Deadly Little Lessons by Laurie Faria Stolarz Page A

Magic 8-Ball again and flashes me the answer: “ Ask again later ,” he reads. “I need more sleep, and so do you. Trust me when I say that I’m doing this for your own good.”
    “Fine,” I say, faking a smile, glad when he turns again to set the Magic 8-Ball back down—my cue to snatch his keys.

W ES’S CAR KEYS gripped in my hand, I hurry downstairs, grab my cell phone from my room, and continue down to the lobby. No one’s working the front desk, so I decide not to bother signing out. Instead, I plow through the doors, my adrenaline high, expecting the crying to be louder outside. But it’s the same as it was in Wes’s room: still there, yet somewhat distant and nowhere near as intense as it was just moments before, or when I could hear her actual words.
    I proceed to his car anyway, hoping that I’m not too late—that the voice will intensify as soon as I get behind the wheel. Two campus security cars are parked on the other side of the soccer field. The fronts of the cars are pointed in opposite directions, but the driver’s-side windows are lined up so they can chat. They don’t seem to notice me—or if they do, they don’t appear to care—as I disarm Wes’s car alarm, slip inside, and start the ignition.
    I pull out of the parking lot and circle the area, concentrating on the sound of Sasha’s tears, but they’re barely above a whimper now. I pull over and type the address of the Beckerman residence into Wes’s GPS, hoping that seeing her house may help evoke her voice more.
    The roads are mostly empty. Strips of light from the streetlamps reflect off the rain-soaked pavement. I take several turns, passing through the center of town, finally arriving at my destination, only five minutes from the campus.
    The Beckerman house is like something straight out of a storybook: a grand Victorian-style home with multiple peaks. A pretty brick walkway leads to a stained-glass front door, illuminated by a porch light.
    Other than the Beckerman house, none of the houses on the street have their outside lights on. The Beckermans must be keeping theirs on for a reason: maybe so that Sasha can find her way home.
    I park out front and wait several seconds for something magical to happen. But the crying voice remains the same, making me feel both stupid and guilty. I never should’ve driven out here or taken Wes’s keys. I reach for my phone, wanting to call him to apologize, but I’m reluctant to wake him again.
    Just as I roll down the window to get some air, my cell phone rings. I pick it up, hoping it’s Ben, that somehow he’s sensing how lost I feel right now. But when I check the screen, I see that it’s Wes.
    “I’m sorry,” I say, in lieu of a hello.
    “You do know that grand-theft auto is a felony, don’t you? Punishable by up to five years in prison?”
    “So, do me a favor and have me arrested. I’ll probably be better off.”
    “Hmm…tempting.”
    “I’m sorry,” I repeat, shaking my head, hating myself for betraying his trust.
    “Just tell me you’re not sitting in front of the Beckerman residence right now, because that would, like, make you a crazy person for sure.”
    I look in the rearview mirror. “You’re not spying on me, are you?”
    “And how would I finagle that one? It’s not like I have a car.”
    “Okay, so then you know me way too well.”
    “You’re certifiable, Camelia.”
    “I know,” I mutter, feeling a crumbling sensation inside my chest.
    “Of course, you’re also sleep-deprived and hearing voices,” he continues. “So, I may have to give you a free pass— this time . Just get your thieving ass back here.”
    “Will do.” I hang up and take one last look at the house, about to pull away. But someone inside has turned on a light. It’s on the second floor, in what I’m guessing may be a bedroom.
    I take off my seat belt, slide over to the passenger side, and search the window in question. A couple of sheer curtains hang at the sides, allowing