The Creeping

“And? Hate to break it to you, Stella, but my Hardy Boys phase is over, and I’m not much of a detective.”


“The cops think it was Jeanie’s dad, but it’s not.” Panic makes my tone too high. “I don’t know how I know, but there is no way it’s him. I just know it’s not. I—”

“Okay, I hear you. It’s not Mr. Talcott.”

I take a long, silent breath and let it out slowly. Sam believes me just like that. Zoey doubted me, but Sam doesn’t. “Daniel is back in town.”

“Since when? For how long? Have you seen him? What does your dad say?” He’s louder with each question. “Do the cops know? You don’t think it was him, do you?”

“Sam,” I shout over him. “Of course it wasn’t Daniel. Just like I know it wasn’t Jeanie’s dad. Daniel was just a kid when Jeanie went missing, and no matter how much of a freak you think he is, you can’t actually believe he’d ever kill his mother. What matters is that the cops are arresting Jeanie’s dad for something he didn’t do, and they’re worried whoever’s responsible might target me next. I have to remember, Sam. And if I can’t remember, then we at least have to prove it wasn’t Jeanie’s dad.”

“We? What we, Stella? Just this morning you told me I was too nice to you. That we each had our own friends.” He half sniffs, half snorts. “No, sorry, you told me I had my own ‘stuff.’ Can’t Zoey help you on your crusade to save an innocent man? Can’t your dad, you know, the lawyer?”

“Zoey won’t help. She’s angry, and I can’t ask Dad. He’ll tell me to stay out of it. You’re the only one who remembers Jeanie. You can help me figure out what happened. Look, it sucks that I’m asking you. But I’m asking anyway.” I stop, brimming so full of shame I imagine it leaking onto the floor and turning my white carpet brown. I cover my stuffed animal’s face so he doesn’t have to witness how horrible I am.

“You are completely out of your mind for calling me like this after everything.” I wince, bracing myself for Sam’s next words. “I’ll be at your house tomorrow morning at eleven. Be ready, because I’m not coming in. I’ll honk.” With that, he hangs up. Leaving me with my mouth gaping open, searching my bunny’s face for the same shock I feel.





Chapter Seven


True to his word, Sam’s horn blares at 10:59 the next morning. I race downstairs, purse slung over my shoulder, scouring the floor below for my violet ballet flats. I’m hopping on one foot, then the other, slipping each on, as I burst through the front door. The news crews left late last night, the hum of their engines jolting me from sleep. A single police car sits idling. I hold up an index finger for Sam, who peers at me through the windshield of his beat-up teal station wagon—one of the many reasons Zoey’s dubbed him the King of Loserdom—and hurry over to the cops.

The officer with pimply skin—who somehow manages to look even younger in the sunless morning light—rolls the passenger-side window down. He smacks his lips loudly, chewing a massive wad of gum.

“Good morning, Ms. Cambren.” His voice is artificially low, trying for older but failing miserably.

“Good morning.” I wave to his partner slouching behind the wheel, devouring a bagel and lox. “Umm . . . I’m headed out.” I angle my head toward Sam’s car. “We’re just going to the mall and then coming right back.” I spin on my toes as soon as I’ve finished and run for the wagon. He calls after me, but I don’t stop. They can follow us if they’re that worried.

“Hey,” I say to Sam, throwing myself into the passenger seat of the wagon.

“Morning.” Sam avoids my eyes and devotes all his energy to backing the car out of the driveway. One of those cheesy car fresheners in the shape of a tree swings from the mirror. Cedar, I think.

After a block of Sam keeping the speedometer at ten miles under the speed limit, I laugh. “So not only does your car smell like an old lady’s closet, you drive like one too?”

He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “Be sure to add that to your list of complaints about me. I don’t really want to get a ticket from your illustrious police escort.” Some people can pull off sarcasm; Sam can’t. It’s forced and clunky, like my accent in Spanish class. He tilts the cracked rearview mirror toward me. Sure enough, the cops follow at a car-length’s distance. “We won’t be in any high-speed chases today, but maybe you should put on your seat belt?”

I struggle with the belt, sneaking a peek to see if Sam is upset. His face is unreadable, neutral. After five more blocks, I can’t bear the silence. “I really appreciate you helping me, and I just want you to know that I’m really sorry and—”