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  Vee ex­pel­led a lu­xu­ri­o­us sigh. "I lo­ve drugs. Re­al­ly. They're ama­zing. Even bet­ter than an En­zo cap­puc­ci­no. Hey, that rhymed. En­zo cap­puc­ci­no. It's a sign. I'm des­ti­ned to be a po­et. Want to he­ar anot­her po­em? I'm go­od at imp­romp­tu."

  "Uh-"

  A nur­se swis­hed in and tin­ke­red aro­und with Vee's IV. "Fe­eling okay?" she as­ked Vee.

  "For­get be­ing a po­et," Vee sa­id. "I'm des­ti­ned for stand-up co­medy. Knock, knock."

  "What?" I sa­id.

  The nur­se rol­led her eyes. "Who's the­re?"

  "Crab," sa­id Vee.

  "Crab who?"

  "Crab yo­ur to­wel, we're go­ing to the be­ach!"

  "May­be a lit­tle less pa­in­kil­lers," I told the nur­se.

  "Too la­te. I just ga­ve her anot­her do­se. Wa­it un­til you see her in ten mi­nu­tes." She swis­hed back out the do­or.

  "So?" I as­ked Vee. "What's the ver­dict?"

  "The ver­dict? My doc­tor is a lard-arse. Clo­sely re­semb­les an Oom­pa-Lo­om­pa. Don't gi­ve me yo­ur se­ve­re lo­ok. Last ti­me he ca­me in, he bro­ke in­to the Funk) Chic­ken. And he's fo­re­ver eating cho­co­la­te. Mostly cho­co­la­te ani­mals. You know the so­lid cho­co­la­te bun­ni­es they're sel­ling for Eas­ter? That's what the Oom­pa-Lo­om­pa ate for din­ner. Had a cho­co­la­te duck at lunch with a si­de of yel­low Pe­eps."

  "I me­ant the ver­dict…" I po­in­ted at the me­di­cal pa­rap­her­na­lia ador­ning her.

  "Oh. One bus­ted arm, a con­cus­si­on, and as­sor­ted cuts, scra­pes, and bru­ises. For­tu­na­tely for my qu­ick ref­le­xes, I jum­ped out of the way be­fo­re any ma­j­or da­ma­ge was do­ne. When it co­mes to ref­le­xes, I'm li­ke a cat. I'm Cat­wo­man. I'm in­vul­ne­rab­le. The only re­ason he got a pi­ece of me is be­ca­use of the ra­in. Cats don't li­ke wa­ter. It im­pa­irs us. It's our krypto­ni­te."

  "I'm so sorry," I told Vee sin­ce­rely. "I sho­uld be the one in the hos­pi­tal bed."

  "And get all the drugs? Uh-uh. No way."

  "Ha­ve the po­li­ce fo­und any le­ads?" I as­ked.

  "Na­da, zilch, ze­ro."

  "No eye­wit­nes­ses?"

  "We we­re at a ce­me­tery in the mid­dle of a ra­ins­torm," Vee po­in­ted out. "Most nor­mal pe­op­le we­re in­do­ors."

  She was right. Most nor­mal pe­op­le had be­en in­do­ors. Of co­ur­se, Vee and I had be­en out… along with the myste­ri­o­us girl who fol­lo­wed Vee out of Vic­to­ria's Sec­ret.

  "How did it hap­pen?" I as­ked.

  "I was wal­king to the ce­me­tery li­ke we plan­ned, when all of a sud­den I he­ard fo­ots­teps clo­sing in be­hind me," Vee exp­la­ined. "That's when I lo­oked back, and everyt­hing ca­me to­get­her re­al­ly fast. The­re was the flash of a gun, and him lun­ging for me. Li­ke I told the cops, my bra­in wasn't exactly trans­mit­ting, 'Get a vi­su­al ID.' It was mo­re li­ke, 'Holy fre­ak show, I'm abo­ut to go splat!' He grow­led, whac­ked me three or fo­ur ti­mes with the gun, grab­bed my hand­bag, and ran."

  I was mo­re con­fu­sed than ever. "Wa­it. It was a guy? You saw his fa­ce?"

  "Of co­ur­se it was a guy. He had dark eyes… char­co­al eyes. But that's all I saw. He was we­aring a ski mask."

  At the men­ti­on of the ski mask, my he­art skit­te­red thro­ugh se­ve­ral be­ats. It was the sa­me guy who'd jum­ped in front of the Ne­on, I was su­re of it. I hadn't ima­gi­ned him-Vee was pro­of. I re­mem­be­red the way all evi­den­ce of the crash had di­sap­pe­ared. May­be I hadn't ima­gi­ned that part eit­her. This guy, who­ever he was, was re­al. And he was out the­re. But if I hadn't ima­gi­ned the da­ma­ge to the Ne­on, what re­al­ly hap­pe­ned that night? Was my vi­si­on, or my me­mory, so­me­how… be­ing al­te­red?

  After a mo­ment, a slew of se­con­dary qu­es­ti­ons ra­ced to mind.

  What did he want this ti­me? Was he con­nec­ted to the girl out­si­de Vic­to­ria's Sec­ret? Had he known I'd be shop­ping at the pi­er? We­aring a ski mask cons­ti­tu­ted ad­van­ce plan­ning, so he must ha­ve known be­fo­re­hand whe­re I'd be. And he didn't want me to re­cog­ni­ze his fa­ce.

  "Who did you tell we we­re go­ing shop­ping?" I as­ked Vee sud­denly.

  She ram­med a pil­low be­hind her neck, trying to get com­for­tab­le. "My mom."

  "That's it? No­body el­se?"

  "I might ha­ve bro­ught it up to El­li­ot."

  My blo­od se­emed to sud­denly stop flo­wing. "You told El­li­ot?"

  "What's the big de­al?"

  "The­re's so­met­hing I ne­ed to tell you," I sa­id so­berly. "Re­mem­ber the night I dro­ve the Ne­on ho­me and hit a de­er?"

  "Ye­ah?" she sa­id, frow­ning.

  "It wasn't a de­er. It was a guy. A guy in a ski mask."

  "Shut up," she whis­pe­red. "You're tel­ling me my at­tack wasn't ran­dom? You're tel­ling me this guy wants so­met­hing from me? No, wa­it. He wants so­met­hing from you. I was we­aring yo­ur jac­ket. He tho­ught / was you"

  My who­le body felt le­aden.

  After a co­unt of si­len­ce, she sa­id, "Are you su­re you didn't tell Patch abo­ut shop­ping? Be­ca­use on furt­her ref­lec­ti­on, I'm thin­king the guy had Patch's bu­ild. Tal­lish. Le­anish. Stron­gish. Sex­yish, asi­de from the at­tac­king part."

  "Patch's eyes aren't char­co­al, they're black," I po­in­ted out, but I was un­com­for­tably awa­re that I had told Patch we we­re go­ing shop­ping at the pi­er.

  Vee ra­ised an in­de­ci­si­ve sho­ul­der. "May­be his eyes we­re black. I can't re­mem­ber. It hap­pe­ned re­al­ly fast. I can be spe­ci­fic abo­ut the gun," she sa­id help­ful­ly. "It was aimed at me. Li­ke, right at me."

  I pus­hed a few puz­zle pi­eces aro­und my mind. If Patch had at­tac­ked Vee, he must ha­ve se­en her le­ave the sto­re we­aring my jac­ket and tho­ught it was me. When he fi­gu­red out he was fol­lo­wing the wrong girl, he hit Vee with the gun out of an­ger and va­nis­hed. The only prob­lem was, I co­uldn't ima­gi­ne Patch bru­ta­li­zing Vee. It felt off. Be­si­des, he was sup­po­sedly at a part) on the co­ast all night.

  "Did yo­ur at­tac­ker lo­ok at all li­ke El­li­ot?" I as­ked.

  I watc­hed Vee ab­sorb the qu­es­ti­on. Wha­te­ver drug she'd be­en gi­ven, it se­emed to slow her tho­ught pro­cess, and I co­uld prac­ti­cal­ly he­ar each ge­ar in her bra­in grind in­to ac­ti­on.

  "He was abo­ut twenty po­unds too light and fo­ur inc­hes too tall to be El­li­ot."

  "This is all my fa­ult," I sa­id. "I ne­ver sho­uld ha­ve let you le­ave the sto­re we­aring my jac­ket."

  "I know you don't want to he­ar this," sa­id Vee, lo­oking li­ke she was figh­ting a drug-indu­ced yawn. "But the mo­re I think on it, the mo­re si­mi­la­ri­ti­es I see bet­we­en Patch and my at­tac­ker. Sa­me bu­ild. Sa­me long-leg­ged stri­de. Too bad his scho­ol fi­le was empty. We ne­ed an ad­dress. We ne­ed to can­vass his ne­igh­bor­ho­od. We ne­ed to find a gul­lib­le lit­tle granny ne­igh­bor who co­uld be co­axed in­to mo­un­ting a web­cam in her win­dow and aiming it at his ho­use. Be­ca­use so­met­hing abo­ut Patch just isn't right."

  "You ho­nestly think Patch co­uld ha­ve do­ne this to you?" I as­ked, still un­con­vin­ced.

  Vee che­wed at her lip. "I think he's hi­ding so­met­hing. So­met­hing big."

  I wasn't go­ing to ar­gue that.

  Vee sank de­eper in her bed. "My body's ting­ling. I fe­el go­od all over."

  "We don't ha­ve an ad­dress," I sa­id, "but we do know whe­re he works."

  "Are you thin­king what I'm thin­king?" Vee as­ked, eyes brigh­te­ning bri­efly thro­ugh the ha­ze of che­mi­cal se­da­ti­on.

  "Ba­sed on past ex­pe­ri­en­ce, I ho­pe not."

  "The truth is, we
ne­ed to brush up on our sle­ut­hing skills," sa­id Vee. "Use them or lo­se them, that's what Co­ach sa­id. We ne­ed to find out mo­re abo­ut Patch's past. Hey, I bet if we do­cu­ment, Co­ach will even gi­ve us ext­ra cre­dit."

  Highly do­ubt­ful, gi­ven that if Vee was in­vol­ved, the sle­ut­hing wo­uld li­kely ta­ke an il­le­gal turn. Not to men­ti­on, this par­ti­cu­lar sle­ut­hing job had not­hing to do with bi­ology. Even re­mo­tely.

  The slight smi­le Vee had drag­ged out of me fa­ded. Fun as it was to be light­he­ar­ted abo­ut the si­tu­ati­on, I was frigh­te­ned. The guy in the ski mask was out the­re, plan­ning his next at­tack. It kind of ma­de sen­se that Patch might know what was go­ing on. The guy in the ski mask jum­ped in front of the Ne­on the day af­ter Patch be­ca­me my bi­ology part­ner. May­be it wasn't a co­in­ci­den­ce.

  Just then the nur­se pop­ped her he­ad in­si­de the do­or. "It's eight o'clock," she told me, tap­ping her watch. "Vi­si­ting ho­urs are over."

  "I'll be right out," I sa­id.

  As so­on as her fo­ots­teps fa­ded down the hall, I shut the do­or to Vee's ro­om. I wan­ted pri­vacy be­fo­re I told her abo­ut the mur­der in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on sur­ro­un­ding El­li­ot. Ho­we­ver, when I got back to Vee's bed, it was ap­pa­rent that her me­di­ca­ti­on had kic­ked in.

  "He­re it co­mes," she sa­id with an exp­res­si­on of pu­re bliss. "Drug rush… any mo­ment now… the sur­ge of warmth… byeb­ye, Mr. Pa­in…"

  "Vee-"

  "Knock, knock."

  "This is re­al­ly im­por­tant-"

  "Knock, knock."

  "It's abo­ut El­li­ot-"

  "Knock, kno­o­o­ock," she sa­id in a sing­song vo­ice.

  I sig­hed. "Who's the­re?"

  "Boo."

  "Boo who?"

  "Boo-hoo, so­me­body's crying, and it's not me!" She bro­ke in­to hyste­ri­cal la­ugh­ter.

  Re­ali­zing it was po­int­less to push the is­sue, I sa­id, "Call me to­mor­row af­ter you're disc­har­ged." I un­zip­ped my back­pack. "Be­fo­re I for­get, I bro­ught yo­ur ho­me­work. Whe­re do you want me to put it?"

  She po­in­ted at the trash can. "Right the­re will be fi­ne."

  I pul­led the Fi­at in­to the ga­ra­ge and poc­ke­ted the keys. The sky lac­ked stars on the dri­ve ho­me, and su­re eno­ugh, a light ra­in star­ted to fall. I tug­ged on the ga­ra­ge do­or, lo­we­ring it to the gro­und and loc­king it. I let myself in­to the kitc­hen. A light was on so­mew­he­re ups­ta­irs, and a mo­ment la­ter my mom ca­me run­ning down the sta­irs and threw her arms aro­und me.

  My mom has dark wavy ha­ir and gre­en eyes. She's an inch shor­ter than I am, but we sha­re the sa­me bo­ne struc­tu­re. She al­ways smells li­ke Lo­ve by Ralph La­uren.

  "I'm so glad you're sa­fe," she sa­id, squ­e­ezing me tight.

  Sa­fe-ish, I tho­ught.

  CHAPTER 13

  THE FOL­LO­WING NIGHT AT SE­VEN, THE BOR­DER­LI­NE'S par­king lot was pac­ked. Af­ter ne­arly an ho­ur of beg­ging, Vee and I had con­vin­ced her pa­rents that we ne­eded to ce­leb­ra­te her first night out of the hos­pi­tal over chi­les rel­le­nos and vir­gin straw­ber­ry da­iqu­iris. At le­ast, that's what we we­re cla­iming. But we had an ul­te­ri­or mo­ti­ve.

  I tuc­ked the Ne­on in­to a tight par­king spa­ce and tur­ned off the en­gi­ne.

  "Ew," sa­id Vee when I pas­sed the keys back and my fin­gers brus­hed hers. "Think you co­uld swe­at a lit­tle mo­re?"

  "I'm ner­vo­us."

  "Gee, I had no clue."

  I inad­ver­tently lo­oked at the do­or.

  "I know what you're thin­king," Vee sa­id, tigh­te­ning her lips. "And the ans­wer is no. No as in no way"

  "You don't know what I'm thin­king," I sa­id.

  Vee vi­sed my arm. "The heck I don't."

  "I wasn't go­ing to run," I sa­id. "Not me."

  "Li­ar."

  Tu­es­day was Patch's night off, and Vee had put it in­to my he­ad that it wo­uld be the per­fect ti­me to in­ter­ro­ga­te his co­wor­kers. I en­vi­si­oned myself sas­ha­ying up to the bar, gi­ving the bar­ten­der a coy Mar­cie Mil­lar lo­ok, then se­gu­e­ing to the to­pic of Patch. I ne­eded his ho­me ad­dress. I ne­eded any pri­or ar­rests. I ne­eded to know if he had a con­nec­ti­on to the guy in the ski mask, no mat­ter how te­nu­o­us. And I ne­eded to fi­gu­re out why the guy in the ski mask and the myste­ri­o­us girl we­re in my li­fe.

  I pe­eked in­si­de my hand­bag, do­ub­le-chec­king to ma­ke su­re the list of in­ter­ro­ga­ti­on qu­es­ti­ons I'd pre­pa­red we­re still with me. One si­de of the list de­alt with qu­es­ti­ons abo­ut Patch's per­so­nal li­fe. The flip si­de had flir­ting prompts. Just in ca­se.

  "Whoa, whoa, whoa," Vee sa­id. "What is that?"

  "Not­hing," I sa­id, fol­ding the list.

  Vee tri­ed to grab the list, but I was fas­ter and had it cram­med de­ep in my hand­bag be­fo­re she co­uld get to it.

  "Ru­le num­ber one," Vee sa­id. "The­re is no such thing as no­tes in flir­ting."

  "The­re's an ex­cep­ti­on to ever) ru­le."

  "And you're not it!" She grab­bed two plas­tic 7-Ele­ven sacks from the back­se­at and swi­ve­led out of the car. As so­on as I step­ped out, she used her go­od arm to hurl the sacks over the top of the Ne­on at me.

  "What's this?" I as­ked, catc­hing the sacks. The hand­les we­re ti­ed and I co­uldn't see in­si­de, but the un­mis­ta­kab­le shaft of a sti­let­to he­el thre­ate­ned to po­ke thro­ugh the plas­tic.

  "Si­ze eight and a half," Vee sa­id. "Sharks­kin. It's easi­er to play the part when you lo­ok the part."

  "I can't walk in high he­els."

  "Go­od thing they're not high, then."

  "They lo­ok high," I sa­id, eying the prot­ru­ding sti­let­to.

  "Almost fi­ve inc­hes. They left 'high' be­hind at fo­ur."

  Lo­vely. If I didn't bre­ak my neck, I just might get to hu­mi­li­ate myself whi­le se­du­cing sec­rets out of Patch's co­wor­kers.

  "He­re's the de­al," sa­id Vee as we stro­de down the si­de­walk to the front do­ors. "I sort of in­vi­ted a co­up­le of pe­op­le. The mo­re the mer­ri­er, right?"

  "Who?" I as­ked, fe­eling the dark stir­rings of fo­re­bo­ding in the pit of my sto­mach.

  "Jules and El­li­ot."

  Be­fo­re I had ti­me to tell Vee exactly how bad I tho­ught this idea was, she sa­id, "Mo­ment of truth: I've sort of be­en se­e­ing Jules. On the sly."

  "What?"

  "You sho­uld see his ho­use. Bru­ce Way­ne can't com­pe­te. His pa­rents are eit­her So­uth Ame­ri­can drug lords or co­me from se­ri­o­us old mo­ney. Sin­ce I ha­ven't met them yet, I can't say which."

  I was at a loss for words. My mo­uth ope­ned and shut, but not­hing ca­me out. "When did this hap­pen?" I fi­nal­ly ma­na­ged to ask.

  "Pretty much right af­ter that fa­te­ful mor­ning at En­zo's."

  "Fa­te­ful? Vee, you ha­ve no idea-"

  "I ho­pe they got he­re first and re­ser­ved a tab­le," Vee sa­id, stretc­hing her neck whi­le eying the crowd ac­cu­mu­la­ting aro­und the do­ors. "I don't want to wa­it. I am se­ri­o­usly two thin mi­nu­tes away from de­ath by star­va­ti­on."

  I grab­bed Vee by her go­od el­bow, pul­ling her asi­de. "The­re's so­met­hing I ne­ed to tell you-"

  "I know, I know," she sa­id. "You think the­re's a slim chan­ce El­li­ot at­tac­ked me Sun­day night. Well, I think you've got El­li­ot con­fu­sed with Patch. And af­ter you do so­me sle­ut­hing to­night, the facts will back me up. Be­li­eve me, I want to know who at­tac­ked me just as much as you. Pro­bably even mo­re. It's per­so­nal now. And whi­le we're han­ding each ot­her ad­vi­ce, he­re's mi­ne. Stay away from Patch. Just to be sa­fe
."

  "I'm glad you've tho­ught this thro­ugh," I sa­id ter­sely, "but he­re's the thing. I fo­und an ar­tic­le-"

  The do­ors to the Bor­der­li­ne ope­ned. A fresh wa­ve of he­at, car­rying the smell of li­mes and ci­lant­ro, swir­led out at us, along with the so­und of a ma­ri­ac­hi band pla­ying thro­ugh the spe­akers.

  "Wel­co­me to the Bor­der­li­ne," a hos­tess gre­eted us. "Just the two of you to­night?"

  Elli­ot was stan­ding be­hind her in­si­de the dim­med fo­yer. We saw each ot­her at the sa­me mo­ment. His mo­uth smi­led but his eyes did not.

  "La­di­es," he sa­id, san­ding his hands to­get­her as he wal­ked over. "Lo­oking mag­ni­fi­cent, as al­ways."

  My skin prick­led.

  "Whe­re's yo­ur part­ner in cri­me?" Vee as­ked, glan­cing aro­und the fo­yer. Pa­per lan­terns hung from the ce­iling, and a mu­ral of a Me­xi­can pu­eb­lo span­ned two walls. The wa­iting benc­hes we­re fil­led to ca­pa­city. The­re was no sign of Jules.

  "Bad news," sa­id El­li­ot. "The man is sick. You're go­ing to ha­ve to set­tle for me."

  "Sick?" Vee de­man­ded. "How sick? What kind of ex­cu­se is sick?"

  "Sick as in it's co­ming out both ends."

  Vee scrunc­hed her no­se. "Too much in­for­ma­ti­on."

  I was still ha­ving a dif­fi­cult ti­me gras­ping the idea that so­met­hing was go­ing on bet­we­en Vee and Jules. Jules ca­me ac­ross sul­len, bro­oding, and comp­le­tely di­sin­te­res­ted in Vee's com­pany or an­yo­ne el­se's. Not one part of me felt com­for­tab­le with the idea of Vee spen­ding ti­me alo­ne with Jules. Not ne­ces­sa­rily be­ca­use of how unp­le­asant he was or how lit­tle I knew abo­ut him, but be­ca­use of the one thing I did know: He was clo­se fri­ends with El­li­ot.

  The hos­tess pluc­ked three me­nus out of a slot­ted cub­byho­le and led us to a bo­oth so clo­se to the kitc­hen I co­uld fe­el the fi­re of the ovens co­ming thro­ugh the walls. To our left was the sal­sa bar. To our right glass do­ors mo­ist with con­den­sa­ti­on led out to a pa­tio. My pop­lin blo­use was al­re­ady clin­ging to my back. My swe­at might ha­ve had mo­re to do with the news abo­ut Vee and Jules than with the he­at, ho­we­ver.