Jillian Cade (3 page)

It was a piece of newspaper.

An obituary.

My
obituary.

Three

And that's where the rest was ripped away.

Was it supposed to be a joke? Faking a piece of newspaper seemed like a lot of work. It didn't
feel
like a joke. It felt like a real piece of newsprint.

It also felt like a threat.

Between the obituary, the upcoming client appointment, the run-in with my father's fanboy, and several calls from my father himself (ignored), I had a hard time paying attention in either Geometry or Chemistry. Luckily, it was all first-day BS: speeches about expectations for the year. When copies of grading policies and test schedules were handed to me, I shoved them into my backpack. Everything else, I tuned out. I needed to talk to Norbert.

Obeying my strongly worded text message, he met me near the history classrooms before third period.

“I don't understand the question,” he said before I could speak.

“It's simple. Of the guys I've dated—”

“You don't date,” said Norbert.

“I've been on dates.” It sounded defensive, even to me. “There was that guy the summer before last. The one in Santa Monica.”

“That wasn't a date,” Norbert told me. “Getting drunk and making out under the pier is not a date.”

“He bought me a Slurpee.”

“Oh yeah? Then what was his name?”

“Dusty.” I said it with more conviction than I felt.

“I thought it was Rusty.”

“Whatever. My mother had just died. I was coping.” I snapped my fingers, remembering. “And last year, I went to the movies with Michael Wilkins.”

“Doesn't his mom play mah-jongg with my mom?”

“Who cares? Do either of those guys seem certifiable to you?”

Norbert considered. “I don't think so. And by the way, my first day of high school is going great. Thanks for asking.”

I scowled and handed him the scrap of paper.

He looked it over and blinked a few times. “Whoa. Unnerving.”

“Now do you get my questions?”

“How do they know about your PI work? Nobody knows about that.”

“I hardly think that's the weirdest thing on that paper.”

Norbert glanced up at me. “Who is this sister Rose? Do I have another cousin?”

“No!” I said it a little too loudly. A passing senior in a football jersey turned to look, and I glared in his direction. He sped up. I lowered my voice. “No sisters, no brothers. You're the closest thing I have to a sibling.”

Norbert's eyes went all dopey and grateful like an anime fairy's. “You think of me as a brother?”

“Don't let it go to your head—and no hugging,” I added hastily as he took a step toward me. He must have gotten that instinct from his mother.

“Going from cousin to brother is a clear indication of leveling up,” he said.

“You're still
actually
my cousin, and I'm
actually
going to punch you if you don't focus. My potential demise is on the horizon.”

Norbert returned his gaze to the scrap of newspaper. “Okay, so someone is trying to upset your equilibrium.”

“In other words, it's a death threat. Don't sugarcoat. Do you think I pissed off a former client or something?”

“If so, they're giving you a big head start. Look.” He pointed at the date on the newspaper. “Six months until your potential demise.”

He was right. March 11. At least I had a running start.

“Go,” I told him. “You don't want to be late to class.”

“Copy that.” I felt a flash of guilt as he took off down the hallway. I probably
should
check on him, I thought. Given some of the dickheads prowling the halls, it would be shocking if he made it through the day without getting beaten up.

As it turned out, I didn't need to worry about Norbert at all.

The next time I saw him was at lunchtime in the cafeteria. He was sitting at a table with what I assumed were two other freshmen: a boy wearing a
what the frak?
shirt and a girl who was demonstrating what appeared to be some Hogwarts-style wand work.

My relief over Norbert's acceptance into a clique—however dorky—was tinged with just a touch of envy. His first day of high school and he'd already found his tribe. Me: I had always been slow to bond, slow to trust, and once things had started going downhill at home, it was all over. The few acquaintances I'd made in the first half of my freshman year disappeared along with my ability to invite people to my house.

I waved to Norbert and headed back out, soda in hand—past the sundial and through the horde of front-lawn students who were tapping frantically away on their phones.

Even though everyone did it, we weren't technically supposed to text inside the school building. As a result, the lawn transcended cliques—tiny personal screens both include and exclude everyone—so I usually found a place to eat alone out there. But that day I'd made certain to be far from the mob. I threaded my way through it to a low-growing magnolia tree on the edge of campus. Beneath the tree was a bench, mostly hidden from view by a thick explosion of lilac shrubs. It was often empty, due to the abundance of birds pooping on it from the branches above.

This was where I had told HelpMeDude to meet me.

Unfortunately, as I saw when I arrived, it was also where senior Corabelle LaCaze had chosen to hang out.

Crap.
Apparently bird poop doesn't affect hormones. But I should have figured. Everything that made the bench perfect for a covert fake detective meeting made it equally perfect for a covert make-out session. I didn't know who Corabelle was currently dating, but her tongue hadn't spent a lot of time in her own mouth last year. The girl was something of a rock star. If she'd had a way to bottle and sell her sex appeal and self-confidence, I would have happily bankrupted myself buying it. It wasn't just the way she looked. It was how she moved and spoke and breathed. She assumed the world already loved and wanted her, whereas I assumed exactly the opposite about myself.

In both cases, the world lived up to our expectations.

Corabelle was perched on one end of the bench, bright blond ponytail tilted back, big round boobs tilted forward. First day of school and—of course—already in the cheerleader outfit. She didn't look any more thrilled to see me than I was to see her. However, and to her credit, she greeted me with something that passed for politeness. “Hi.”

“Hi.” I dropped my backpack to the ground, plopping onto the other end of the bench. I glanced at my watch. Eight minutes.

First thing first: get rid of Corabelle. I decided to fight fornication with fornication. “I need this space,” I told her. “I got a guy coming.”

“Really?” Corabelle's tone of surprise was, frankly, a little offensive.

I frowned.

“Sorry.” She didn't look sorry at all. “I've just never seen you with a guy.”

I scanned the street. No cars were slowing down as they drove past the school. Yet. “Maybe I don't have guys the way you have guys, but I have guys.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Now
she
sounded offended. “The way I have guys?”

“Hi, guys.”

It was a guy's voice. Actually, it was
Sky's
voice. He sat down between us on the bench.

Wonderful.

“Hello,” Corabelle cooed.

Wonderful
. . .
and also irritating. I shrugged off any faint idea that Sky might have been interested in me, or that Corabelle
wouldn't
be interested in him. With his messy crop of dirty-blond hair and the way his face was all perfect and his body was all tall and lean, it made total sense that she'd jumped right on it. But seriously, school had started like four hours ago. It wasn't her taste that was so impressive. It was her speed.

Now I had seven minutes until my client showed up, and I had to ditch two audience members instead of one. This was awful
. . .

Or not, I suddenly realized.

Since Corabelle and Sky appeared to be meeting for some noontime nookie, maybe there was a way to get him to take her somewhere else. After all, she wasn't going to let him get to second base right in front of me. At least, I hoped not.

“Condoms,” I blurted out.

Corabelle stared at me. “What?”

“She said condoms,” Sky told her helpfully.

“They're giving them out in the cafeteria,” I said. “It's part of the war against sexually transmitted diseases. You guys should go pick some up.”

“What are you trying to say?” Corabelle asked.

“Only that you might want to take advantage of the free prophylactics being offered at our oh-so-progressive school.”

“I'm on the pill,” said Corabelle.

“But these are special condoms. Like, with colors and flavors.” I was improvising now, which couldn't be good. Outside of that one embarrassing week in seventh-grade health class, I'd never come in contact with a condom in my life. “And shapes.”

Sky and Corabelle exchanged glances. “Shapes?” he said.

Corabelle shrugged. “Hey, if you want to check out the condoms with shapes, go right ahead.” She fixed me with a glare that was both icy and amused. “I'm comfortable right here.”

“Me too,” said Sky.

What did they want, a witness for their exchange of bodily fluids? They would not win this battle. They could get it on anywhere. I was staking my claim on this bench. I checked my watch again. Five minutes. Still no cars. I was debating faking a coronary, because maybe at least one of them would run for help, when Corabelle said something that changed my mind.

“You know what would make this bench even more comfortable?” She stared straight at Sky. “A nice thick blanket.”

I froze.

Blanket? Did she say
blanket
?! The first of my four random passwords? It had to be a coincidence. It had to be merely a weird way of inviting Sky's lips onto her own. Surely—
surely
—my rich HelpMeDude client was not Corabelle LaCaze!

I looked at Sky. He was smiling at Corabelle. “If you don't mind getting bird poop on it,” he said.

“Oh.” Corabelle kept her gaze on Sky. She could have been disappointed about one of two things: either that Sky hadn't said the second password or that he hadn't lunged into her mouth. The latter seemed more likely.

There was only one thing to do. I leaned toward Corabelle, trying to ignore Sky between us. “I agree with you,” I said.

Her giant blue eyes turned to me. “You do?”

“A blanket would be great out here. It could be used for a picnic.”

“A picnic?” Corabelle also leaned closer.

“A fancy picnic,” I said. “One with gourmet cheeses and spiced olives and baguettes.”

“Anything else?” Corabelle's eyes never wavered from mine.

“Champagne?” said Sky. We both ignored him.

“Vegetables,” I said.

“Vegetables,” Corabelle breathed.

We drew closer until we were practically in Sky's lap. He didn't seem to mind. “Green beans?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “No green beans.”

“Definitely no green beans,” said Corabelle.

I stared straight at Corabelle, letting the word slide slowly from between my lips. “Assssparagusssss.”

Corabelle's eyes and mouth popped open super wide. “Only if you cooked it on a skateboard!” she shrieked.

Okay, now that was just stupid. Mine at least made sense.

“A skateboard in Guam,” I concluded.

Corabelle leaped to her feet. “Holy shit!
You're
Umbra Investigations!”

And then she burst into tears.