After Cole I'd dated Josh DuPont. Josh had been everything I'd ever dreamed of in a guy—cute, devoted, always said the right things, and he even bought me flowers on my birthday. Then I'd found out he'd been cheating on me with the president of the Chastity Club, and he'd ended up dragging me headfirst into a murder investigation, after which he'd switched schools to avoid the gossip mill and hadn't been seen since.

  So my track record with guys thus far was not all that great.

  A fact which left me with an uneasy feeling in my stomach about having pizza with Chase. As an editor, I knew what to expect from him. As a friend, I mostly had him pegged. But beyond friends… That was territory that felt totally foreign. And I wasn't sure if I was excited or fearful of the unknown.

  Sam had to meet with her SAT tutor again after school, but as soon as she was done she came straight to my house.

  "Whoa," she said, walking into my room. "What happened?"

  I looked around. Clothes littered every surface—jeans, skirts, capris, T-shirts, sweaters, boots, and me in the middle of it all, trying on my tenth outfit since school had let out.

  "I need to be casual but not too casual. Dressy but not too dressy. I need him to think I just threw on the first thing I found and not that I'm taking this too seriously or overthinking it or even that I was thinking about it at all. Because I'm not. I'm totally not thinking about him, and I don't want him to think I'm thinking about him, but I don't want him to think that I'm not thinking about him, because clearly he thought about me enough to ask me out and it would be mean to not be thinking about him at all, so I need just the right amount of thinking and I'm not sure if that means boots and a skirt or skinny jeans and ballet flats. Help!"

  I paused and took a deep breath, realizing I'd forgotten the importance of oxygen during my plea.

  "Okay." Sam walked in and put her book bag down on the bed. She stood in front of me, doing a slow up and down with her eyes. "I think we can fix this. First things first. Your hair."

  "Hair?" I squeaked out. "Oh fluffin' fudge, I didn't even think about hair!"

  Two hours later I'd done the one thing I'd sworn I would never do again—let Sam dress me. Though, I had to admit as I checked out the results in the full-length mirror on my closet door, I might not have been wrong in doing so. She'd advised on a midthigh white denim skirt over gray leggings. She'd paired that with a long, lean, gray T-shirt with rhinestones at the neckline and a lightweight, three-quarter sleeve cardigan. And while I was a respectable B cup, the push-up bra Sam had insisted on made my boobs stand at attention, giving me cleavage to rival any member of the cheer squad. On my feet were a pair of silver, three-inch heels that Sam had brought over from her own closet that I could almost walk in without wobbling. Overall, I had to admit, I looked pretty dang hot.

  A thought I held on to with a two-fisted grip as I walked the mile from my house to the Pizza My Heart downtown. Which, in hindsight, might have been a bad idea in the shoes. By the time I finally hit the pizza place, I could feel blisters forming on my heels and my feet were sweating so badly that I feared the effect of my hotness would be overshadowed by my need for Odor Eaters.

  I paused outside the restaurant. Pushed a couple stray strands of hair off my face. Did a quick breath check. Tried to remember how confident I'd looked in my bedroom mirror. Then pushed through the doors of Pizza My Heart at exactly 6 o'clock for my dinner with Chase.

  The place wasn't huge, and I spotted him right away. He was seated at a table midway through the restaurant. His back was to me, but his spiky hair was unmistakable. It was mussed into a softer look than usual, kind of tousled like he'd been out in the wind for a while. He wore a black T-shirt and a pair of jeans that were somewhere perfectly in the middle of tight and low slung, clinging just enough to hold on to his hips but not so tight that he looked emasculated. Black work boots finished off the outfit, and a silver chain hung from his pocket.

  I did another deep breath thing as I approached.

  "Hey," I said, tapping him on the shoulder.

  He spun around.

  Then his mouth dropped open just a little as he gave me a slow up and down, his eyes homing in on the result of Sam's push-up bra.

  "Heeeeeey," he said slowly. "Wow, you look—"

  "Hot!" another voice finished.

  I whipped my head to the left and saw Ashley Stannic sitting at Chase's table.

  What the…?

  "Nice shoes," Ashley said. "You going out later?"

  I blinked at her. "I uh…" Slowly I let my gaze shift around the table and realized not only was Ashley crashing my dinner with Chase, but Chris Fret was sitting at the table as well, along with a guy I recognized from Spanish class.

  Chase cleared his throat beside me. "I, uh, I'm glad you could make it, Hartley."

  "Thanks," I answered, hoping the confusion rattling around in my brain wasn't clear in my voice.

  "So, now that we're all here," he said, turning back to the table at large. "The reason I invited everyone out for pizza was to introduce you all to the newest member of the Homepage staff."

  I froze.

  He'd invited everyone.

  I suddenly felt like the word moron was stamped across my forehead. Chase hadn't asked me out. He'd asked one of his reporters to a working meal. I silently prayed the floor would open up and swallow me whole as I only halfway listened to Chase, embarrassment all but drowning him out as it pounded in my overheated ears.

  "Guys, this is Mike Watson," Chase said, gesturing to Spanish Class Guy. "He's going to be covering all the away games for the HHH, as it's come to my attention that Chris may be a bit overworked."

  Chris grinned sheepishly at the veiled reference to his cheating attempt.

  "Great to have you," Ashley said. Chris mumbled something similar. Chase clapped him on the back.

  All I could do was stare dumbly.

  Somehow, I managed to sit, congratulate Mike, and even stuff half a slice of pepperoni pizza into my mouth, even though all I wanted to do was crawl into a big black hole. I was so stupid. I was the Queen of Stupidville. The Duchess of Moronland. The Empress of Misunderstandingtown.

  And by the way Chase kept sending sidelong glances at my rhinestone framed cleavage and spiky heels, I had a bad feeling he knew it. Clearly I was overdressed for pizza with friends. Clearly I had taken some pains to change after school. Clearly I was expecting something way more exciting than a new sports guy.

  Clearly I needed to have my head examined.

  By seven, I couldn't take it anymore. I mumbled something about a previous commitment and slipped from the table as Ashley laid out her ideas for this weekend's coverage of the Homecoming Dance. Chase moved to get up as I excused myself, but I stopped him with a quick "See you at school" over my shoulder as I ran (Or tried to… The heels were really wobbly.) for the door.

  * * *

  I stopped just long enough to indulge in a pity-party chocolate bar from Powell's Candy Shop before I hoofed it down North Santa Cruz Ave. to meet Nicky at Oak Meadow Park. I was determined that, despite my detour into the stupid lane, my night was not going to be a total bust. So Chase only saw me as a reporter. Fine. That was easier on my stomach anyway. But this week I was going to be a really good reporter and turn in something more than fluff. I was going to meet Nicky, find out what or who he'd seen, and blow this case wide open.

  I walked as fast as my legs would take me in the tight skirt and ridiculously high heels that Sam had made me wear, all the while chanting to myself that I would never listen to her wardrobe advice again. Even if I begged for it.

  I looked down at my phone as I crossed Highway 9. 7:54. I picked up the pace, half jogging until my calves cramped up, and then checked my phone again. 7:58. No way was I going to make our rendezvous time. I bit my lip, praying that Nicky would wait for me.

  At 8:06, I finally hit the corner of University and the gates to Oak Meadow Park.

  As far as city parks went, it was large—a playground with two big jungle gyms at one end and a carousel and miniature train station on the other. Between them spanned picnic areas and an expanse of grass used by the local soccer league in the summer.

  At this time of night, everything was dark and the gates were closed. I did a brief over-the-shoulder, waiting until there was a break in the passing traffic, and then quickly hopped the fence. Or, it would have been quickly if my stupid heels hadn't gotten stuck in the metal diamonds. I finally kicked them off and threw them over the gate, cringing as they skidded in the dirt on the other side. Sam wasn't going to be happy about that. On the second try, I slipped over the fence, landed with a thud on the other side, put the shoes back on (only scuffed a little), then picked my way down the gravel pathway to the miniature train station.

  The train was a big draw for kids during the weekends and summer break, the station packed with lines of toddlers waiting for the $3 rides. But tonight the train was silent, and the giant clock set in the Victorian-style steeple of the station ticked eerily in the dark.

  I wrapped my arms around myself, wishing I'd worn something a little warmer than the thin cardigan, and quickly made tracks toward the quiet station.

  I was a few feet away when I spotted a figure in the shadows, just behind the roundhouse. By the dark hair sticking out from under a skater beanie and the checkered Vans, I could tell it was Nicky. I was about to call out, when I saw another figure in the shadows to his right.

  I paused. Nicky hadn't said anything about bringing friends. Suddenly I felt a little outnumbered here in the isolated spot.

  Which was ridiculous because I was just going to talk and get a story. The dark, the quiet, and the eerie Victorian station were giving me the creeps.

  At least that's what I told myself as I approached the two figures. Only, they weren't paying any attention to me. They were talking to each other. Arguing, I realized as I got closer. I was too far away to hear what they were actually saying, but their voices were raised and the tone was not happy.

  The second figure started flapping his (Or her? It was too dark to tell.) arms at Nicky. They were still standing too far into the shadows for me to make out much, other than their arms waving in an angry fashion.

  Nicky stepped back, his voice rose, and I caught a couple of words. "I won't do it!"

  I paused, not sure I wanted to get in the middle of this. Whatever this was. I could see Figure Two was dressed in dark pants, a dark windbreaker, and a baseball cap. He (she?) was close to Nicky's height, but that was all I could make out. Male, female, old, or young were all swallowed up by the inky blackness.

  But I could see Nicky was getting more and more agitated. He shook his head, waved his arms. Finally he shouted, "It's over," loudly enough to make Figure Two stop in his-slash-her tracks. Nicky turned his back on the figure, as if to emphasize the over-ness of their situation, and started walking away.

  I opened my mouth to call out to him.

  But that's when I saw it.

  Figure Two leaned down and picked up a rock that was lying at their feet. From the effort it took them to stand back up again, I could tell it was heavy. I watched in horror as the figure took a step toward Nicky, lifted the rock above their body, and brought it down with a thud on the back of Nicky's head.

  Nicky made a pathetic sort of grunt then slumped forward, crumpling to the ground.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I was frozen to the spot, not sure what to do. Run to Nicky's aid? Make a citizen's arrest on Figure Two? Call for help?

  Being that there were a lot more rocks lying around for Figure Two's convenience, I decided on option three and pulled my phone from my pocket. I backtracked toward the street as I dialed 9-1-1, all the while keeping one eye on Nicky's prone form.

  Which meant I wasn't watching where I was walking, which meant I tripped over a stick on the ground and stumbled to catch my balance.

  Figure Two's head snapped up.

  Oh fluffin' fudge.

  I turned and ran blindly through the trees toward the road again, phone to my ear, though I was only halfway listening to it ring on the other end. The other half of me was completely engrossed in panicking. After what seemed like an eternity, someone picked up.

  "9-1-1, what is your emergency please?"

  "I (pant) just (pant) saw someone killed! (pant, pant)"

  "I'm sorry, ma'am, I can't understand you. Can you please slow down?"

  "No! The killer heard me trip!"

  "Ma'am, can you give me your location?" the operator asked, her voice annoyingly calm.

  I paused as I reached the gate again, the bright lights of passing cars on the other side a small comfort. I sucked in a large gulp of chilled air and stopped to catch my breath, listening behind me for any sound of footsteps.

  I heard nothing but my own Doberman-esque breathing.

  "I'm at Oak Meadow Park at the corner of University and Blossom Hill," I told the dispatcher.

  "I'm sending someone out to your location now. Please stay on the line with me until they get there."

  "Okay," I whimpered. "But hurry. I think they killed Nicky."

  "Don't worry. Help is on the way," she said. And even though I knew there was nothing she could do from the other end of a phone call, her voice did make me feel a little less alone.

  I managed to hop back over the gate to the street side and sat down on the curb to wait for help, one ear listening for any sign of the killer, one listening to the dispatcher, who continued talking in smooth, even tones.

  After ten cold minutes, my butt was numb, goose bumps were permanently embedded in my arms, and the red and blue lights of a police cruiser pulled down Blossom Hill. I jumped up and waved my arms madly at the guy behind the wheel, who pulled to a stop in front of me.

  I'd never been so relieved to see law enforcement in my life.

  After I explained what I'd seen, the cop grabbed a flashlight from the front seat and disappeared into the park.

  I waited alone on the sidewalk again. I was just starting to worry that maybe Figure Two had done the officer in, too, when an ambulance pulled to a stop at the curb behind the police cruiser.

  Two paramedics got out, then grabbed a stretcher from the back. One of the guys pulled a pair of wire cutters from the back of the van, making short work of the locked gate, and then they wheeled the stretcher down to the field.

  Stretcher, not body bag.

  Did that mean that Nicky was still alive? That he was okay? That maybe I'd just watched an assault and not a murder?

  I hugged my arms around myself, anxiously waiting for that stretcher to come back. While Nicky was a cheater, a liar, and had basically threatened my best friend, I still found myself quietly chanting "please be alive, please be alive, please be alive" as I shifted from foot to foot on the sidewalk.

  A couple minutes later, the first officer climbed back up the hill, his form bobbing through the trees as he approached me.

  "Is he dead?" I asked.

  The officer shook his head, and I felt myself sag with relief.

  "He's hurt. How badly, it's hard to tell right now. But the paramedics are doing all they can."

  All they can. That wasn't the most positive phrase. I was about to ask more when another car came around the corner, lights flashing red and blue. Apparently in addition to paramedics, my officer had called for backup. Unfortunately, as the car pulled to a stop at the curb, I recognized that backup.

  Tall, red-haired, round-bellied. And the one thing that could make my night worse.

  Detective Raley.

  I briefly contemplated running again, but since blisters were already stinging my heels, I nixed that idea. Instead I drew myself up as tall as I could as he approached.

  "Hartley," he said.

  "Detective Raley."

  He took a deep breath, staring off into the tree line. "Why is it that whenever anything criminal goes on in this town, there you are?"

  "Great reporter's instinct?"

  He shot me a look. Clearly his opinion differed on that one.

  "Alright, let's hear it," he said, pulling a notebook and pen from his back pocket. "What were you doing here?"

  I pursed my lips together, not sure how much to tell him. Best-case scenario: Nicky was unconscious and certainly not talking to me tonight. Worst-case: he was never talking to anyone again.

  "I was meeting Nicky," I finally confessed.

  "Why?" he asked, bushy eyebrows hunkering down in a frown.

  "I was interviewing him for the school paper."

  "About what?"

  "Stuff."

  "What kind of stuff?"

  "School stuff."

  "Can you be more specific?"

  "Yes."

  He gave me an expectant look. "Well?"

  "Oh, did you mean will I be more specific? Because can implies an ability. I have the ability to be more specific, but if you're asking if I have the intention of complying with a request to be more specific, then what you really mean is will I be more specific."

  I watched Raley grind his back teeth together, his nostrils flaring. If I had to guess, he was employing some sort of anger management technique and mentally counting to ten.

  "Okay, will you please be more specific, Hartley?" he asked, his teeth still cemented together in a grimace.

  "Sure. What was the question?"

  A vein bulged in Raley's forehead, and I'm pretty sure I was spiking his blood pressure.

  "Did you see who hit Nicky?" he asked, changing gears.

  "Kinda."

  He muttered a four-letter word under his breath. "What does 'kinda' mean?"

  "It means I saw someone hit him on the head but I couldn't see who did the hitting. It was really dark, and the guy was keeping to the shadows."

  "Guy?" Raley asked, jumping on the word. "So, it was a male you saw?"