I knock into a woman's elbow, splashing clear liquid onto her dress. Gosh, I hope that's water. She mutters something like "damn kids," but I don't stick around long enough to hear it or apologize. I fling myself onto the chair. It hits the floor with a slight crash, and I pray I didn't just splinter the thing into bits.
April jumps and turns around.
I chuckle. "Sorry. My feet are killing me."
"Traitor," Linzy shouts in my ear then appears.
I flinch.
April frowns and walks off.
Linzy stomps. "I almost had her."
Several adults stare at me oddly. I get up and go into the hall. Trying to look nonchalant, I climb the stairs, smiling at the strangers I pass. On the second floor, all of the doors are shut, including the bathroom. If anyone comes up before I sneak into Linzy's room, I'll just pretend I'm waiting to use the toilet.
Even though our houses are laid out exactly the same, and assuming the parents have the master bedroom, I don't know if Linzy has the front one like me or the back. The front one is bigger, so I take a guess and step to it.
Everything is white and lavender. I spot ballet slippers hanging on the wall. Wrong room. It's Shayla's. I shut the door and hurry across the hall. The toilet flushes and the water goes on. I open Linzy's door, push through, and am shutting it as Dad emerges from the bathroom. Crap.
My heart races and sweat lines the back of my neck. When his head is no longer in sight on the stairs, I click the door, lean against it, and take a deep, long breath.
Linzy appears before my face. "What are you up to?"
I yelp and want to smack her for scaring me. "You hang in my room, so I can hang in yours."
She rolls her eyes and throws herself onto her four-poster bed. The room isn't big enough for the monstrosity, but she's managed to fit it, a couple of night stands, a vanity with stool, a dresser, and two full-length mirrors (across from one another so she can see both sides of herself at once) in the space.
Her walls are covered in collages. The huge one above her bed holds pictures of old-time actresses—Audrey Hepburn, Elizabeth Taylor, Marilyn Monroe, and others I don't recognize. The collage on her closet is of her with cast members, and all the others are photos from magazines. Above each set there's a strip of paper like a heading. One says: future house with pics straight from Architectural Digest. Another is all about fashion, with the cutest pink bag. It has a crystal…
Anyway, I don't know how she gets any sleep in here. It's so congested and chaotic that it would give me nightmares.
"So what are you looking for?" she asks, arms folded behind her head.
"Not sure." I visually inspect every surface and then the walls again.
"Has Sherlock spotted something amiss?" she asks with a gravelly whisper.
"You don't have any pictures of your family. And no friends. Not one. Why?"
She makes a sound in the back of her throat. "Why should I?"
Well that's kinda a duh question. "Because they're family."
She yawns, although I'm pretty sure ghosts don't have any bodily functions, which means she's mocking my answer. "So. It's just a label. What have they done for me?"
Is she serious? "Um, how about feed you, buy you clothes, put a roof over your head?"
"First off, I clothe myself. And my money helps to feed and house me. Next?"
Why is she so selfish? "Okay, but they allowed you to have a career. Whether they did it for the money or the fame, none of that matters, because in the beginning they didn't know how far this would go. You wanted to act, and they let you. They didn't have to disrupt their lives with trips to wherever…"
"New York." Her tone is gentle.
"I get that things changed, and you see your mom, your manager, as greedy, but if they didn't love you, not the money, but you, they wouldn't be downstairs crying right now."
She doesn't respond, just stares at the ceiling.
I take the silence as a cue to start digging. I head to her nightstands and rummage through the drawers. Unfortunately, she doesn't believe in paper unless it's the glossy kind from a magazine. There are no notes to herself, no hate lists, no… Then it hits me. Linzy's the kind of girl who uses social media for communication. Why didn't I think of this before?
Her laptop is sitting on her dresser. I grab it and sit beside her on the bed. I flip open the top and press the power button.
"What do you think you'll find in there?"
"Something explaining why you think April, Eli, and Margo want you dead. Who is Margo, by the way?"
"My co-star. Felicity."
The one who thinks Zach is a better baby Daddy. Or was that Kinley? I'm getting confused. I open Linzy's browser and find her email. "What's the password?"
She leans forward, as if to type it in herself, and her fingers go through the keyboard.
I raise a brow. "Yeah, you're gonna have to tell me."
She crosses her arms across her chest and sulks. "It's not important."
"Of course it is. Don't you want to know who killed you? Wait scratch that. You do know. So don't you want me to know who killed you?"
Suddenly the door swings open, and Shayla stands there. Her eyes widen then narrow, and she looks more pissed than that day at the river.
Oh crap.
"First of all, who are you talking to?"
I giggle. "Myself?"
She steps forward, snatches the computer from my lap and glances at the screen. "And second, who the hell do you think you are sneaking into my dead sister's room and going through her things?"
That one I have no answer for.
Linzy chuckles. "She is pissed. You better watch out. Making Shayla an enemy means you're doomed."
Great. Exactly what I need.
Shayla closes the laptop, returns it to the dresser, then stomps back to the bed.
I am so stunned that I'm caught that I'm still lounging on the bed like it's my own. As she makes her way back, I jump up.
She grabs my upper arm and pulls me from the room, neglecting to shut the door. As we trip down the stairs, I curse myself. I should've listened more closely for footsteps in the hall. I should've not argued with Linzy so loud. I should've minded my own business that first night and not followed her. Maybe that's why she's haunting me now.
Shayla pulls me through the living room and into the kitchen. Everyone becomes a blur of concerned and confused faces. Then I stop moving, and I'm in front of Dad and Chief Williams.
I swallow hard.
Dad frowns. "Is there a problem?"
"Yes. I found her in my sister's bedroom, rifling through her things."
Someone behind us gasps. The chief lifts an eyebrow. Dad's complexion turns the color of an apple. Red Delicious or Fuji, not Granny Smith.
I bow my head and mutter, "Sorry."
Dad looks over my shoulder and says, "I'm terribly sorry for my daughter's actions. It won't happen again." To the chief, he says, "Excuse us."
Then he presses a hand to my back and guides me out of the kitchen, out the front door, and across the street.
I know I just stepped in a giant pile of crap, but I'm more upset that I didn't find out anything new. Some detective I am.
Once we're behind closed doors, Dad turns, opens his mouth, and then shuts it. He runs a hand through his hair and turns away. He steps into his office, his sanctuary, and when I follow (because I know there's no sense in running upstairs and hiding), he faces me and lets it blow.
"What the hell were you thinking?"
Obviously not that I'd get caught.
"Well?"
Here's the thing: Dad isn't really a yeller. Once in a while he'll raise his voice, but he's usually just stern when he feels like it and leaves the dramatic scream-fests to other families. So the fact that he's still the color of my favorite red hoodie upstairs, and his tone has reached an octave I didn't know he was capable of, makes me twitch and want to hide.
"Piper, I'm speaking to you, and when…"
"I wanted to find out who she was and what she was up to," I blurt out.
He clamps his lips shut and remains silent for half a minute. "You wanted to find clues as to why she died."
Dang, he's good. Or am I just predictable? I nod.
"That's dangerous. You can't do this. You're too young to investigate a murder."
Adrenaline pumps throughout my body until my hands curl into fists, and I'm practically bouncing on the balls of my feet. "Why? It's not like I was nosing around in a seedy, high-crime neighborhood. I wasn't tailing the cops and sneaking onto a crime scene. And I wasn't undercover, posing as a junkie."
He shakes his head. "Where do you come up with these scenarios?"
"TV. Where else?"
He holds out his hand. "Then it will be no television with no computer for a week. Hand over your phone."
Ohmigod, no way. "You're grounding me for trying to help?" Okay, so it's a flimsy argument, but he can't have my phone. It's my lifeline. Even if my life hasn't been very lively lately.
"That wasn't helping. That was prying. Those poor people are grieving because their daughter died and had to endure a total stranger snooping through her things. How do you think you made them feel?"
"Bad. Yes, I feel like crap, but it was for a really good reason. Knowing their daughter's killer was captured would be a relief."
"No, they'd still feel horrible because their child would still be dead." He narrows his glaze. "Can you even imagine what it would be like to lose someone you love?"
I scoff. How can he look at me like I'm a monster? "Um…Mom."
His expression softens, but he extends his arm. "Phone."
I pat the top of my long pockets, knowing darn well it's in there, and do my best acting. "I left it in Linzy's room."
He drops his arm and walks to his desk. "Fine. We'll get it back another day. I don't want to bother them anymore. Go to your room."
And just like that, he dismisses me. But as I turn and step into the hall, he says, "I'm disappointed in you, Piper. I raised you better than this."
Yeah, me too.