Free Dangerous Lies by Becca Fitzpatrick

are really Jimbo and Billy John?”
    “This is Nebraska.”
    He had a point.
    “I know exactly where your bike is,” Chet said, making a hard and illegal U-turn in the intersection. I grabbed the granny handle for balance as the tires clipped the curb. “Where?”
    “Junkyard.”
    “They steal bikes and dump them in the junkyard?”
    “Nothing better to do. They live in a trailer park near the railroad tracks. Dad’s a drunk and on his way to join his wife, who died of cirrhosis of the liver a few years ago. The Charlton boys don’t go to school, don’t have jobs, and don’t pay taxes. Rumor has it they’ve both made inappropriate advances on their little sister, Millie Sue.”
    “Ew.”
    “Town disgraces, Jimbo and Billy John.”
    Well. That’s what happened when people got stuck in a place like Thunder Basin. Once the inbreeding started, it was all downhill. Drug dealers, bike thieves, and perverts, the whole lot of them.
    *  *  *
    Thunder Basin’s junkyard was framed by a high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Chet parked at the rear of the sprawling acreage to avoid being seen by the attendant at the front gate. We weren’t likely to get in trouble for trespassing, Chet assured me, but if we went through the front gates, we’d have to pay for any property we left with. I wasn’t paying for a bike that was mine—Carmina’s, technically—to begin with.
    Chet walked along the outer perimeter of the fence and went right to the spot where the chains had been cut to form a hidden seam. “When Dusty was twelve, the Charlton brothers took his bike. Haven’t changed their M.O. in years.”
    We slipped through the fence, walking down rows of old cars piled three high, and ancient appliances. We passed a mountain of tires, axles, and other car parts. Retired tractors and farm equipment had also made their way into the junkyard. Chet turned down a row, and at the end of it, I saw a large hill of dirt. Atop the hill was Carmina’s green beach cruiser.
    “That’s it!” I said, quickening my pace.
    I came to an abrupt stop at the base of the hill, dismayed to find the dirt had a sticky, mudlike consistency and was strewn with hay. It smelled awful. I was a city girl, but I didn’t need to live on a farm to know that I was standing before a heaping pile of fresh manure.
    “I’m going to kill the Charlton brothers,” I muttered vengefully.
    Chet clapped me on the shoulder. “First step’s the hardest, kid.”
    I glanced at him hopefully. “I don’t suppose . . .”
    Chet flipped his palms up and backed away. “No way. You’re on your own.”
    I took one tentative step onto the manure. My sandal sank easily. Wrinkling my nose, I let my thoughts travel to a myriad of gruesome ways I could dismember Jimbo and Billy John Charlton. Knives. Chain saws. An ice pick. My own two hands.
    After slipping and sliding my way uphill, at last I had the bike in my hands. Digging in my heels to steady my footing, I sent the bike wheeling down to Chet. I got my hands dirty in the process, and had to close my eyes and count to ten to keep my composure. When I reopened my eyes, I risked a glance down, and was mortified to discover that my sandals had sunk completely into the manure; it was creeping up my bare ankles.
    I couldn’t help it; I shrieked.
    “If it makes you feel better, cows are vegetarians,” Chet called up cheerfully.
    “What will make me feel better is a shower!”
    Tamping down the queasiness rolling in my stomach, I jogged downhill as fast as I could without risking a fall. At the bottom, I kicked my feet at the air, flinging off any clumps of manure clinging to my heels, then took several deep, steadying breaths. After a minute, I’d managed to suppress my gag reflex.
    “Where do they live?” I demanded, already striding toward the back of the junkyard, where Chet’s Scout was parked. “Where can I find those two dirtbags?”
    Chet waved me off, a strange gleam in his eyes. “Nah,