I stared at the creepy kid before me, jaw dropped. Well, I didn’t know for sure he was creepy, but he was far more comfortable with death than I was comfortable with. And that mixed with the fact that his eyes were still all big and little-kid-like—well, he was a bit creepy.
This was also a bit of a predicament. While I was still pretty new to the private investigation business and knew next to nothing about child-rearing, I did have a sneaking suspicion that questioning a kid about a murder—without a parent present—was a big no-no.
“I don’t think you should—”
“My mom heard the whole fight. She told her friend Sandy all about it when she thought I was playing video games.”
I nodded. I remembered Sandy from school too. She always went around telling people that she thought their makeup was ‘a little much.’ Kind of like Freddie telling people they needed their bangs cut. “You probably shouldn’t eavesdrop on other people’s conversations.”
“Do you eavesdrop?”
“What? Do I eavesdrop?” I put my hand to my chest. I suppose I should have seen that coming. But I wasn’t really an eavesdropper per se. The conversation between Joey and his sister notwithstanding.
“I know you’re lying. There’s this detective on TV who says when people answer a question by repeating the question, they’re lying.”
I don’t know why this kid was bothering to ask me any questions at all. He already had all the answers. “I was going to say not often … and usually not on purpose.”
He nodded. “So you want to know about the fight?”
I did. And he knew it. But I did not need to add the title of Erica Bloom, inappropriate child questioner, to my already infamous reputation. “I don’t think your mother would appreciate me talking about … this … with you.”
“That’s not a no.”
I threw my hands up. “I gotta go. You’re going to get me in trouble.” Not to mention the fact that he was really freaking me out with all his valid observations. I hustled down the front door steps.
“So you’re not investigating the murder?”
I didn’t answer. Just kept walking. He’d know I was lying anyway.
“And you don’t want to hear about the catfight?” he called after me.
I stopped, but I didn’t turn to look at him. “Do you even know what catfight means?”
“It’s when chicks fight.”
I turned. “You will not refer to females as chicks, and … are you saying your mom heard two women fighting that night?”
The kid smiled. “I knew you wanted to know. When I grow up, I want to be a private investigator too.”
I frowned. Hopefully not in Otter Lake. I had a feeling he might put us out of business.
“Did she say anything else?”
“She—”
Suddenly the kid stopped talking.
“What? What happened?” I asked.
But the kid just swallowed. He was looking at something behind me.
Something or someone.
I peeked a look over my shoulder.
Uh-oh.