“I might not have the record.”
I pulled my cell from my pocket. “Is it blasphemous to play music on a phone surrounded by vinyl?”
He reached over and brushed a strand of hair stuck to my cheek. I felt his fingertips after they were gone. “I’ll give you a pass on the blasphemy.” He held up the inciting finger. “One time only.”
I was nervous and selected the wrong song. “Errr, definitely not that one.” I found the intended. Its beat quickened and segued into the initial chorus. The bedframe bit into the back of my neck and I stretched my legs out, absorbing the music.
Halfway through, Harry’s hand closed softly around my ankle. He leaned forward, peering at the cell between us like he could see the notes streaming out.
“Never heard this band before,” he murmured.
Goose bumps spread up my leg from Harry’s sustained touch. “They were on a soundtrack—best thing about the movie. But this one, it’s my favorite of theirs. You know how you can play a song so much it loses its effect?”
“Absolutely.”
“This one never does. His voice sounds about to crack because he’s sad but trying to get over it, and I always wonder if maybe this is the time it will crack. This is the time it’ll be too much for him. Just listen to it five hundred times and you’ll get it.”
“I understand,” he said. “It’s like you.” He exhaled, puffing out his cheeks. “You don’t lose your effect. On me.”
Harry crawled forward. His hand slid up my ankle. My perfect song began playing again, on repeat. Harry was up to my knees, smile scared but measuring as the distance between us closed. I’ll keep my eyes open, I thought. I wouldn’t miss any part of kissing Harry.
“Thanks for playing your perfect song for me,” he said, and I felt the words on my lips as much as heard them.
The doorbell chimed, trailed by Simon’s holler of “Harry” from down the hall.
Harry’s face hovered an inch from mine, his palms warm on my thighs.
Footfalls thumped louder. Harry sat back as the door slammed open.
“Har.” Graham was out of breath. “Oh, hey.” He focused on me. A stride into the room, he halted, appraising the scene. “Jesus. Are you listening to every record ever recorded?” I fumbled for my cell to stop the perfect song, like it would reveal too much.
“What’s up?” Harry said. There was a faint crease on his forehead as he watched Graham clear space to sit. Graham’s fingers hiked up his sleeves. He looked from my pink, blotchy neck to Harry’s flushed cheeks. I pulled a pillow off the bed and hugged it.
“Here it is.” He slapped a notebook on the ground. His handwriting ran across the page, coming up diagonal at the end of each line like it did when he wrote fast and frantic. “I’ve been working all day.”
“On . . . ,” Harry said, hands hooked around his knees rather than touching me. I wanted him to touch me again.
“Goldilocks. Her killer.”
The inebriated warmth of being close to Harry vanished. I threw the pillow aside and curled over the notebook with a jitter of dread and anticipation. “What are these?”
Graham had fifty or so bullet points on the first page.
“They’re the facts. Basics we know for sure, like someone who knew about the meteorite and the manner in which the birds were buried staged Goldilocks’s body, and she sustained two injuries, a large contusion to her front that might not have been fatal, and a bruise around her neck that suggested strangulation and would have been.”
I flipped the page.
“Those are the reasonable conclusions I can draw from the facts. For example, the person who knew about the meteorite and birds and staged Goldilocks is her killer, and the initial injury to her torso happened when they hit her with a car.” He paused only to take a quick breath. “She dragged herself away, tried to escape; they went after and finished her with their hands. Since it was nighttime, they were likely driving to their home in our neighborhood, or they were a guest leaving a house in our neighborhood.”
On to the next page.
“Questions I have for witnesses, informed by the reasonable conclusions and facts. Like, did you ever go to the window during the course of that night and see a car on the road? If so, did you recognize it? Were there any signs of prowlers or did anything go missing from your yard or home during the days leading up to the date in question? Were you aware of your neighbors having guests? Do you have a criminal record?” There were eraser smudges and dried water blots. It reminded me of the notes Graham left in the books we passed back and forth.
“There’s one more,” he said, brushing my hand aside to turn the page. “My theories. We’re operating under the assumption that the first injury was an accident, the second only to cover it up. What if the first wasn’t an accident, though?” I sat back on my heels to stare at Graham, as he spoke with untroubled curiosity. “What if it was to shut Goldilocks up, what if she saw something she wasn’t supposed to? What if she was running from her killer? Or what if her killer wasn’t rational and it was a kill for fun? What if we’re dealing with a predator? He tried to run her over and when that didn’t work, he went after her on foot.”
The night Graham conjured played in my head. Girl pursued. Run down with a car. She crawled toward a front porch, tearing the skin on her knees. Footsteps at her back, heavier, louder. A fistful of her hair and he’d stopped her. His hands fitted around her neck. Her lungs convulsed. Dead.
The bottom of the image dropped out as I had a premonition of Graham at our neighbors’ houses, demanding answers.
Graham saw a challenge where there was danger. It was jumping without looking all over again, except the bandages in Viv’s purse wouldn’t be enough.
“You can’t do this,” I said.
He’d been nodding down at the notebook, as if affirming the rightness of his course. He met my eyes. “Yes, I can. I’m going to knock on doors and demand answers tomorrow after school.”
“No,” I said. “This is different from hiding behind IV. Different from targeting Carver and Denton, even the whole city. You’d be announcing to whoever killed her that you’re looking for them.” I snatched up the notebook, clapped it shut, and thrust it to his chest. “What about the unlikelihood of solving a cold case? You blabbed all these stats about the cops never doing it and the charges not sticking even if they do.”
“I’m not talking about getting the police to solve it. I’m going to solve it. The Order can deal with the killer.”
“Are you stupid? We’re the Order.” I shoved the notebook at his chest again, harder. He gaped at me, fumbled to accept the book, and climbed to his feet.
“Funny,” he said, going for the door. “I thought you’d call me brave.”
I closed my eyes for the barest second.