“I can talk to him, can’t I? Can’t I, please?”
I waited agonies of time until Mom finally nodded agreement. I ran to the kitchen. My fingers trembled as I dialed the number.
Cody’s uncle answered the phone, and we made polite remarks to each other before he called Cody to the phone.
Cody’s voice was strained and shaky. “You said you’d come over,” he blurted out. “Did you mean it?”
“I meant it.”
“I can’t come to you. The police impounded my car so they can check it out.”
I should have expected that. They’d look for the murder weapon, for traces of blood.… I shuddered. “Do you want me to come now?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I thought about Mom’s attitude. Would she let me visit Cody? I seriously doubted it, but I was determined to give it my best try. “I’ll check with Mom,” I told Cody. If she gives her okay, I’ll be at your uncle’s house within twenty minutes.”
As I walked into the den, the phone rang again. Mom reached for it and said, “Hi, Sara. Yes, she’s right here,” and handed the receiver to me.
Just the sound of Sara’s name brought the comfort I remembered from snuggling my old teddy bear. Sara Madison, my best friend, who’s two inches shorter than I am, at five feet four, and roundly plump in both the right and wrong places, wouldn’t like being compared to a teddy bear.
Sara is one of four kids in a very busy, very noisy family. A lot of that noise comes from laughter. Sometimes, when I’m at the Madisons’ house for dinner, wrapped inside a tornado of teasing and joking, and shouts of “Hey, listen to me!” competing with the baby’s happy yells as she bangs on the high-chair tray, I get a little jealous. I’m not proud of being jealous of my best friend. Sometimes I hate myself for it. But even when one of the kids is getting scolded, there’s so much love in that house I can feel it, and I want that same kind of love to come back to
my
house again.
As soon as I said hello, Sara cried out, “Holly. Iread about it, and I’m so sorry! What can I do to help?”
“I knew you’d say that,” I told her, so grateful that tears came to my eyes.
“That’s what friends are for.”
“Cody isn’t the murderer,” I said.
Sara didn’t ask a lot of questions, and she didn’t argue with me. She just said, “Okay, so tell me. What can I do to help you?”
“I need to talk,” I said. Mom was watching, and it made me uncomfortable, so I turned my back. “Later,” I told her. “Okay?”
“Sure,” Sara said. “Just give me a call.”
I hung up and turned to Mom. “May I use your car—just for a little while?”
“Of course,” Mom said.
She didn’t ask where I was going. I realized that she took it for granted I wanted to see Sara. If I told her I was going to Cody …? No. I couldn’t take the chance. I fought back a pang of guilt, snatched up Mom’s extra car keys, and dashed out the door.
F
rank Baker’s house wasn’t hard to find. It was in a quiet subdivision, which was bracketed by two sets of large, busy shopping centers. Light brick, with a beige-painted trim, the house blended in with its neighbors, probably all built at the same time with nearly identical floor plans. Same trees in front, same flower beds, same thick carpets of St. Augustine grass—each arranged just differently enough to stamp a slight individual touch.
I was startled when Mr. Baker answered the door. I expected to see an older man, maybe dark haired, maybe balding; but Frank Baker looked as though he was in his mid-thirties. His blond hair had been bleached by the sun, and his tan was dusted with a light burn that gave it a reddish glow. Tall and good-looking, he wore a T-shirt and shorts, and was barefoot.
“So you’re Holly,” he said and smiled warmly. “Cody has good taste.”
Embarrassed, and puzzled because I expected soft words and an expression of mourning, I stammered, “I—I’m t-terribly sorry about your sister
I waited agonies of time until Mom finally nodded agreement. I ran to the kitchen. My fingers trembled as I dialed the number.
Cody’s uncle answered the phone, and we made polite remarks to each other before he called Cody to the phone.
Cody’s voice was strained and shaky. “You said you’d come over,” he blurted out. “Did you mean it?”
“I meant it.”
“I can’t come to you. The police impounded my car so they can check it out.”
I should have expected that. They’d look for the murder weapon, for traces of blood.… I shuddered. “Do you want me to come now?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I thought about Mom’s attitude. Would she let me visit Cody? I seriously doubted it, but I was determined to give it my best try. “I’ll check with Mom,” I told Cody. If she gives her okay, I’ll be at your uncle’s house within twenty minutes.”
As I walked into the den, the phone rang again. Mom reached for it and said, “Hi, Sara. Yes, she’s right here,” and handed the receiver to me.
Just the sound of Sara’s name brought the comfort I remembered from snuggling my old teddy bear. Sara Madison, my best friend, who’s two inches shorter than I am, at five feet four, and roundly plump in both the right and wrong places, wouldn’t like being compared to a teddy bear.
Sara is one of four kids in a very busy, very noisy family. A lot of that noise comes from laughter. Sometimes, when I’m at the Madisons’ house for dinner, wrapped inside a tornado of teasing and joking, and shouts of “Hey, listen to me!” competing with the baby’s happy yells as she bangs on the high-chair tray, I get a little jealous. I’m not proud of being jealous of my best friend. Sometimes I hate myself for it. But even when one of the kids is getting scolded, there’s so much love in that house I can feel it, and I want that same kind of love to come back to
my
house again.
As soon as I said hello, Sara cried out, “Holly. Iread about it, and I’m so sorry! What can I do to help?”
“I knew you’d say that,” I told her, so grateful that tears came to my eyes.
“That’s what friends are for.”
“Cody isn’t the murderer,” I said.
Sara didn’t ask a lot of questions, and she didn’t argue with me. She just said, “Okay, so tell me. What can I do to help you?”
“I need to talk,” I said. Mom was watching, and it made me uncomfortable, so I turned my back. “Later,” I told her. “Okay?”
“Sure,” Sara said. “Just give me a call.”
I hung up and turned to Mom. “May I use your car—just for a little while?”
“Of course,” Mom said.
She didn’t ask where I was going. I realized that she took it for granted I wanted to see Sara. If I told her I was going to Cody …? No. I couldn’t take the chance. I fought back a pang of guilt, snatched up Mom’s extra car keys, and dashed out the door.
F
rank Baker’s house wasn’t hard to find. It was in a quiet subdivision, which was bracketed by two sets of large, busy shopping centers. Light brick, with a beige-painted trim, the house blended in with its neighbors, probably all built at the same time with nearly identical floor plans. Same trees in front, same flower beds, same thick carpets of St. Augustine grass—each arranged just differently enough to stamp a slight individual touch.
I was startled when Mr. Baker answered the door. I expected to see an older man, maybe dark haired, maybe balding; but Frank Baker looked as though he was in his mid-thirties. His blond hair had been bleached by the sun, and his tan was dusted with a light burn that gave it a reddish glow. Tall and good-looking, he wore a T-shirt and shorts, and was barefoot.
“So you’re Holly,” he said and smiled warmly. “Cody has good taste.”
Embarrassed, and puzzled because I expected soft words and an expression of mourning, I stammered, “I—I’m t-terribly sorry about your sister
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