“For the baby.” Amira stares at the flyer on top of her stack, but she doesn’t seem to be reading. “West Point will love it.” She turns to me as she backs toward the hallway. “Beck, you wanna pair up and go downtown this afternoon? We could hit that stretch of Main Street down from the police station. You know, where that antique store is on the corner?”

“Sure. Penn, you wanna come?”

“Can’t.” He glances at Amira, then his gaze slides back to me. “My CFA’s this afternoon with Coach Williams. I’ll go this weekend with Daniela, if she’s over the flu by then.”

I hadn’t even noticed that Penn’s girlfriend missed the emergency Key Club meeting.

“Just you and me, then?” Amira looks a little relieved.

“Yeah.”

Jake isn’t in Key Club. Not that his parents would let him work with me even if he were. But I’m not thinking about the fundraiser as I head to my next class. I’m thinking about how Penn’s girlfriend has missed the past three days of school. About how my brother was on that senior trip.

And how Penn has a navy blue Titans T-shirt.

CRIMSON CRYER

@crimsoncryer · 3h

Everyone, let’s back off @BeckettBergen. No matter who her mother is, #LullabyDoe was obviously loved.

#RIP

147           76           234          

Chapter Eight

EIGHT

“Thanks again, ma’am!” I call over my shoulder to the elderly clerk as we step out of YesterYear onto the sidewalk. She smiles and nods, short silver curls bobbing.

“Clifford’s not big enough for a Walmart, but we have three antique shops,” Amira says. “How is that possible?”

“No idea. I’m just glad she didn’t recognize me.”

That was not the case at the only real estate office in town, or at the office of the lawyer who handles probate … stuff. And my semi-infamous face has not been our only problem this afternoon.

So far, not one single business owner or employee has been willing to go online and donate. The frozen yogurt shop on the corner came the closest, when the twenty-year-old behind the counter agreed to give the flyer to his boss.

Amira slides the twenty-dollar bill from the owner of YesterYear into the thin white envelope with the three other cash donations we’ve managed to obtain. “I think this gives us enough to have, like, one letter carved on her tombstone, so far.”

Her voice fades into silence as she follows my focus to the police department, across the street and down one block, where my mother stands in front of the steps, giving a statement to another reporter and her cameraman. Which she would not be doing unless Chief Stoddard made her.

“Does she tell you much about the investigation?” Amira asks.

“Does your mom tell you much about physics and chemistry?”