Panic by Sharon M. Draper Page B

swiftly changed Shasta’s bed. She smoothed the blankets and patted the pillows, then motioned Shasta to climb up.
    â€œSmells good,” Shasta said.
    â€œYeah, I like clean sheets. Maybe they’ll help you sleep better tonight.”
    â€œProbably not, if Diamond isn’t home yet.”
    â€œShe’ll come home soon.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œBecause she loves you, and she knows you’re worried about her.”
    â€œRemember when I asked if I could come to the mall with you and Diamond?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œIf I had been there, Diamond wouldn’t be missing.” Shasta started wailing. “She wouldn’t have left me alone in the food court.”
    â€œShe never would have—you’re right. But you can’t beat yourself up over what happened. That’s what everybody keeps telling me.”
    â€œNobody thinks a food court in a mall is dangerous,” Shasta said. “Except sometimes the food is nasty.”
    â€œTrue that.”
    They sat in silence for a few minutes, then Shasta said, “Mama said I can’t go to dance class. She won’t even let me go to school tomorrow.”
    â€œShe’s just being careful. Are you all coming to the candlelight vigil tonight?” Mercedes asked.
    â€œYeah. We’ll be there.” Shasta paused. “Uh, Mercedes, can I ask you something?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œWhat’s a vigil? Everybody keeps talking about it, but . . . I was afraid to ask. It sounds kinda scary.”
    Mercedes pulled Shasta close. “It’s where all of Diamond’s friends will gather tonight to pray for her safe return. It should be nice.”
    â€œOkay. Thanks. All I knew was that it was outside, in the dark.”
    Mercedes gave her a hug. “Hey, you want something to eat? There’s good food downstairs.”
    Shasta shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”
    â€œNot even for my mom’s chocolate cake?”
    Shasta gave a little giggle. “Well, maybe a little.”
    Mercedes left Shasta scribbling in a notebook rather than on the walls. At the bottom of the steps, she ran into Mrs. Landers.
    â€œMercedes, one of the officers wants to speak with you—he’s a computer expert and profiler.”
    â€œSure, anything to help.”
    Diamond’s mother led her toward a youngish-looking man with sandy brown hair. He offered his hand to Mercedes. “Thanks for speaking to me. I’m Officer Rockside, and I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
    He motioned for her to sit at a chair in the dining room, where Diamond’s Dell laptop with the custom-made rose-covered cover lay on the table, cords running to and from it. It was attached to a larger computer, which the police must have set up.
    Diamond would sizzle if she knew someone was going through her personal stuff—her e-mails, her Facebook postings, her online history—was Mercedes’ first thought.
    â€œWhat are you looking for on Diamond’s computer?” she asked.
    â€œAny kind of clue that might help us find her. You and Diamond are pretty close friends, right?”
    â€œYeah, we’ve been tight since grade school.”
    â€œWould you know if she’d been talking to someone online, someone not in your usual circle of friends?”
    â€œYes, I would, and she wasn’t!”
    â€œHow can you be sure?”
    â€œWe tell each other everything.”
    â€œEverything?”
    â€œYeah, pretty much.”
    â€œAre you aware she’d been talking on Facebook to someone named Justin Braddock?”
    Mercedes had to stifle a smirk. “He’s a guy in our dance class. He goes to our school; he’s our friend.”
    The officer didn’t respond, but jotted a few lines in his notebook. “So you know him?”
    â€œI just told you. He’s in our class at Crystal Pointe Dance Academy. If she’s texted or