Chapters (46)
- Title Page
- Copyright Page
- Dedication
- Acknowledgements
- one
- two
- three
- four
- five
- six
- seven
- eight
- nine
- ten
- eleven
- twelve
- thirteen
- fourteen
- fifteen
- sixteen
- seventeen
- eighteen
- nineteen
- twenty
- twenty-one
- twenty-two
- twenty-three
- twenty-four
- twenty-five
- twenty-six
- twenty-seven
- twenty-eight
- twenty-nine
- thirty
- thirty-one
- thirty-two
- thirty-three
- thirty-four
- thirty-five
- thirty-six
- thirty-seven
- thirty-eight
- thirty-nine
- forty
- forty-one
- forty-two
She nodded solemnly. “Everybody says so. Even Grandma. Not in front of me, of course, but I heard her say it on the phone, and she never says bad stuff about anyone.”
“A good policy.” I smiled, but she only stared at me, as if she could tell I didn’t mean it.
“So that’s your cell phone?” I said, pointing to it. “Pretty cool. Mine doesn’t have a flash.”
“It’s my mom’s.”
“And she lets you use it? Very cool.”
Again, she just stared at me with those appraising eyes. Come on, kid. Help me out here.
“Well, I’m not going to ask how you got in here,” I said. “But it isn’t the kind of place for kids to hang out, so I’ll walk you upstairs—”
“I’m not hanging out. I’m investigating.”
She tugged a backpack off her shoulder, reached in, and pulled out a pad of paper. She flipped to a page, then, pen poised, looked up at me. “Your name, please.”
“Savannah Levine. Private investigator.”
“License?”
I started pulling out my ID. She gave me a look that called me a moron.
“Private investigator’s license?”
Damn, she was good. What did they teach kids in this town? Fortunately, I had one—two, actually, for both Oregon and Washington. I gave her both. She wasn’t impressed; just jotted details down and handed them back.
“So you’re an investigator, too,” I said.
“No, I’m a kid.”
“So how come you’re here?”
“Because the police aren’t.”
“Ah. So you’re investigating because you want to grow up to be a detective?”
“No.” Her gaze lifted to mine. “I’m investigating because I want to know who killed my mother.”
four
four
It wasn’t that I didn’t know what to say—it was that I knew from experience that almost anything I did say would be wrong. After my mom died, I wanted to plug my ears every time someone found out ... or zap them with an energy bolt before they could speak.
It was always the same empty words. I’m sorry for your loss, from people who didn’t give a shit about me or my loss. Deep down, your mom was a good person, from people who, deep down, thought she was an evil bitch. She’s gone to a better place. That one killed me. Like any twelve-year-old gives a damn where her dead mother went—all that matters is that she’s not with you.
The only thing I liked to hear was stories about her—something cool or funny she’d done. But I’d never met this girl’s mother, so I couldn’t offer anything there. After fumbling around, I said the obvious—you must be Ginny’s daughter—which was obvious because only Ginny Thompson had a child.