And? What is he getting at? I wait for Creed to figure out his thoughts.
“Dances are a quintessential high school experience. Just like sports. We’re missing out on that.”
They’re also the cause of most teen pregnancies and the spread of STDs. “Do you want that to change?”
Creed stops and turns to me. “I think so. It’s not like I have anyone to go with. But still, I think we should have the option to go.”
The boy is right. School dances weren’t my favorite part of high school—that was shop class—but I didn’t hate them either. “I’ll have a conversation with your principal.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
I nod and go back to staring at my coffee mug. Why did Greer ask that? And why didn’t I notice that before?
“Dad, whatever it is, you should go talk to her about it.” Creed scoops scrambled eggs onto two plates. “She’s a really nice woman. I’m sure you can work whatever it is out.”
For a nice woman, she sounded pretty determined. “That’s not an option.”
The silent alarm goes off. There’s a car outside. I jump on any distraction from this train of conversation and flip on the security cameras.
There isn’t one car. There are two limos and a town car standing in front of Greer's house.
“What do you think is going on there?” Creed stares at the screen.
“No idea.”
Drivers—at least I think they’re drivers, a couple of them look like they’re packing—get out and open the backseat doors.
A woman steps out of each of the limos. One is dressed like a CEO who’s bored with the world. The other is in jeans, a t-shirt, and a pair of high-top sneakers. The women walk up to each other, chatting away as the door to the sedan behind them opens, and a woman in a 50s-style dress steps out.
She feels oddly familiar.
“Isn’t that The Cake Lady?”
That’s how I know her. “It is.”
“What’s she doing at Greer’s house?”
“No idea.” Maybe Greer is throwing a party.
One of the drivers hands a huge basket to the CEO as The Cake Lady bends over and takes a huge box out of the backseat of her car.
“It looks like they’re getting ready for a party.” Creed’s right. “It’s the middle of the week. And none of those people look cheerful or happy.”
“Whatever’s happening, it’s none of our business.” A cop car pulls up as I’m about to turn the screen off.
“Why’d a cop from Urbium drive all the way out here?”
That’s a really good question. “Don’t know.” But my eyes are glued to the screen like I was watching an alien landing on Earth for the first time.
Out of the driver’s side steps a long, lean woman in a pair of jeans with an okay-ish blouse—it flatters her figure but doesn’t look like she sold a kidney for it—and a lightweight jacket. If I were a gambler, I’d bet she was a detective. Instead of walking over to the other women, she loops around the car and reaches into the passenger seat.
“Are those bagels?” Creed spears his eggs with his fork but doesn’t take his eyes from the screen.
“They sure are.” This is nonsense. I click the screen off. “Whatever is happening is none of our business.”
“Well, that’s no fun.” He shoves the eggs into his mouth.
It isn’t, but it’s true. I don’t need to be wondering if those women are Greer’s friends. Nor do I need to wonder why they’re visiting her this morning. Was it a planned visit? Or did they just show up?
