Free The Chosen One by T. B. Markinson Page B

ashtray, deep in thought.
    “And she didn’t say another word in the car?” she asked.
    “She thanked me for driving when I pulled up in front of her building.” I sat up on the couch. Grover snorted his disgust at being jostled. “Sorry, Grover.” I stroked his head. “There was a moment when I thought she was going to say more, but she clammed up and said she’d see me Monday.”
    “Monday?” Fiona’s eyes widened with hope.
    I squashed it. “We have class together.”
    Grover sighed. I sank into the couch, and he settled on my lap again.
    “Right.” Fiona leaned back against the sofa, taking a long, dramatic drag on her cigarette.
    I pulled the hood of the sweatshirt over my head and tightened the strings. “Do you think it happened again?”
    “I don’t see Maya doing something like that. She’s not Cassidy, and she’s nothing like Bottlenose.”
    Just to be sure, Fiona checked out Susie’s blog. No updates since last night. If she had footage of me crashing and burning, it would be up already.
    “But who is she?”
    “Good question. Who is Maya the Gray? Have you googled her?”
    I shook my head. “I hate when people google me.”
    Fiona nodded. “I know, but…”
    “But we want to know. I want to know.” I yanked off the hood.
    Grover barked his approval.
    Fee laughed at her dog. “Well, that settles it. We have to find out who she is. I didn’t peg her as the theatrical type, but…”
    “That’s just it. She isn’t your typical teenage drama queen. Hell, she’s not even a teenager anymore. And I don’t think she’s playing hard to get. It’s bigger than you and I can imagine, I suspect.”
    Fiona flipped her laptop open. “What’s her last name?”
    “Chandler.”
    “Maya Chandler,” Fiona parroted as she typed the name into the search bar. “There aren’t too many on Facebook, actually.” She scrolled down. None of the pictures matched. “Does she have a middle name? Maybe she goes by Maya Ann or something.”
    “I don’t know. But earlier today she mentioned people’s private lives should remain private.”
    “Okay, so not the social media type. Do you have a photo? Maybe we’ll find something she doesn’t even know is out there. The Web is worse than Big Brother.”
    I had snapped a photo earlier in the day when Maya wasn’t looking. I e-mailed it to Fiona.
    Annoyed by the commotion, Grover jumped off the couch and settled on his bed with a bone big enough for a Doberman.
    “This is how they do it on Catfish .” She opened a Google browser page, clicked on “images” and then on the camera icon in the search bar and uploaded Maya’s photo. No exact matches. None of the suggested possibilities bore any resemblance.
    “Phone number?” Fiona’s attempt not to sound desperate was admirable. How many people our age, besides us, didn’t have any social media accounts?
    I shook my head. “Only her school e-mail.”
    We stared at the MacBook, crestfallen.
    “That’s it!” Fiona slapped her thigh. “Chuck.”
    “Chuck?”
    “My buddy, Chuck. He’s like the computer whiz Garcia on Criminal Minds . If there’s information out there, he’ll find it.”
    “Oh, I don’t know, Fee. She was adamant this morning that private lives are off-limits. I just don’t know.” I palmed the top of my head with both hands, smoothing my curly locks.
    Fee gripped her cell phone. “It’s not you digging. It’s me.”
    “But…”
    “Another Cassidy is not going to happen on my watch.” Before I could stop her, Fiona was e-mailing Chuck, giving him all the details, which didn’t include much. Her name, Puerto Rican heritage, Wyoming, the class we had together, and the street I picked her up on. It didn’t strike me as odd until Fiona asked me her address. Maya had never provided a physical address. Instead, she’d said she’d meet me on the corner of Commonwealth and Massachusetts Avenue. When she’d suggested the location, it made perfect sense. Parking in the