Free Jex Malone by C.L. Gaber, V.C. Stanley

sugar milk. He’s good.
    I demand a do-over.
    Too late.
    â€œOkay great!” Dad says in a satisfied voice. “Be ready at seven and, you know, dress up a little bit, honey, because like I said, this place is fancy, but not that fancy, so use your own good judgment.” His voice is cheerful now and he fumbles for the right words.
    Oh man, now what have I gotten myself into if he’s this happy?
    Must. Not. Think. About. Girlfriend. Happier thoughts: The. Dead. Girl.
    The words in the case file come flooding back into my brain.
    Is Patty dead? Why didn’t they find her body? What about the blood? Did it match? Did Nancy Drew ever deal with real death? Back to Patty. Was her dad that scary? Did he kill her during a drunken rage? And what about the boyfriend? Something about him seemed fishy. Why was he spending a big holiday-bash kind of night with someone else? Was it another girl? What a jackass. Plus, how could the mom not know that Patty’s bed was empty? What a crappy mom.
    If this were a movie, the girl would be toast and her outraged father played by some over-thirty actor just developing fine lines and wrinkles would be kicking some major
bee-hind.
I banish that thought because this isn’t a movie. It’s real and it’s scary.
    A girl who wasn’t much older than me was probably kidnapped and killed and she lived—emphasis on the past tense—right around the corner.
    Why didn’t Dad do something more back then? Why didn’t he find the body? Maybe—just maybe—he’s not just a sucky dad, but also a sucky cop? Wouldn’t that just be my luck? He left us to be this great cop and he sucked at it.
    â€œSee ya at seven o’clock, not a minute later,” I hear him shout from the front door. “Text me if you need anything before then.”
    Before I can reply, I hear the door slam shut.
    Yeah, Dad. Don’t even wait for me to say goodbye.
    I text Cissy to come over and two seconds later: Bam! A hand raps hard on the sliding door and I almost jump out of my skin. “I just texted you,” I tell her.
    â€œI know, but you sounded a little weirded out,” Cissy replies with that eager puppy-dog look in her eyes. It’s nice and it makes me believe that she really cares.
    It’s like we’re real friends and not like we just met five minutes ago.
    â€œHow can I sound weird in a text?” I ask her, but she’s not hurt by my question.
    â€œYou just did. I’m not wrong, am I?” she answers. “Deva says I have very advanced emotional intelligence. Or at least that’s what she said when I got my report card at the end of last semester and it wasn’t very good.
    â€œSo, you know, I thought I’d just come over and see if you needed me,” says Cissy, looking hard at her flip-flops.
    Cissy is looking so nervous, kind of like someone on the first day of school who doesn’t know anyone in her class. She’s sweet even if it’s a little weird that she just materializes out of nowhere.
    Two words come to mind:
Real friends
.
    â€œIt’s kind of nothing. I just have to have dinner with my dad’s girlfriend and I was just trying to remember what you told me about her,” I divulge.
    Cissy rolls her eyes. Love. This. Girl. Already.
    But let’s not get too emotional when we have a murder to solve.
    â€œPop-Tart?” I offer. She nods her head vigorously and wiggles her body into a chair pulled up to the kitchen table. She whistles for the dog and when the big fur ball settles on Cissy’s feet, she’s happy—and I’m not talking about the dog. The dog rolls over, all four paws shooting straight up in the air, to obviously cheer Cissy’s arrival.
    She’s ready to talk.
    â€œWhat do you want to know?” Cissy eagerly offers. “I can tell you lots about her. I was an assistant in the PE office fall semester. I know
everything.
My mom says I have