with each question. âDo the cops know? You donât think it was him, do you?â
âSam,â I shout over him. âOf course it wasnât Daniel. Just like I know it wasnât Jeanieâs dad. Daniel was just a kid when Jeanie went missing, and no matter how much of a freak you think he is, you canât actually believe heâd ever kill his mother. What matters is that the cops are arresting Jeanieâs dad for something he didnât do, and theyâre worried whoeverâs responsible might target me next. I have to remember, Sam. And if I canât remember, then we at least have to prove it wasnât Jeanieâs dad.â
â We? What we, Stella? Just this morning you told me I was too nice to you. That we each had our own friends.â He half sniffs, half snorts. âNo, sorry, you told me I had my own âstuff.â Canât Zoey help you on your crusade to save an innocent man? Canât your dad, you know, the lawyer ?â
âZoey wonât help. Sheâs angry, and I canât ask Dad. Heâll tell me to stay out of it. Youâre the only one who remembers Jeanie. You can help me figure out what happened. Look, it sucks that Iâm asking you. But Iâm asking anyway.â I stop, brimming so full of shame I imagine it leaking onto the floor and turning my white carpet brown. I cover my stuffed animalâs face so he doesnât have to witness how horrible I am.
âYou are completely out of your mind for calling me like this after everything.â I wince, bracing myself for Samâs next words. âIâll be at your house tomorrow morning at eleven. Be ready, because Iâm not coming in. Iâll honk.â With that, he hangs up. Leaving me with my mouth gaping open, searching my bunnyâs face for the same shock I feel.
Chapter Seven
T rue to his word, Samâs horn blares at 10:59 the next morning. I race downstairs, purse slung over my shoulder, scouring the floor below for my violet ballet flats. Iâm hopping on one foot, then the other, slipping each on, as I burst through the front door. The news crews left late last night, the hum of their engines jolting me from sleep. A single police car sits idling. I hold up an index finger for Sam, who peers at me through the windshield of his beat-up teal station wagonâone of the many reasons Zoeyâs dubbed him the King of Loserdomâand hurry over to the cops.
The officer with pimply skinâwho somehow manages to look even younger in the sunless morning lightârolls the passenger-side window down. He smacks his lips loudly, chewing a massive wad of gum.
âGood morning, Ms. Cambren.â His voice is artificially low, trying for older but failing miserably.
âGood morning.â I wave to his partner slouching behind thewheel, devouring a bagel and lox. âUmm . . . Iâm headed out.â I angle my head toward Samâs car. âWeâre just going to the mall and then coming right back.â I spin on my toes as soon as Iâve finished and run for the wagon. He calls after me, but I donât stop. They can follow us if theyâre that worried.
âHey,â I say to Sam, throwing myself into the passenger seat of the wagon.
âMorning.â Sam avoids my eyes and devotes all his energy to backing the car out of the driveway. One of those cheesy car fresheners in the shape of a tree swings from the mirror. Cedar, I think.
After a block of Sam keeping the speedometer at ten miles under the speed limit, I laugh. âSo not only does your car smell like an old ladyâs closet, you drive like one too?â
He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. âBe sure to add that to your list of complaints about me. I donât really want to get a ticket from your illustrious police escort.â Some people can pull off sarcasm; Sam canât. Itâs forced and clunky, like my accent in
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