Chapter
Ten
Later that night, I’m sitting on my bed with my laptop, trying to work on my American Government project, when I get a text from a number I don’t recognize.
Unknown: Don’t trust her.
Frowning, I stare at the three words, then at the number. Even the area code is unrecognizable.
I have no idea who it is. I have no idea who I’m not supposed to trust, either. I know a lot of hers.
So I decide to call their bluff.
Me: Don’t trust who?
I set my phone down and try to concentrate on the article I’m reading for research, but it’s boring. And I’m suddenly anxious. Who’s sending me random texts late on a Thursday night? Who am I supposed to not trust?
My phone dings with a reply.
Unknown: All of them. They’re liars.
Me: Who is this?
Unknown: Consider me a friend.
I open my text thread with Dani and shoot off a message to her.
Me: Plz tell me you’re getting weird rando texts from strangers.
She replies quickly.
Dani: I’m not…r u?!?!?
I stare at the screen, wondering how much I should tell her. My phone chimes with another message and I check it.
It’s from my random stranger.
Unknown: Courtney isn’t being honest with you. She knows more than she’s saying.
My heart twists. It’s like this person is in my head and knows about my earlier suspicions. And it’s freaking me out.
Who the hell is this?
Me: What does she know more about?
Unknown: Gretchen.
Me: What do you mean?
Unknown: They’ve been fighting for a long time. G&C.
Yawn. That’s old news.
Unknown: And it got serious the week before Gretchen died.
Me: How do you know?
Unknown: Trust me. I know.
Me: So I’m not supposed to trust my friends I’ve known for years. But I should trust you, a random creepy stranger?
Unknown: I’m not a random creepy stranger. You know me.
I stare at the last words this person texted me. You know me.
Unease slips down my spine.
Me: How well?
Unknown: Well enough.
Me: Maybe you should tell me who you are.
Unknown: Maybe you should do a little more investigating and see just how much Courtney really hated Gretchen.
Me: Why don’t you tell the police yourself? Let them investigate.
Unknown: I don’t trust cops. They’re idiots.
Okay, this conversation is stupid. Though this person isn’t too far off the mark. I didn’t like the detectives, either.
Me: You have trust issues.
Unknown: You’re right. I do. But I think I can trust you.
Why in the world would he or she trust me?
I get another text from Dani, so I check it.
Dani: Why aren’t u responding to meeee? What’s going on?? Whooz texting uuuuu??? Tell me!
God, sometimes I really hate her bad text grammar.
Me: Turns out it wasn’t meant for me.
My finger hovers over the button. Should I lie to her? Keep this from her? According to my new anonymous text friend, I’m not supposed to trust anyone. But Dani is my closest friend. She’s my best friend. I pretty much tell her everything, and I know everything about her. I don’t like keeping secrets from her, even if she does blab them to other people sometimes and I end up getting mad.
Yes, if you haven’t guessed, this has totally happened before.
Giving in, I tap the screen and send the message. And get a fast reply.
Dani: Dang! I was hoping it was some mysterious guy who’s hot for you.
She’s always hoping I’ll hook up with some guy. It’s been her greatest wish ever since Robby and I split. She wants me to be with another football player, then she can date Brogan, and we can double date every weekend.
Sometimes it’s like my best friend lives her life in a romance novel.
My phone dings again, but it’s not with a message from Dani.
Unknown: Can I trust you, Pen?
Huh. No one calls me Pen. I don’t really allow it. Penny still sticks with some, considering it’s what everyone used to call me in elementary school.
I get another message.
Unknown: Can I tell you a secret?
Me: Depends on what it is. Some things I might not want to know…
Clutching my phone, I wait for the next message.
Unknown: Maybe it’s better if I tell you in person.
My mouth drops open. No freaking way.
Me: I’m not going to meet you or whatever. I don’t even know you. What if you’re the one who murdered Gretchen?
My mystery texter actually sends me a row of laughing emojis.
Unknown: I didn’t kill Gretchen, even though you might think I did.
Frowning, I stare at my phone’s screen. Why do I feel like I’ve had this conversation before?
Unknown: Meet me Saturday 9 am at Sweet Offerings. I’ll tell you more then.
…
Despite that nagging inner voice inside my head telling me I’m crazy to even contemplate meeting my mystery message sender, I show up at the Sweet Offerings Bakery and Coffee Shop at eight forty-five Saturday morning. Maybe I can spy on this person and figure out who it is before I actually meet with them. And then I’ll never meet with them.
Instead, I’ll go straight to the cops and rat him or her out.
I sit in my mom’s car in the parking lot across the street, watching Sweet Offerings’ front door. My mom couldn’t understand why I wanted to borrow her car when I have my own, until I made up some lie about being out of gas and how I really couldn’t stand the thought of a lecture because oh my God, I’m still in mourning over Gretchen and everything sends me right over the edge.
She bought it. Her expression had gone straight to sad and forgiving and she handed over the keys to her little black Mercedes like she was giving me a grand prize.
“Don’t park too close to other cars,” she told me before I left. Like that’s all she cared about.
Depressing as that thought is, it might be true.
I’m still tired from last night. We played an away game at another school almost two hours south, and we had to ride the bus both there and back. I didn’t collapse into bed until well after one in the morning, so getting up to meet someone I don’t even know at nine on a Saturday morning kind of sucks.
But I’m too curious not to go. So here I sit, wearing an old navy blue hoodie with the words “Bonita Cheer” in white across the chest. I have the hood on, my hair tucked beneath it, and I’m slouched low in the driver’s seat, never taking my eyes off the bakery’s door.
It’s mostly old people walking their dogs who enter and exit the shop in a constant stream. Three women sit out front at a tiny round metal table, huddled close with their hands curved around their paper coffee cups like they’re freezing. The sun is out, but it’s cold, though it’ll warm up later this afternoon. Another typical fall Saturday in Cape Bonita. Soon the tourists will come in. The day-trippers who want a little slice of seaside heaven before they have to go back to the grind. I love my hometown, I really do, but sometimes it feels fake. Like it’s there to make other people happy but not necessarily me.
Does that make sense? Probably not. But I’ve always sort of felt that way.
I check my phone for about the zillionth time but have no messages. That’s because everyone I know is still sleeping, and I’m jealous. I’m afraid my mystery coffee date is not going to show up.
I was really hoping he or she would, too. Not because I wanted to run to the cops and rat them out, but because I’m just genuinely curious. Who is this person who has dirt on Gretchen and Courtney? Is it someone close to me? Someone I barely know? Just because they tell me that I know them doesn’t mean I know them, know them. It could be an acquaintance. It could be Brogan, since he likes to pull pranks, though doubtful. Or maybe it’s some random, quiet person I’ve gone to school with my entire life. There are more than a few of those I know—
Someone knocks on my window and I scream, my heart feeling like it could jump right out of my mouth. Glancing up, I see Courtney standing there, all bundled up with a to-go cup of coffee clutched in her hand.
I roll down the window, trying to calm my ragged breathing. “Court.” I take a shaky breath. “Hey. You, uh. You scared me.”
“What are you doing out here this early?” She’s wearing a black knit cap, her shiny blond hair curling around her face. Her cheeks are pink from the cold and even without a lick of makeup on, she’s stunning.
“I could ask you the same thing.” I smile at her.
“Had breakfast with my mom.” Her smile fades. “She’s worried about me, so she dragged me out of bed at seven thirty and demanded we come here.” Courtney looks around before returning her gaze to mine. “What are you doing? Are you meeting someone?”
“No, I’m contemplating if I should run in and grab a muffin or not.” Sweet Offerings is well-known for their amazing muffins.
It’s the only excuse I’ve got.
“You should totally grab one. The pumpkin spice is to die for. You only live once, right?” She smiles again and waves. “I gotta go. My mom’s waiting. Bye, Penelope!”
And then she’s gone.
I sag against the seat and take a deep breath. Is Courtney the one I was really supposed to meet? Or…what if she met with my mystery date first? What if this person is totally playing all of us?
Grabbing my phone and keys, I climb out of the car and slam the door, then jog across the street until I stop just in front of the coffee shop. I peer through the glass windows, looking for a familiar face among the crowd of people inside, or even a young face. Any face that stands out to me and tells me it’s the person I’m supposed to meet.
“Didn’t think you’d show, and here you are, early even. You actually beat me.”
I go completely still. I know that voice. Slowly, I turn around to find…
Cass Vincenti standing in front of me, dressed all in black and a smug smile on his face.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, trying to remain calm.
He tilts his head to the side, his dark gaze drifting over me. “I could ask you the same question.”
That’s almost exactly what I said to Courtney. Oh my God. Did he overhear our conversation?
“I came for a pumpkin spice muffin. I hear they’re to die for.”
“Then let’s go inside and grab one.” His gaze meets mine, his brown eyes sparkling. He looks really pleased with himself. “My treat.”
He heads for the door, and I follow him like a robot, entering the café when he holds the door open for me. The line to order is long, and I stand there, Cass next to me, the both of us acting like it’s completely normal to run into each other and hang out.
I watch him from the corner of my eye. He’s got on black Adidas track pants with the white stripes along the side of his legs, a black sweatshirt, and those stupid faded Converse shoes. His dark brown hair is an absolute mess, like he just rolled out of bed and came straight here. His cheeks are covered with faint black stubble, and his eyes look sleepy.
Unfortunately, he catches me checking him out and grins. “Rough night. I was still sleeping not even fifteen minutes ago.”
“Nice,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Uh-huh.” His gaze roams over me, lingering on spots that make me vaguely uncomfortable. “What about you? You have a rough one, too?”
“Why do you ask?” I snap, but it doesn’t faze him.
“You look pretty beat.” His eyes lock with mine and I send him a major eye roll before I turn away.
“You’re extra charming this early in the morning,” I tell him.
He chuckles. “Sorry. Guess I’m not used to seeing you like…this.”
I look at him again. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. So…normal. And cute, with your hood on and stuff.”
My cheeks go hot at his calling me cute, and I push the hood off, trying my best to ignore him. Instead, I stare straight ahead, pretending I’m reading the chalkboard menu that hangs high up on the wall behind the counter. “Are you in mourning?”
“What?” He sounds totally confused.
“The black getup.” I give him a quick glance. “Looks like you’re going to a funeral.”
“You’ve seen me at a funeral. I clean up a little better than this.” He points at himself with a laugh.
Ugh. Everything he says seems to get right under my skin. I don’t know why he’s annoying me so much.
“Did you really come here for the muffins, Penelope?” he asks when I remain quiet.
“Sure.” I shrug. “Did you see Courtney?”
He says nothing, and when I finally glance up at him, I notice the panic flickering in his eyes. “Did you see Courtney?” he finally asks.
I nod, resuming my pretend menu reading. “She said she was here with her mom having breakfast.”
“Huh.”
“But no local comes here for breakfast this early, especially locals I know,” I continue. “This place is either a total tourist trap or for the retired empty nesters who walk their dogs at six in the morning and are dying for a coffee by the time they’re finished.”
“Rather observant, aren’t you?”
I whirl on him. “So why are you here?”
“You know why.” His gaze never leaves mine, but at least that smug look on his face has faded away. “You’ll just have to trust me, okay?”