Free Deadly by Sarah Harvey Page B

probably at Shawna’s house, wherever that is.
    â€œHi, Ms. Lessard. I haven’t seen Amy since last night. At the party.”
    â€œWhat party?”
    Oh shit. Amy told her mom she was going to Monica’s place to work on a dance routine. Ms. Lessard is very down on parties. It occurs to me that down on is the opposite of down with . I smile to myself. Amy would think that was funny too.
    â€œEric? What party? Where?”
    When I don’t answer right away she says, “Eric, I don’t care about the party. I just need to know where she is.”
    â€œI left the party early—we had a fight.”
    â€œA fight?”
    â€œYeah. No big deal. I wanted to go, she wanted to stay. She said she’d call a cab to get home.”
    â€œYou left her there. Alone.” It sounds more like a statement than an accusation. But I still feel the need to defend myself. Ms. Lessard is always nice to me, but I don’t think she trusts me, exactly.
    â€œHer friends were there. And she wasn’t drunk or anything. And she’d never get a ride with someone who’d been drinking. Never. You know that.”
    There’s silence on the other end of the line, as if both Beth and her mother are holding their breath. Remembering.
    â€œCall me if you hear anything, Eric,” Ms. Lessard finally says. “Anything at all.”
    I ride my bike over to the party house—or what I think is the party house. It’s in a neighborhood I don’t usually go to. The houses are old and run-down and chopped into apartments. The front yards are mostly paved over and filled with crap—rusty car parts, battered kids’ toys. Lots of chainlink fencing and bars over windows. But there’s the house. I know it’s the right one because I remember the neon Bud Light sign in the front window. It’s still lit, as if the bar is still open. But there is no bar. And the front door is opened by a tired-looking woman with a toddler clinging to her knee.
    â€œWhat do you want?” she says.
    â€œUh, I’m looking for my girlfriend.”
    â€œYou one of Devon’s friends?” She squints at me. Not unfriendly. More like she needs glasses. She’s not as old as I first thought. Maybe in her late teens.
    I don’t know anyone named Devon, but I nod. If Devon threw the party, I need to talk to him.
    She sighs. “You help trash my house last night?” She swings the door wide open, and I can see the mess inside.
    It smells vile, like piss and booze and cigarettes and vomit.
    â€œNo way,” I say. “I left early. I’m really sorry though.”
    She shrugs and picks up the toddler. “Not your fault, I guess. No girls here though. Just my lazy-ass brother.”
    â€œCan I talk to him?”
    She steps aside and motions toward a door decorated with a Tupac poster. I bang on the door and a muffled voice says, “Eff off, Cara.”
    Cara steps up to the door and opens it. “Watch your mouth, Devon,” she says. “You got a visitor. And it’s time to clean up.”
    Devon groans and rolls over in his bed, turning his back to the door.
    â€œUnca Devvy sleepy,” the toddler says.
    â€œNot anymore, sweetie,” Cara replies. She hands me the kid and steps across the room to yank her brother out of bed. She’s pretty strong—or else he’s wasted. Either way, Devon stumbles past me as Cara drags him into a small messy kitchen. I’m still holding the toddler, who starts to cry. Cara says to Devon, “This guy’s looking for his girlfriend. Tell him what you know and then get your shoes on—there’s broken glass everywhere. Haley and I are going to her Water Babies class—and this place better be clean by the time we get back. Understood?”
    Devon nods as his sister takes Haley from me and leaves the room. He slumps in the chair and puts his head on the table.
    â€œI was here last night,”