom on why I was early. Which, as it turned out, was the least of my worries. When I turned the corner onto my street, I spied an unmarked beige sedan with police lights on the dash parked squarely in front of my house.
Raley.
I closed my eyes and thought a really bad word as I did a mental assessment of the situation. If Raley was inside, he was likely talking to Mom. The upside? If they were talking about murder, she probably wasn’t going to focus on the fact that I was home a little early. The downside? Mom tended to be a tad overprotective. And by a “tad,” I mean I was seven before she let me go down the twisty slide at the park for fear of “owies.” I could only imagine how she’d take this.
I had a fleeting fantasy of just turning around and walking away. Hiding out at the mall for, oh, say, the rest of my life. But it was short-lived. Anyway, it was a total pipe dream to think that Mom wouldn’t find out about Courtney’s death. I mean, hello? A girl at our school was murdered. Of course she would find out. In fact, I was sorta surprised it had taken this long. While Mom never watched the news (she said all that negativity interrupted the flow of her chi), she was as connected to the momvine as someone could be.
And clearly Raley was giving her the gossip motherlode.
I took a deep, fortifying breath and forged up the flagstone pathway to my front door. I opened it to find Mom and Detective Raley in the living room—Detective Raley standing near the empty fireplace, Mom perched on the edge of our brown microfiber sofa, her forehead etched with a line of concern I’d grown to know well. It was the same one she’d flashed at me when I pointed to the twisty slide, the same one she’d pulled out when I’d taken up Tae Kwon Do in third grade, and the same one that had frozen on her features all through driver’s ed last spring. It was her SMother face.
And it was never good.
As soon as she spotted me, she popped up from the sofa and crossed the four steps to the door to tackle me like a linebacker.
“Oh, Hartley, honey, are you okay?” she mumbled into my hair.
“Mom, I think you’re breaking my ribs.”
She eased up on her grip, stepping back to look at me as if finding a dead girl might leave a mark. “Detective Raley told me everything. Oh, honey, why
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