The Big Rewind by Libby Cudmore Page A

Joe’s.
    â€œThat and a few other things,” I lied, hoping it would explain the cat food.
    Randy nodded. “Lovelle and I have a box of things other customers have dropped off—some puzzle books, snacks, stuff like that. But if you could pick up some soy cheese and a couple of those egg-free, casein-free cookies they have over at Hotte Lotte, I know he would appreciate it.”
    â€œCan’t you guys just send some egg-free cookies?” I asked. “Those ones that you get are pretty good.” For being dry and disgusting, I thought. I had accidentally ordered one a few months ago when I’d been too hungry to make an informed decisionand had regretted it the whole time it was crumbling in my mouth.
    Randy looked at me like I’d asked him to burn down his store and use the insurance money for bail. “This is about community support, Jett,” he said. “We need to show Bronco that we’re all rallying behind him.”
    â€œI just know he really likes the cookies you guys have—”
    He cut me off. “You’ll be riding with Bryce; he’ll pick you up. Just remember, no raisins in anything. Prisoners can use them to make booze.”
    â€œThey could start a distillery and sell it to hipsters in Williamsburg,” I joked. “I bet guys in seventies running shorts and cop-show mustaches would line up to drink Raisin Jack.”
    Randy didn’t find that funny. Truth is, I didn’t either. I was feeling bitter and mean about everything. He muttered some kind of good-bye and went back to buying kale. I looked at the cat food in my basket and decided that was all I was going to buy. I liked Bronco, but this week, there was only enough cash to feed one man in my life, and it was going to have to be the fluffy one.

Chapter 18
A GIRL IN TROUBLE (IS A TEMPORARY THING)
    M y ride to Rikers was the skinny kid from brunch with the Dr. Who T-shirt, only this time he was wearing a sweater vest over a short-sleeved plaid button-down. He drove a blue Honda Accord that was more rust than metal and had a radio receiver plugged into a Discman. There wasn’t even a clock.
    â€œI’m Bryce,” he said, handing me a cup of coffee. “You’ll have to hold it in your lap—no cup holders.”
    â€œHere,” I said, handing him The Bridge . “To thank you for giving me a ride.”
    He looked at it like I was handing him a dead roach. “Keep it,” he said. Guess I couldn’t blame him for that reaction.
    I got in the front seat and wondered if the car would hold together on the ride. We sat in the heavy morning traffic in silence until he cleared his throat and asked how I knew Bronco. I told him about living upstairs from KitKat, that I knew them both from parties, that I didn’t believe he was capable of this.
    â€œSo . . . ,” he drawled. “Are you the bitch that said Bronco was seen leaving the apartment?”
    â€œNo!” I said insistently. “No. I’m the one that found her body.” I don’t know why I told him that as though it would clearmy name; all it probably did was give me more motive to narc. “I saw him leave that morning, but that wasn’t unusual.”
    â€œYeah, he was over there, but someone got the times mixed up, told the cops he was seen leaving that afternoon. That’s not possible.”
    I drank my coffee. “What, are you his alibi?”
    Bryce sighed and looked at me hard. “Look,” he said. “You can’t tell anyone I told you this, but I know he didn’t do this.”
    â€œSo why can’t I tell anyone?” I replied. “You know, like his lawyer?”
    â€œBecause he doesn’t want it getting out . . . that he was with me. He was doing a muscle show at the Inconvenience Lounge, same as every other Wednesday, and he spent all afternoon getting ready.”
    â€œWhat’s a muscle show?” I asked, and immediately