I shove my lunch back into the fridge and then hurry back to my office, walking as fast as I can without drawing attention to myself. As soon as the door is locked behind me, I collapse into my chair, pull out my phone, and dial Rodriguez’s number.
“Sandra von Meller,” I say immediately, before his greeting is even all the way out of his mouth. “High school student. Did she volunteer at the food bank? Do you know her?”
“Yeah, I know Sandy. She comes two weekends a month,” Rodriguez says, sounding confused. “Why?—”
“Do you know what kind of car she drives?” I’m flying by the seat of my pants with this hunch, but I fire the questions off anyway. “Have you seen it? Do you remember color or anything?”
“Eh, I don’t know,” Rodriguez says, and he sounds a bit impatient now. “Why are you asking this? It’s some little white thing, I think.” He pauses. “Weird bumper stickers.”
My heart freezes in my chest. It freezes right over, glassy ice halting all operations.
“Thanks,” I say, sounding dazed. “See you later.” And then I hang up, cutting short Rodriguez’s questions but leaving me with more of my own. That’s the car that was following me, I’m almost sure.
Why was Sandra von Meller following me?
I pull out my phone and send a text to Sheriff Garrity:I looked in the yearbook, and I think the girl we saw was named Sandra von Meller. She’s a junior at the high school.
He doesn’t respond.
When I get home, I’m tired, grumpy, and full of half-baked ideas that won’t let me rest. But one thing does get a smile out of me: a note on the refrigerator that readsCaroline was happy to oblige, and under that, an old photo of me with an earring.
* Maybe it’s just because I’m an author, but there’s something magical about libraries and dusty books, isn’t there?
* Listen toLittle Houseby The Fray here!
* One of the hardest parts of writing for me is coming up with names I haven’t already used. My mind always goes to the same five names until I’m stuck looking through baby name lists.
* There was a time when Nessa was going to have her own story, but that didn’t pan out, unfortunately.
12
IN WHICH JUNIPER ADDS TO THE MURDER BOARD
Downward-facing dog is my least favorite yoga pose.
It’s not that it’s difficult, necessarily—it requires strength and flexibility, yes, but really I just hate the feeling of blood rushing to my head. I also hate feeling like everyone is staring at my butt in the air.
Which is ridiculous. No one is staring at my butt in the air, because everyone else’s butts are in the air too. We all have blood rushing to our heads right now, and the only things we’re staring at are our yoga mats.
I dislike it anyway. But I do it, because I am being paid by one perpetually smiling man to teach yoga classes every afternoon.
And look. The smiling thing?
It’s getting a little weird.
I don’t have a problem with happy people. In fact, I like them. I like happy people. It’s just…Gus smilesall the time.
All.
The.
Time.
I bet when that man wakes up in the morning, he’s already grinning from ear to ear. At this point I just don’t see how thatwouldn’tbe true. I watched him get a drink from the drinking fountain yesterday, and the only time that smile stopped was when his lips actively had to close to swallow the water. Never fear, though; those pearly whites showed right back up afterward.
And they stayed. They stayed for the rest of my shift, they were there when I arrived this afternoon, and they’re still there now.
Extra pearly. Extra white.
