I give him a salute. “Yes, sir.”
“I’ll get that license plate for you this evening.” The look in his eyes is gentle, and a little sad. He doesn’t really know how to feel about the Mom stuff, either.
“Thanks.”
Later, after my grandfather has plied me with more tacos than I should reasonably be able to fit inside me, I call in the Garcy tip. The cops aren’t particularly thrilled to hear from me—we don’t have the best working relationship—but Gramps cashed in a favor with the Department of Transportation and got me the tollbooth photos of Garcy entering the area, his face and license plate number clear as day. Hard for the police to ignore me when I hand them a perp on that kind of silver platter.
In the state of New York, you must be at least twenty-five years of age and have a minimum of three years’ relevant experience to apply for a private investigator’s license. Needless to say, I fall short on both of the requirements.
The cops pretend that I’m some dumb kid who barely stays out of their way. I play along because it protects their delicate egos and keeps them occupied while I do my job.
Because it is a job. Garcy was a special case—I found him in an article about how the NYPD finally tested thousands of rape kits they’d held in storage for years—but most of the time I work for hire, and I get paid. All under the table, of course, and if the IRS ever calls, Cass and I are simply running a very lucrative babysitting business.
I pull up all of Penn’s and Damian’s social media accounts and start combing through them. The two of them are part of that crowd that hangs out in the art studio during their free periods, so most of their pictures are of their work. Half of Damian’s feed is taken up by progress shots of a giant white snake sculpture. There are no obvious signs of distress, but one thing sticks out to me right away: up until about three weeks ago, both Penn and Damian commented on every single one of each other’s posts. And then nothing.
I hesitate, then pull up Ava’s profile. I haven’t let myself look at this in a long time, but I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong and Ava was too afraid to talk.
Not much has changed on her feed. Lots of pictures of her and her friends, laughing and goofing off. A screenshot of a bell hooks quote. A dark, grainy video of her playing her bass in her bedroom.
I scroll down farther. I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself.
There: last July. One picture, the only proof that the two of us were ever anything. A selfie she insisted we take. We’re lying on our backs, our cheeks pressed together. I’m flushed with giddy embarrassment. Ava’s smile is as dopey and glittering as mine. No hint that a month later she would refuse to speak to me, let alone be in the same room. If you look closely, you can see the floral print of my pillowcase under her head.
My phone vibrates. Ava McQueen’s name lights up my screen.
There’s a flutter of fear and pleasure in the no-man’s-land below my belly button. Does she know I was looking at her, somehow? Does she want to talk to me?
But she had that look on her face earlier. That dark look.
“Hello?”
“Flora?” Ava whispers. “I need your help.”
I haul myself off the bed. “What’s wrong?”
There’s a hitch in Ava’s breathing, like she’s running. I close my eyes and press the phone against my ear. I can’t make out any background noise. Rustling. Maybe the wind?
“Ava, are you there?” My voice comes out too loud.
“Come. Okay? I’ll text you the address.” Her voice is ragged with terror.
“Okay. I’ll come. I promise. But—”
The call disconnects.
Each of my heartbeats comes faster than the last. My room is too warm, too small. I push my hair behind my ears and count to five. I need control.
I grab my coat and backpack off the hook on my door. Should I call Cass? Her parents probably won’t notice or care if she takes her car out in the middle of the night. Plus, Ava and I haven’t really been alone together, not since… Well, the coward part of me wouldn’t mind a buffer.
The phone vibrates again in my hand. A text from Ava:
Intersection of Fourth and Mason in Whitley. Come fast.
I can’t be thinking about my failed love life when Ava obviously needs help. I have to face this one on my own.
I open my window and pop off the screen. March air rushes in, cold on my clammy cheeks. I climb out the window and into the night.
I ride my bike to meet Ava. I can drive, and Gramps is cool about letting me take the car as long as I explain where I’m going, but I don’t have time for that right now.
There’s a nasty crunch in my stomach, like my gut is eating itself with nerves.
Maybe it’s fine. Maybe it’s nothing.
I pedal harder. It’s like those dreams where you move your legs faster and faster, but they’re just rubbery noodles that get you nowhere.
The night is too cold for clouds. The wind claws my face, and my fingers are numb on the handlebars, but sweat trickles down my back from all the pedaling.
It’s about a thirty-minute bike ride from my house in Hartsdale—one of those cookie-cutter suburbs where everyone knows each other’s secrets—to Whitley, the city next door. This late at night, the streets are mostly deserted. I ride by warehouses and run-down storefronts. Past cars that have been parked in the same spot for decades, their tires sagged with defeat, no longer waiting for their owners to come back.
I try to concentrate on the movement of my body pushing me forward, but my mind keeps drifting to other stuff. Stuff I shouldn’t be thinking about.
Ava and I almost dated. Or maybe we did, but it fell apart so quickly I didn’t even have time to realize we were dating. I had liked her for ages, since I met her in that class freshman year, and we even kissed once, but all my crap baggage kept us from actually getting together. And then last year, right before school let out for the summer, I helped Ava’s friend on a case. Ava and I started talking again, and before I knew it we were making out in the photo lab darkroom.
All through last summer, Ava would come over to my house, and we’d curl up on my bed and kiss and kiss until both of us were about ready to burst into flames. But I didn’t know if she was officially my girlfriend, and I was too awkward to know how to ask. Then I went to visit my mom in Germany for three weeks. When I got back, Ava wouldn’t answer any of my texts. She’s been avoiding me ever since.
Gunshots crack through the night—three of them—and I nearly fall off my bike. I grip the handlebars tighter, but they’re slick with sweat.
A few blocks away from Ava’s intersection, I hop off my bike and prop it against a wall. I don’t want to screw around with a bike lock if I need to make a run for it.
I go the rest of the way on foot. Where Hartsdale is all trees and fancy Colonial houses, Whitley is nothing but high-rise apartments, metal, and pavement. The smell of exhaust, trash left out on the street, and old coins. My footsteps are multiplied as they echo off all the concrete. I keep turning around like there’s someone behind me, but I’m alone. I’m trying to watch every direction at once. The voice in my head says I’m that girl, the one at the beginning of the horror movie.