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“So I guess we take it to my father after his workshop,” Charlie says.

  A good investigator collects all the evidence he needs before making an accusation.

  “It’s not enough,” I hear myself say.

  “What do you mean not enough?” Charlie is getting that look she gets.

  “You weren’t sure you believed me when I told you what I saw.”

  “Until we found her cross,” Charlie reminds me.

  “Your father will come up with a lot of reasons for why that cross was there, all of which don’t end with her being dead.”

  “The bloody backpack—”

  “He’ll say we don’t know where the blood came from.”

  “But you’ll say you saw the blood right after Greg struck Amy with it.”

  “It’s not enough,” I say again. “We need more.”

  “It’s enough to make him call her parents. Then call the camp, wherever it is, and find out she’s not there.”

  “Your dad will still say it doesn’t mean she’s dead.”

  “So what? He’ll still investigate. Isn’t that what you want?”

  “I was sure that the man in the mall had a gun,” I say. “And I was sure Gavin was carrying a gun at school. And look what happened. I need to be absolutely sure.”

  “Well, I’m sure,” Charlie says. “You’ve convinced me. Unless you’re changing your story.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Because if after making me believe you and getting me to help you—”

  I cut her off, my voice rising. “What’s wrong with wanting to get more evidence before telling your dad?”

  “Well, Alden, what’d you have in mind?” Her voice is louder than mine now. “Shall we go to Greg and ask him, ‘Did you kill Amy? ’Cause if you did, it sure would be helpful to us if you’d go tell my father, just so, you know, we have enough evidence—’”

  The sudden sound of the front door opening catches us both by surprise. Hearing the familiar heavy footsteps, my eyes go directly to the bloody backpack still on the couch, my legs unable to move. But Charlie reacts quickly, grabbing the backpack and dropping it behind the couch just as her father strides into the room. A bear of a man, he makes an impressive figure wearing his police chief uniform. Or, sometimes, a scary one, like he does now. He’s staring at us, maybe because he thinks something is up—probably because we look guilty. Probably using the same gaze he uses to get a confession out of a suspect when he needs one.

  It seems to take forever, though it’s probably just a second or two, before he says, “Are you two doing something I should know about?” he says.

  Crap, he knows! How could he know?

  To her credit, Charlie doesn’t flinch as she puts a smile on her face and crosses the room. “Hi, Dad.” She plants a kiss on his cheek. “Catch any bad guys today?”

  He studies her face before responding. “Yep,” he says. He sounds wary. Being a cop for as long as he has, he’s probably naturally suspicious. “The streets of Milton are safe for another day.” A big grin now takes over his face. Charlie and I both laugh; hers sounds natural while mine sounds tight and forced. The bloody backpack is blocked, for the moment, by the couch, but all Charlie’s dad has to do is move a couple of feet to his right to see it.

  “Actually, I’ve been involved in that seminar,” Chief Walker says. “But weren’t you two going to a movie today?”

  “It’s not even noon yet,” his daughter says. “Too early. We’re just hanging out until then.” Charlie’s smile seems normal. I’m sure mine looks as forced as my laugh.

  “Thought you were working all day,” Charlie says. “Are you finished early?”

  “I wish. This seminar crap is torture.” Giving his daughter a wink, he adds, “Pretend you didn’t hear that.”

  Charlie winks back. I react with what is supposed to be a laugh but quickly turns into a nervous cough.

  Father and daughter both look at me. Then Chief Walker says, “I’ve got to get back. We’re on a break. I forgot something I need and came home to get it. I’m not sure where I left it, though.” He starts looking around the room. My legs don’t move, but Charlie slides to the side, blocking his view of the backpack with her body. “Maybe we can help. What are you looking for?”

  “Hmm, now that I think about it, it’s probably upstairs in my study.” He heads for the stairs, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Looking over his shoulder, he adds, “Charlie, would you make me a bologna sandwich? I don’t think I’m going to be able to come home for lunch. Just a little mayo, remember.”

  “Okay, Dad,” she says, heading toward the kitchen.

  Still frozen in place, I watch Charlie’s dad march up the stairs.

  “Alden,” comes softly from the kitchen, but I’m too focused on the stairs to respond.

  “Alden!” Charlie tries again, her voice raised to a harsh whisper this time. I turn toward her.

  “Quick, hide it,” she says.

  “Hide…”

  “Before he gets back. Hurry!”

  Charlie bangs around in the kitchen while I look frantically around the room. There’s the coffee table, another chair, a fireplace, and a couple of side tables, none of which work as a hiding place. A closet door for coats and such sits partially open. My legs finally moving, I pick up the backpack, and when I hear heavy footsteps moving toward the stairs, I quickly fling it into the closet.

  Oh crap. Now I’ve touched it, too.

  “Not there!” Charlie whispers loudly from the kitchen. “He might—”

  Too late. Chief Walker is starting down the stairs. If I tried to close the closet door, it would look suspicious. Instead, I sit on the couch, trying not to look guilty, as he comes into view.

  “Found it!” Chief Walker announces, waving something in the air, then sticking it inside his jacket so quickly I can’t tell what is. “Got that sandwich ready for me, honey?”

  Charlie walks out of the kitchen with a lunch bag. “I threw in honey barbecue chips, a chocolate cupcake, and an apple.”

  “Always looking out for me, aren’t you?” he says, taking the bag and kissing her on the cheek. “Wish I could eat lunch with you here. Though at least this way you two can continue with whatever top-secret stuff you were planning when I walked in.” This last he says with a mischievous grin on his face, which he directs first toward his daughter, then toward me. I try to smile back, but I can’t seem to get my mouth to work.

  “Yeah, that’s right, Dad.” Charlie arches an eyebrow. “The second you walk out that door, we’re going to do some serious making out.”

  Chief Walker shakes his head at his daughter. “Good thing I know you’re kidding. Good thing I know I can trust you, right, Alden?” I’ve seen this back-and-forth between father and daughter before, and I never know how to react. Especially now that he’s looking at me again, smiling at me with what feels like a touch of warning. Not that Charlie and I have ever thought of messing around; still, to him, I’m sure the smile I manage this time makes me look like it’s all I think about.

  “Dad, stop teasing Alden.”

  “He knows I’m kidding.” After the smallest of pauses, he says, “Right, Alden?”

  “Don’t answer,” Charlie says. “You’ll just encourage him.”

  “All right, all right. I should probably go,” he says. “What movie are you two seeing?”

  I start to say the first title that pops into my head, but Charlie quickly cuts me off. “We don’t know yet.”

  “Pick a comedy. You both look like you could use a laugh.” Lunch bag in hand, he starts toward the front door. And stops.

  He turns toward the closet. Oh, crap. I should say something to make him stop, but my mind is as frozen as my legs were earlier. I glance at Charlie; she looks as helpless as I feel.

  He’s going to see the backpack. Our investiga
tion is about to be uncovered.

  He reaches the closet. Touches the door.

  The sound of the door clicking shut makes me jump.

  “No need for that to be sitting open,” he mumbles. Then he looks at us. “Enjoy the movie.” With that, he’s gone, the front door closing behind him like a gunshot.

  Charlie runs to the window and parts the curtains to peek out. “That was close,” she says. A few seconds later, she pulls them closed. “Okay, he’s left.”

  She opens the closet door and yanks out the backpack.

  “Do you think he saw it?” I ask.

  “Of course not. He’d have said something if he did.” Despite all her bluster, her legs seem to wobble a little as she plops down next to me and hands over the backpack. “If you’re so set on finding more evidence before we give it to him, we can’t keep this here.”

  It sits heavily on my lap, even though it’s empty. “What about your deadline for telling your dad?” I ask.

  She gives me that hard stare of hers, but quickly drops it. “You still think we need more evidence?”

  “Yes.”

  “I guess…”

  “What!”

  She looks at me. “Seeing the blood on the backpack makes me… You think Amy’s dead, don’t you?”

  I hesitate only briefly. “Yes.”

  “Then I guess…if Amy’s dead, what’s a couple more days? She’ll still be dead.”

  Something cold and slithery crawls up my spine. “That’s harsh.”

  Charlie shrugs. “Yeah. But it’s true.”

  She’s right. Waiting an extra day or two to report the crime isn’t going to hurt Amy. And using the extra time to look for more evidence might solve her murder.

  “How are you planning to find more evidence?” Charlie asks.

  “By keeping an eye on Greg,” I answer.

  “By following him, you mean.”

  “It’s the only thing I can think of right now. Maybe he’ll do something that will give himself away.”

  “You want to go back to his house today?”

  “No. Me ringing his doorbell might have his radar up now. I’ll do it tomorrow.”

  “You need some help?”

  I think a minute. “I don’t know. I might do better on my own. I’ll let you know.”

  She seems taken aback. “You have until Monday,” she says after a few seconds. “Then whether we have more or not, we tell my dad.”

  “Okay,” I say. I lift the backpack. “In the meantime, I’ll hide this at my place. Uncle Bill will never see it.”

  “If we’re not doing anymore today, I say we pick out a movie and go to it. Better that than come up with a reason why we didn’t go.”

  Like Charlie’s dad suggested, we pick out a comedy. But first we stop by my house, where, after dropping off my backpack, I put Greg’s backpack in a bag along with the necklace and hide it in the farthest corner of my closet. Uncle Bill never comes into my room, so I know it’s safe.

  Chapter Eleven

  When I get home, my uncle’s already asleep in his armchair in front of the TV, a half-eaten sandwich next to him on a small table. He’s tired all the time, and I know it’s because he thinks he needs to support me the way my parents did, so he works these long hours. I wish he could understand I don’t need things—I’m just happy to have him, even if I don’t respond well when he brings up my parents. I head upstairs, where I sit down at my desk to make notes in my notebook.

  A good investigator always keeps thorough notes of the case he’s on.

  My notebook! I can’t find it! I dig frantically through my backpack. Everything else is there. But not my notes. My heart pounds as I go around the room looking for it, in drawers, under my bed, everywhere. Nothing! Everything I’ve written since my parents were killed, all the work I’ve done—gone! My pulse races as I try to think back: When did I last have it? I remember writing in it while sitting on the bench across the street from the Matthes house, waiting for Charlie to finish her search. But I distinctly remember putting it back in my bag before I ran over there. Did I pull it out again at some point to make more notes? I don’t think so, not with all the craziness going on. The last thing I remember pulling out of my bag was the binoculars I used to see Greg in his room.

  Wait. When I pulled the binoculars out earlier, I pulled the notebook out first because it was in the way. Which means I left it behind the shed. Where anybody in the Matthes family—including Greg—could find it!

  I have to go back. Tonight.

  As desperate as I am to get going, I wait until I hear Uncle Bill stirring below, worried that I’ll hyperventilate and pass out before he gets upstairs. I’m on my bed, not even seeing the words in the book I hold open in front of me as he stops at my door. “What’d you do today?” he asks, rubbing his eyes.

  “Hung out with Charlie. Saw a movie.”

  “Was it good?”

  “It was okay.”

  “Did you get dinner?”

  “I ate at Charlie’s.”

  He nods. “Good.” He scratches his face. “I’m not working a double shift tomorrow, so I’ll be home in time for dinner. We could order pizza from that place you like.”

  “Uh…sure.” Will you go to bed already?

  “You got plans tomorrow?” he asks.

  “Just homework. I’ll probably go to the library. And see what Charlie is doing.” And, oh yeah, I’m going to be following a murderer around.

  “That Charlie, she’s a nice girl. Are the two of you…you know…”

  “We’re just friends,” I say. Come on, come on!

  He nods his head, looking a little embarrassed for asking. “Your dad had his share of girlfriends in high school. He was always better at talking to girls than I was. Of course, once he met your mom…” His voice trails off.

  Does he really have to talk about this now? My chest feels like it’s going to burst.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “What? I’m fine. Just…a little tired.” I fake an elaborate yawn.

  He stares a moment before finally saying, “Okay then. Good night.”

  “Good night,” I say, thinking I might have hurt his feelings as he shuffles down the hall to his bedroom. But I can’t do anything about it now.

  I want to go rushing out of the house, but I force myself to wait until I hear his familiar snoring, then wait an additional fifteen minutes to be sure before grabbing my backpack and creeping out of the house as fast as I can.

  Chapter Twelve

  Charlie let me hold on to her extra bike, so I use it to pedal madly to the playground across from the Matthes house. The sky is cloudy with only a quarter moon, which should make it easier to sneak around the backyard. I crouch down near a bush and stare at the house, looking for any sign of movement. It’s after ten, but it’s Saturday, so some of the Matthes clan might be out, Greg included. Or is Milton High’s perfect student always in by ten, regardless of the day?

  A few lights are on downstairs. I see only a single upstairs light on.

  I wait a while, not sure how much time has passed since I got here. Every now and then I think I see shadows beyond the curtains, indicating movement. Looks like someone is in there. More time passes. What am I waiting for? Some kind of assurance? How do I get that? By hoping the entire family is going to come out of the house and drive away together? That’s not going to happen. And the garage door is closed, so I can’t tell if one or both of the family cars are inside. I’ll just have to be careful and hope no one sees me. If I’m going to do this, it needs to be now.

  The thought crosses my mind that somebody may have found the notebook already, maybe Greg. He may have even read it. The idea causes a sharp pain to cut through my chest, and makes me want to grab the bike and pedal my way out of here.

  But I don’t. I have
to know. Slowly, I straighten up, take in a couple of deep breaths, then a couple more. It’s now or never. Too bad my legs don’t seem to want to move. Then, suddenly, I’m off and running across the street, onto the Matthes property, across the front yard. I stop at the fence and slowly lift the latch. The click it makes seems as loud as a gunshot. I freeze, convinced everyone in the neighborhood heard it. I wait a few seconds. Nothing. Just the sound of crickets and a TV playing a little too loud from another house in the neighborhood. Now that I’m close, I realize I don’t hear anything from inside. No TV or radio. Maybe no one is home. I slide into the backyard. The ladder still leans against the shed where we left it. The thin moon offers little light, but I don’t even think about turning on the flashlight on my phone.

  Another deep breath and I’m running again, dodging behind the shed. I drop to my knees, running my hands through the grass. It has to be here. Unless someone did find it. I remember squatting right here. Taking a chance, I turn on my phone’s flashlight hoping the shed will block the sudden brightness. Light bounces over the ground.

  There! It’s in the grass, a good five feet or more from where I’d envisioned it. Did I really toss it that far in my hurry to get the binoculars? It doesn’t feel right. As I pick up my notebook, another possibility comes to mind, sending a chill through me: that Greg found it and left it here to see who came back for it.

  Moving slowly, I peer out. Any lights on are in the front, so it’s hard to see through the windows. My eyes drift up to Greg’s window. The curtains had been open this morning, but now they’re closed. The lights in the room are off, but is that movement? Like someone is parting the curtains just enough to see out? I duck back behind the shed. The feeling that someone is spying on me doesn’t go away.

  As I try peering out again, a flash of light appears on the far right, on the other side of the fence. Two lights. Headlights. A car turning into the Mattheses’ driveway. The garage door groans as it opens.

  Fortunately, the fence door is on the opposite side of the house from the garage. Throwing my notebook in my bag, I hurry across the grass. The latch pops again as I open it, but the slam of car doors and the sound of people talking mute it. Instead of running across the street, I hide behind a bush in the neighbor’s front yard. Greg’s parents, who I recognize from church, step out of the garage. The front door of the house opens, and Greg and his little sister appear. She runs to her parents and hugs them while Greg glances up and down the street, and I instinctively shrink back. When his parents get to the door, his father asks, “Did you two stay out of trouble?”