A cell phone? Why would I need a cell phone? I looked for a hidden message, turned it over, but nothing had been written on the back.
The phone vibrated again. 5 New Text Messages flashed across the screen. The first message popped up.
R U THERE?
I scrolled down to the next one.
WHERE R U?
The screen flashed Incoming Call from REECE. I pressed the green talk button. “Hello?”
“I guess you got the phone?” There was a drowsy quality to his voice. It was gravelly and deep, like he’d just woken up.
“You mean the one inside my locker? Note the emphasis on lock,” I snapped.
“Don’t shout,” he groaned. “My head’s splitting. Where have you been?”
“You’re the one still in bed.” I shook my head to clear that image.
“Cut me some slack. It was kind of a late night.”
I wondered who he’d been up late with. I bit my lip. “Yeah well, I was out late too.”
“No you weren’t. You were in bed by nine, and I didn’t want to leave the phone with your mom—”
“Wait . . .” I couldn’t get enough air. I hunkered behind my open locker door and whispered, “You talked to my mom?”
“Relax, Leigh. I didn’t talk to your mom.”
My body tingled with receding panic, like I had narrowly missed a disaster. Until a curious thought occurred to me. “If you didn’t talk to my mom, how did you know I was in bed by nine?” The thought both fascinated and horrified me. “Were you watching my trailer last night?”
No answer.
“We need to talk about Friday,” he said, changing the subject.
“Did Nicholson tell you to watch me?”
“I told you, Nicholson’s team is off the case—”
“Then whose team are you on now?” It was the wrong thing to say, and I regretted it the minute it came out of my mouth. But I needed to know where his loyalties were, and if I could trust him. All those things he’d said yesterday, about how he didn’t know whose side he was on . . . Was he watching my trailer because he wanted to or because some homicide detective was paying him to?
“I’m on the team that’s trying to keep you out of jail. What are you wearing tomorrow night?”
“Excuse me?”
“To the rave? On Friday? We had a deal, remember?”
I felt lost in the conversation, still preoccupied with the fact that he’d been watching my house.
I glanced down at my faded T-shirt. It was two sizes too large and fit me like a muumuu.
“No clue.” I squeezed my eyes shut. I knew what was coming.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything. I’ll pick you up at your place tomorrow at eight. Bring your phone.”
The bell for first period rang. I plugged a finger in my ear and pressed the cell tight to my head.
“You’ve only got five minutes and a long walk to class. Better get moving. I’ll call you later.” He disconnected.
He was right. I was going to be late. But I still had so many questions. I scrolled through the contacts. Gena and Reece were both on speed dial. I gnawed the inside of my lip. Why would he program Gena’s number into a pre-paid phone he’d bought for me? My finger hovered over the delete prompt, but at the last minute, I changed my mind. Reece said he was on the team that was trying to keep me out of prison. If there was any chance Gena was on that team too, then I needed all the help I could get.
33
Jeremy’s car wasn’t in the parking lot at the Bui Mart and I hoped that meant he’d gone to see Dr. Matthews. Bao didn’t look up when I walked into the store. Metallica blared through the overhead speakers, loud enough to drown out the bells on the door, but my chocolate milk and paper were already waiting on the counter. Bao’s spiky hair bobbed up and down to the beat of the music while he mopped up a spill beside the coffee machines on the other side of the store.
I stretched up on my toes and leaned over the counter. Felt around underneath for the volume control on the stereo. My hand passed over something cold and metallic, mounted to the underside and pointed at me. I carefully removed my hand.
The music died suddenly. The only sound was the whir of the slushie machines.
Fingers gripped my shoulder and I jumped. “Looking for something?”
Bao stood behind me, a remote control in his other hand. The mop handle lay across the floor, its wet strands making a gray puddle in the aisle.
“I was looking for the volume,” I said, wriggling out from under him. “They’ve done studies, you know. Eighties hair bands are hazardous to your health. They should put a warning label on that stuff.”
“They do. It says Listening at High Volume Makes You Dangerously Cool and Lethally Attractive to Members of the Opposite Sex.”