The Creeping by Alexandra Sirowy Page A

enough to me that I could ask such a bizarre thing of. It’s shorter than I’d like. What would I say anyway? Hey, do you think you could help me remember who took Jeanie Talcott eleven years ago while her murderer is on the loose offing new victims and her body parts might be showing up one by one? Yeah, right. I’m sure people would be banging down my door to help me with that morbid journey into the past. Especially now that I basically have a target on my back. Michaela’s the only other person I could ask, but she never knew Jeanie, since she moved here in the eighth grade. Wait . . . Sam. Sam Worth went to kindergarten with me and Jeanie. The only reason he wasn’t there the day she disappeared was that it was a girly playdate set up by our moms.
    â€œCrap.” I smack my forehead with my palm and glare at my bunny’s smug whiskered face. Even my bunny with stuffing for brainsknows that I screwed up any chance of Sam helping me. He’d probably hang up on me the instant he saw my name on his cell. Or he’d answer to tell me just how little of me there is left. In which case I could assure him that I’m next on a kill list, so there’ll be even less of me left if he refuses to help.
    I scroll through my contacts quickly before losing my nerve. I stab my finger at his name. Once I hear ringing, shame washes over me. I have no right to call Sam for help. No right to ask him to do anything for me. Ever. By the second ring I’m in a cold sweat. I hit end before the third can finish me off.
    I roll off the bed and lie crumpled on my white shag rug. When my parents remodeled the house, Mom argued with me for days about my choice of carpet. She said it wasn’t practical. She didn’t understand that it was soft on my face and I wanted something to curl up on doing homework and talking on the phone. Even though there’s a glaring green stain from a guacamole debacle, I’m glad I didn’t let her talk me out of it. I wish I could crawl into the shag now and hide.
    A buzzing above my head makes me jump. I sit upright and look eagerly at the offending cell. Let it be Zoey calling to give me a chance to explain. It’s not, though. The screen glows blue with Sam’s name in bold black letters. They look angry.
    â€œH-hello,” I stammer. “Sam?”
    â€œYou prank calling me now?” His tone is quiet but not angry.
    â€œNo . . . I mean, I guess I did, since I called and then hung up. Sorry.”
    â€œSorry about calling during dinner and then hanging up, or sorry about what you said to me earlier?”
    â€œBoth.” I’ve recovered my bunny from the pillow and wrap my arms tightly around his mottled gray body. I hope he’ll keep me afloat through this.
    â€œWell, apology accepted, but I have to go—”
    â€œWait a sec. Please,” I squeak. “I—I have no right to ask you this, especially after earlier, but I need your help.” A noise halfway between a snort and a chuckle from the other end. “Did you hear about Jeanie’s mom?”
    â€œYes.”
    Another deep breath on my end. “Okay, so the cops have been here, and they think whoever killed her is the one who took Jeanie and is also connected to the body in the cemetery.”
    â€œAnd? Hate to break it to you, Stella, but my Hardy Boys phase is over, and I’m not much of a detective.”
    â€œThe cops think it was Jeanie’s dad, but it’s not.” Panic makes my tone too high. “I don’t know how I know, but there is no way it’s him. I just know it’s not. I—”
    â€œOkay, I hear you. It’s not Mr. Talcott.”
    I take a long, silent breath and let it out slowly. Sam believes me just like that. Zoey doubted me, but Sam doesn’t. “Daniel is back in town.”
    â€œSince when? For how long? Have you seen him? What does your dad say?” He’s louder