I texted Abby that evening to tell her I hadn’t found anything in Steven’s room. She was going to visit Jeremy after school, so we wouldn’t have a chance to talk. Droid and I spent the time after study hall blowing each other up in an online game. He kicked my butt as usual. Maybe it would make him feel better about not making the swim team.
Tuesday after school, Abby texted me to meet her out front and bring my bike. I didn’t bother to hide my grin.
“Girl Sherlock?” Droid asked.
I nodded. Maybe we would go for coffee.
Steven wasn’t hiding Jeremy’s computer in his room. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t hiding it. And the way the room had been—it didn’t seem like a healthy kid’s room to me. If Steven felt Jeremy was disordering his universe, he could have done anything to him.
By the time I signed out and made it to the front of the school, she was already riding her bike back and forth along the sidewalk. Her helmet was the same blue as her jeans. A part of me had hoped for the kilt-and-kneesocks-on-a-bicycle thing.
“Let’s go—5485 Briarwood,” she said. She started riding away, heading north along the street.
“Or in English, hello,” I called after her.
So this wasn’t a coffee date. Or even a social call. My feet felt heavier all of a sudden.
I caught up with her before we reached the main road. “Where are we going?” I asked. There was no traffic here, so we could ride side by side.
“Your coach’s house,” she said.
“Oh.” I thought about that for a minute. It didn’t add up to anything good. “Why?”
“To see what color car his wife drives.” She glanced at me, then powered ahead before I could ask questions.
She was upset about Jeremy. I got that. But stalking the coach’s wife didn’t strike me as a good idea.
Maybe the best thing was to let her get it out of her system. Then we could go for coffee, talk, whatever. At least I was here with her.
After twenty minutes of hard riding, we reached a neighborhood with street names like Birchwood and Oakcliff. It was one of the older parts of New Haven, with big pastel-colored houses and old-fashioned windows. The trees on the boulevard reached across the street, and the leaves were raked into fancy jack-o’-lantern garbage bags. There were a few rental houses too. You could tell those by the patchy lawns and the flags in the windows. Yale students, probably.
The coach’s house was a pale yellow two-story with a wide porch. Abby rode past without stopping. I braked just before the driveway. The coach’s car—a gray Jetta—wasn’t in the driveway, but there was a pale blue Impala there. “This one!” I called.
She wheeled around and glared at me. “Keep riding!”
I rolled my eyes. It was nearly dinnertime. What were the chances of anyone looking out the front windows? But she kept riding, so I followed. She stopped at the drugstore on the corner.
I caught up with her. “Sorry. Didn’t realize it was such a stealth mission. Should we have been in disguise?” I smiled, hoping for a laugh.
Her face flushed red. “Forget it.” She turned away and wiped her eyes.
I felt like a worm. “Look, I’m sorry. I just—do you want to tell me what’s going on here? Because I’m confused.”
“The police told Dad it was a dark green car,” she said, studying the sidewalk. “They’re going to go public with the information tomorrow.”
“A dark green—oh.” The pieces clunked into place. “But why did you think Coach’s wife had anything to do with it?”
“Not her, dummy, him!” She glared at me.
My jaw dropped so hard that the bike helmet strap dug into my chin. “I told you, he didn’t do it.”
She looked away. “I thought if you saw the car…”
I took a deep breath and tried again. “You have to understand, I know Coach. He’s not the guy. And the cars aren’t even the right color, so that proves it, right?”
“It doesn’t prove anything,” she muttered.
I leaned on the wall of the drugstore and let my head clunk against the brick. My helmet got there first. “Abby, you can’t just go chasing after people. This is for the police to solve.”
“I thought you cared about Jeremy.”
“I do, but the police will handle it. Look, I’m a swimmer. You want to talk front crawl, I’m your guy. I’m not a detective, and neither are you.”
She crossed her arms and looked away.
“Why don’t we go for coffee? We can talk about this, okay?” We would be late for dinner, but so what?
Abby studied me for long enough that I started to feel fidgety. I held myself still.
“See you around, Bram,” she said. She kicked her bicycle into motion.
Panic rolled in my stomach. “Wait!” I pedaled hard and caught up with her as she turned onto a side street. I pulled ahead, then yanked my bike crossways in front of her, cutting her off.
She braked, but not fast enough. We crashed down together, and I scraped across the asphalt. We lay there, panting, in a tangle of limbs and bicycles. My right leg and arm burned.
“What the hell was that?” she shouted, shoving me.
“Are you okay?” I was an idiot. I was the world’s biggest idiot.
“No thanks to you.” Slowly, she stood and brushed gravel off her jeans. One knee was torn. Red, broken skin showed underneath. Her cycling gloves had protected her hands. She was moving fine. I exhaled.
“I never meant to—I just wanted to talk,” I said.
“Nothing to talk about,” she said, glaring. “You don’t want to help, fine. Just stay out of my way.”
“Abby, I—” But she was already pulling her bike free from mine. She checked it over, making sure nothing was bent or broken.
She wasn’t interested in me. She never had been. I was only useful.
“Are you okay? Can you stand?” she asked. Her voice was cold. It didn’t match the words.
“Fine,” I said.
I watched her ride away.