Free Some Like It Hot by Zoey Dean Page B

at the Crossroads School in Santa Monica, where the most liberal Los Angeles families who could afford the tuition sent their kids. Cammie had gone there for a while—until her mom died, in fact. Donna had been quiet, introspective, soft-spoken—the exact opposite of Cammie's father. In fact, she'd been perfect. At least that's how Cammie remembered her.
    If one parent
had
to die, why couldn't it have been her son-of-a-bitch father? Of course, she understood full well how if that had happened she'd have been one of those valley girls buying a prom dress at Proms R Us in Sylmar, because that's all they would have been able to afford on her mother's schoolteacher salary.
    That terrible night ten years ago, her father had awak-ened to find her mother missing. He'd immediately called the Coast Guard on the Strikers' ship-to-shore. When he was interviewed by the police, he claimed he'd taken a sleeping pill and hadn't realized she had never come to bed—he'd been out like a light since ten o'clock. The Strikers' story was that everything had been lovely on the yacht that night. No fighting, and only a single bottle of Cristal shared four ways. They'd been as surprised as Clark Sheppard to awaken and find Donna gone without a trace.
    But that made no sense to Cammie. For one thing, her father would never share a bottle of Cristal with three other people, if only on principle. Plus, she remembered, even after all these years, how her parents and the Strikers would get sloshed together. She recalled, on one occasion, walking in to see Mrs. Striker sitting on her father's lap. That memory made her feel like puking; she quickly banished it from her brain.
    Cammie gritted her teeth to keep herself from tearing up. The hardest thing was that her mother's body had never been recovered. At the Forest Lawn Cemetery, the headstone was merely symbolic, though she gave it the same respect as if her mother were actually buried there.
    Mom. Mommy. How could you leave me?
    Once when Cammie was about twelve, a bird had managed to fly into the chimney of one of the six fireplaces in their new mansion, and the bird had headed straight for Cammie's room. It was a small yellow finch, and it perched on the silver headboard of Cammie's bed as if it belonged there. Yellow had been Cammie's mother's favorite color. She'd wanted the bird to stay, hadn't even called anyone to tell them it was there. But then she went off to school, and when she returned, the bird was gone.
    Though Cammie had never told anyone, she always wondered if that bird had been … more than a bird.
    “Where'd you go?” Adam asked softly. His voice pulled her out of her musings; he put his large hands on her hips.
    “Just thinking.” She nudged her chin toward the distant yacht. Adam knew all about her mother. She'd told him everything. Except this: “Today is her birthday.”
    “Your mom's?”
    Cammie nodded.
    Adam turned her around and held her fast as a bigger-than-average wave rolled by.
    “That's tough.” He kissed her lightly. “Want dry land?”
    She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. They waded back to the beach and padded to their blanket, using two oversize black towels to dry off.
    “Remember in Vegas, Cam? When you asked me if I'd help you find out what really happened to your mom that night?”
    Cammie nodded. She
had
asked him.
    “Well, I asked my parents to see what they could find out. I mean, they're lawyers. They can get access to all kinds of stuff that we can't.”
    Cammie felt her throat close. Yes, she'd mentioned it to him, but she hadn't expected he would do anything about it. The idea that he'd actually followed through made her feel … what? Threatened. Scared. Closed down.
    “Why did you do that?” She struggled to keep her voice steady.
    He looked bewildered. “You asked me to.”
    She tossed her towel on the blanket, allowing anger, which covered her fear, to percolate. “No, I didn't. I mean, we talked about it, but I never told you