Ugh. Now I can’t decide whether to be freaked or annoyed.
I’m leaning toward annoyed. Sighing, I look down, toe the square. It’s wrapped up like a small, thin present. The bow on top is a little smushed, but the ribbons wave enthusiastically in the chill night breeze.
Crap. Even though I’m pretty sure this ranks right up there with taking candy from strangers, I really want to know what’s in there. Why would he want me to have it?
I pick up the present and press it to one ear. No ticking. Doesn’t smell funny either. Does that mean it’s safe? I have no idea.
I work one finger into the wrapping paper seams and pull the tape away. Underneath, there’s a thin line of ribbed plastic. It feels like a DVD case.
I rip off the wrapping paper, find a DVD case. The cover is homemade, one of those white cardboard labels where you write in your title with a marker. Whoever did this one used a thin-tipped pen, making the words hard to read in the dark.
I lean the case toward the floodlights and my stomach bottoms out. The cover says:
June Interviews
And below:
Sia Tate
That’s my mom. My real mom. She committed suicide four years ago, left my sister and me alone with our drug-dealer father. I hate her. I should pitch the case across the yard on principle.
I should . . . I end up opening it. Inside, there’s a glossy DVD and, on the other side of the label, someone wrote:
Enjoy
“Wick?”
I jerk, nearly dropping the DVD. Bren is standing a few feet from me, cell phone in one hand, car keys in the other. “Are you done giving your statement?”
Hell yes I am. I clutch the DVD to my chest and hop up, ready to bolt when Carson reappears. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Callaway. I need to ask Wicket a few more questions.”
Bren frowns. “Detective, Wick was with me. She doesn’t know anything more than any of us do about—”
“Please, Mrs. Callaway, the death may be drug related.” Carson’s eyes swing to me, and, before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve jammed the DVD under my costume’s skirt. “Unfortunately, Wick has a better perspective than most civilians on that sort of thing.”
The reminder ripples through Bren. Her eyes briefly close. “Are you okay with that, Wick?” She looks at me. “Do you want me to stay with you?”
And risk slipping up and revealing what I do with my free time? No way. I shake my head, string up a smile. “It’s okay. I’ll meet you at the car.”
Bren nods, turning to thread through the crowd, heading in the same direction Hart took.
“Drug related?” I ask.
Carson shrugs. “Baines was here, wasn’t he?”
“He was nowhere near the victim.” I hesitate. “Who was she anyway?”
“Bay’s assistant, Chelsea Martin.” Carson waves one hand like he’s flicking away a fly. “I think those words—remember me—are a message. It’s Bay’s assistant, Bay’s house, Bay’s party. It’s got to mean something for him.”
I hate to admit it, but I agree. During those first hysterical moments, Bren had me pulled tight against her, facing away from the dead girl. I ended up staring straight at Bay. I saw him see the body, watched the sight sink into his blood and bones, turn his face green then gray.
The judge didn’t look horrified. He looked . . . resigned, like this had been inevitable.
“I thought it was interesting that he went for his phone right off,” I say.
Carson snorts. “Calling nine-one-one is a common practice when you find a dead body.”
“Yeah, I just don’t think he did.” I straighten the hem of my dress and decide I’m pretty badass for sounding fine when my insides have turned to sludge. “He was on the phone too long, talking and talking and then, finally, just listening, even after the medics arrived. If he had been talking to nine-one-one, he would have hung up.”
Carson’s eyes inch over me. “You see anything else?”
“Not really.”
“The girl’s BlackBerry was stolen. What do you think that means?”
I shrug. “Could be a lot. Could be nothing.”
“I think it’s something. Associating with Baines like that, the murder . . . I think the judge is dirty.”
Again, I hate to agree with Carson. He’s right though. Something’s very wrong here. It’s more than just having Baines around. Once upon a time, Judge Bay denied every restraining order my mom—my real mom—requested against my father. He threw out evidence, postponed hearings—it was almost like he wanted to help my father.
“I want you to take him down, Wick.”
And suddenly, Carson’s interest in Baines makes sense. The dealer’s small. He might lead to something bigger though. Like one of my dad’s captains. Like a judge.