across the unmade bed. âLike date rape?â
âMaybe. She didnât do pills.â
Joey shrugs. âWell, even if someone had drugged her for sex, why toss her in the pool?â
I fish around in my bag for sunglasses and put them back on. âChlorine? Maybe it washes away the evidence. They should at least look into it.â
Joey is silent for a moment. âYeah,â he finally says. âI guess weâll know when the results come in.â But I can see heâs thinking now, no longer trying to avoid what I already know.
Maggie didnât kill herself. She was murdered.
3
W e drive south, crossing streets with names like Alessandro, Bellefontaine, and Orange Grove. A hundred fifty years ago this place was a rancherâs paradise. But the natives and Spaniards made way for orange groves and new Americans, like high school seniors making way for the next graduating class. To this day, the streets are named after the wealthiest families and the crops that made them rich. Never after the people who planted them.
The houses shift from double-lot mansions and Victorians, stately Italianate facades, and Craftsman houses with their dark woods and deep green plaster, to apartments and bungalows the size of Maggieâs pool house.
If the Kims live in the big house, Joey and I live in the servantsâ quarters.
âYour mom home?â Joey asks when he drops me off in front of my place, a cracked stucco two-bedroom rental at the back of a three-house lot. Mrs. Feldenkrais is taking out her recycling. She looks a sight in her yellow housedress, hair like spun cotton candy. Neither of us wave.
âProbably. We talked before my flight. She wanted to pick me up but I told her I needed to see you first.â
âWell.â Joey climbs out of the car and pulls my duffel out of the back. âIf you want to get dinner later, call me. A few of us were going to . . . you know. Like a wake.â
âA wake,â I repeat, letting it sink in. I already know who will be there, Maggieâs inner circle. Could one of them know the new bedfellow? âIâm in.â
âGreat.â He hesitates, like he wants to say something else. His eyes flick to the house and back to me. He drums the heel of his hand on the car door. âGreat. Iâll pick you up at seven.â
He leaves me standing on the curb, heels digging into the dead grass, pondering what just went unsaid. Heat rises from the pavement in waves. Seven hours ago, I was in a woodland paradise. I could be swimming in Danielleâs Olympic-sized pool. I pick up my bag and walk to the house.
The front door is open, which means the AC is onthe blink again. The TV drones away in the living room. Someone sits on the old brown sofa. A manâs hand raises a can of beer.
Roy. My motherâs favorite mistake.
I go around to the backyard before he can see me, stumbling across the broken brick pathway to the rear door. I drop my bags on one side of the cement steps and sit down. A lemon tree wilts in the center of the yard, casting a thin shadow on a broken lawn chair.
I could call Joey again. Heâd come get me. But then weâd have to talk about more than just Maggie. Iâd rather face whatâs inside the house.
I peer into the dim crawl space behind the steps, shove my duffel bag inside, and stand up, shouldering my backpack. Iâll go to the movies or the library. My mother will be home eventually. Or itâll be time to go to Maggieâs wake.
My eyes drift closed for a second, long enough for me to realize Iâm too tired to keep going. I give up the dodge game and unlock the back door. I enter through the kitchen, my recovered suitcase trailing crumbs of yellow dust from beneath the house. The TV still plays in the living room. I hear him cough.
My stomach buckles. Roy and I donât mix. Not if I can help it.
I turn into the hallway and slip into my room, locking the