Back at home, I sat in front of the computer with my pathetic lunch: a yogurt and a handful of crackers. Carson saw me as soon as I opened Facebook. I’d hoped he would, of course. I needed to talk to him. I felt like I was about to jump out of my skin.
How’d your little sleuthing trip go? he asked.
No way was I going to tell him about the near-miss kiss. Guys like Matt weren’t supposed to want to kiss girls like me. I didn’t know what to make of it and wasn’t ready to discuss it with Carson. I needed Carson to take my mind off of those dark eyes.
Okay. I typed. Seems no one’s seen or heard from Jimmy in months.
Carson paused for a while before writing back.
Does Matt think he killed her or something?
I’m not sure why I was shocked to see these words on the screen.
He doesn’t come straight out and say that, no, I typed back.
Carson: Interesting.
Me: As crazy as Jimmy was, I don’t really think that’s possible.
Carson: I know you knew him as a kid, but did you really know him well enough, recently, to say that for sure?
Me: I don’t want to go there.
Carson: Why doesn’t Matt just have you do a tea-leaf reading to tell you where Jimmy is? Better yet, where Andrea is?
I took an angry bite of cracker before typing: Shut up.
Carson: If you’re going to take that tone, I’ll just go back to my AP Lit paper.
I should have known better than to count on Carson to distract or console me. This is why he doesn’t have many friends, I reminded myself. I finished my yogurt and stared at the screen, wondering if I should keep writing to him.
And then my Inbox dinged. Surprised, I clicked on the mailbox. I didn’t get a ton of email these days. I didn’t check it every day. My dad wrote me an occasional message, birthday wishes and stuff like that, but mostly it was crap from school.
The message was from an address I didn’t recognize, though: a long string of numbers and letters that didn’t spell anything. Just like the address on the emails Matt had received.
The message said:
Think twice about what you are doing. And do not trust a word Matt Cotrell says.
I stared at the screen for a moment, then flipped back to Facebook.
Carson? I typed.
Carson: Yes. Have you come back to apologize?
Me: Did you just send me an email?
Carson: No. Why would I do that?
Me: Are you messing with me?
Carson: I don’t know what you’re talking about.
I logged off Facebook and went back to the email, hit Reply, and quickly typed, Who is this? My heart raced. I couldn’t swallow. I thought of the headlights following me last night. I took a few deep breaths, reminding myself that I wasn’t alone in the house. I could hear Noah opening the microwave, then tossing something into the sink.
I sat there for an hour, refreshing my email account. But no one replied.