Dean stops and runs his keys around his finger.

“Listen,” I say. “No one at school wants to be caught talking to me. Drunk classmates are about the closest chance I have of interaction.”

“What about angry, drunk classmates?”

“That’s why I have you.” I hit his shoulder, then chuckle when he looks pissed. “I kid.”

“Funny. For the record, this is a horrible idea.”

Dean states the obvious. It is absolutely a horrible idea, but I also don’t have many options.

We pass cars and trucks jammed in spots in front of Mandy’s house, a mini mansion compared to homes farther inland at Crowning Heights.

As we approach it, Dean turns, giving me a last chance to bail back to the truck. I swallow hard, but I came with a game plan.

“Let’s split up. You see what you can find out about Tuesdays at the Pike. If I get a bad vibe, I’ll wait at your truck until you’re done.”

Dean nods, then enters the party first.

Thirty seconds later, I beeline through the house, keeping my head down. Music blasting, the smells of beer, cigarettes, and weed taking over. It’s not that late, but it looks like people have been going at it for hours. There’s no way I could ever get away with throwing a party if we had a house like this. Mama would have everything covered in tablecloths and clear plastic. Carpet runners to protect the floor.

I settle a bit when I see everyone is into themselves, laughing and talking. Not worried about me.

I make my way to Mandy’s massive kitchen. My mouth drops when I look out the window. Tasha and Quincy are out on the back deck.

Betrayal sets in. I asked both of them separately if they were going. Quincy practically begged me not to go, so I had to play off like he was right.

I go to meet them outside. Greeted by the sound of Tasha laughing at Quincy telling her something.

“Surprise seeing you here,” I say to Tasha, then glare at Quincy.

“Changed my mind,” Tasha says.

“And you weren’t gonna say something?” I lean against the post.

“I knew I’d see you. Seems like you’ve been the one too busy for me lately.” Tasha’s tone is icy; there’s not even a hint she’s joking around. “I’m not sitting around to wait for you to call me, then come running at your begging.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Quincy says to me. “I tried to tell you.”

“Why? Am I ruining a fun night for y’all?”

Quincy furrows his brow and lowers his voice. “No, because your brother is a suspect in the murder of the girl they’ve memorialized with photos up there.”