Deadly Little Voices (24 page)

“Bottom line: we think someone might be out to hurt you,” Kimmie tells her.

“Who?” Danica asks, checking her watch like we’re wasting her time.

“There’s a guy who’s been following you,” I tell her. “In a black Ford Taurus, with tinted windows…”

“Do the letters
DM
mean anything to you?” Kimmie asks.

To my surprise, Danica actually entertains the question, staring off into space, as if trying to think of any names or abbreviations she may know. But a couple of seconds later, she shakes her head.

“Well, have you noticed if anyone’s been following you?” I ask. “Or have you been getting any weird phone calls lately?”

“No one’s been following me, but I
have
gotten a few weird calls. Hang-ups, mostly. My dad’s gotten them, too.”

“And do you check the caller ID?” I ask.

She nods. “But it always comes up blocked. We figure it must be telemarketing.” She pulls the elastic from her pigtail so that the hair falls in a bob, framing her face. The golden-brown color complements the natural glow of her skin, and if it weren’t for the constant scowl on her face, I’d say she could be really pretty.

“How long have you been working at the Press & Grind?” Kimmie asks, gesturing toward the paper cup that sits on the portable fridge–turned table. It has the shop’s logo printed on the side (a picture of an old-fashioned coffee press “holding hands” with a grinder).

“Not long. It’s a fairly new gig. I usually work in the back. Now, will that be all?” She fakes a smile.

“You wouldn’t happen to figure-skate, would you?” I ask, totally taking her off guard.

Danica’s eyes narrow into tight, angry slits. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

“Did some girls ever play a trick on you while you were skating?” Kimmie persists.

“Were you sent to a special school because of it?”

“You need to go,” Danica says, getting up from her chair. She storms out of the room, moving toward the front of the house.

“Why?” I ask, following right behind her. “Was it something we said? Something we

asked?”

“Go!” Danica says, standing at the front door now, clearly unwilling to explain.

Kimmie and I make an attempt to apologize as we exit her house. But Danica isn’t having any of it, nor is she acknowledging our concern for her safety.

“We’re on your side,” I say, standing at her doorstep. “You’ve got it all wrong about me.”

“Do I?” she asks. “Because, the way I see things,
you’re
the only one harassing me—coming by my house uninvited, bothering me at school, prying into my business, and showing up where I work.”

“Danica, you don’t understand—”

“No, I understand perfectly,” she says, cutting me off. “Come here again and I
will
call the police.”

And with that, she slams the door.

“W
HAT THE HELL JUST happened?” Kimmie asks, once we get back inside her mom’s car.

“We pissed her off, that’s what.” I look out at the street again, but I still don’t see the Taurus anywhere.

“Yes, but
how
?”

“Do I seriously need to start a list?” I ask. “Number one, we showed up at her house.

Number two, we told her once again that her life might be in danger.”

“And number three, we brought up the topic of skating and switching schools,” Kimmie says.

“Agreed. It did seem like she went a little ballistic when we started probing her about skating.”

“So, there’s definitely some shred of truth in there,” Kimmie says. “Except, Freetown High is hardly considered a ‘special school.’” She makes air quotes around the words.

“Unless all of this is connected to something that happened in her past—meaning that she
was
a skater but isn’t any longer because of that one big and traumatic event?”

“That’s my vote,” Kimmie says. “But then, what special school did she go to in the past?”

“I don’t know,” I say, remembering my conversation with Aunt Alexia—when she said that whoever was in danger had been driven over the edge after being tormented by a group of girls. “A school for students with emotional problems, maybe?”

“Does one like that even exist around here?”

“Yes, but that’s the puzzling part,” I say. “Because Humphrey School is for grades seven through twelve. Danica’s been in Freetown Public with us since then.”

“Which brings us to the next question: are you sure Danica’s the one in trouble?”

“She has to be,” I say, thinking about all the clues so far. “Plus, why else would she have gotten so upset when we asked her about ice-skating?”

“Maybe because she’s talentless. Isn’t that what the voices keep repeating inside your head?”

“Yes, but then, why would my aunt say that the person in trouble was
more
talented than the other girls?
So
talented that they played a trick on her—one that ended in her getting locked up or confined in some way?”

“Unless, of course, maybe Danica was one of the bullying girls…one who helped play the trick on another girl—i.e., Mandy Candy—because that girl was the better skater.”

“Good point,” I say, thinking how that almost makes sense, considering Danica’s prickly side. Is it possible that Danica was one of the bullies in this case? “You do realize how much I envy your corrupt and suspicious mind, don’t you?” I ask, ever awed by Kimmie’s ability to ask all the right questions.

“Honey, there’s a whole lot enviable about me.” She starts the car, but then pauses a moment and turns to me.

“What’s wrong?” I ask her.

“Okay, so, there’s just one more thing that I have to ask.” Her face gets serious. “What did you mean before, when you said that you
owed
it to Danica to help her?”

I bite my lip, reminded of how well Kimmie knows me, even when I do keep stuff to myself. And so I fill her in on the whole humiliating story of what happened in junior high.

“And now you’re trying to make things up to her?” she asks.

“Yes, but that’s not the only reason I’m helping her. This isn’t just about me. It’s not about how guilty I’m feeling, or how much better I’ll feel once Danica’s safe. I mean, when I really stop to think about it, I couldn’t
not
help someone if I knew they were truly in trouble.”

“Which is why I’m proud to be your friend.”

“No prouder than I am to be yours. And, by the way, I owe you an apology, too. You aren’t the only one to blame for the weirdness between us. It takes two to make tension, after all.”

“Apology accepted.” She smiles.

We hug—along-overdue-squeeze-until-your-eyes-turn-runny hug. “Don’t ever be afraid to tell me anything,” Kimmie says. “You’ve seen me in period panties, after all.”

“And with your finger lodged up your nose,” I add.

“Right.” She grimaces, breaking the embrace. She pulls away from the curb and takes me home.

To my surprise, Adam’s Bronco is parked in my driveway.

“Scandalous plans that you neglected to tell me about?” she asks.

“Not that I can recall,” I say, spotting Adam standing at the front door. It looks like my parents aren’t home yet; Dad’s car is still missing from the driveway.

Adam waves when he sees us pull up in front of the house.

“I wonder what he wants,” I say.

“Okay, so maybe it’s
my
turn to start a list,” Kimmie says, “the top of which would include the fact that Adam’s hot for you and can’t stay away. The bottom of which would be that he’s here to spy on you for Ben’s sake.”

“Be serious,” I tell her.

“Slightly gelled hair, dark-washed jeans, and an Abercrombie-inspired sweatshirt…I’d vote for option number one, but I’ll leave that verdict up to you.”

“And where do you think you’re going?” I ask her, signaling to Adam that I’ll only be a minute.

“Date with Dad,” she says. “He’s got some major making up to do after blowing me off for that hoagie the other night.”

“Is Tammy really all that bad?”

“She’s
nineteen
,” Kimmie reminds me. “I mean, think about it: my future stepmom and I could theoretically hang out in the same clubs, and no one would think anything of it.”

“Is it Tammy you’re really mad at, or your dad?”

“Getting all shrinkified on me, are you?”

“Not shrinkified, just curious.”

“Well, trust me when I say that I have ample reason to hate my father.”

“Hate?”

“Okay, I’m pissed.” She lets out a sigh.

“But still you persist in wanting to spend time with him?”

“Because, my dear Chameleon, there’s a very small but self-torturous part of me that still pines for his approval.”

“Wait, does being pissed have anything to do with the Big D?” I motion to the henna tattoo on her hand. “Any chance it might stand for ‘anti-divorce’?”

“I’m impressed,” Kimmie says with a smirk. “It seems that my corrupt and suspicious mind is rubbing off on you.”

“But that doesn’t exactly answer my question.”

“And I don’t exactly want to get into it right now, especially since there’s a hunky male literally knocking at your door. Call me later?”

“Definitely,” I say, giving her another hug and thanking her once again for being the amazing friend that she is.

ONCE KIMMIE PULLS AWAY, Adam greets me with a bag from the Press & Grind.

“Triple fudge brownie?” he asks. “I’ve had a craving since last night, and luckily they allowed me back in,” he jokes. “I half expected to find our pictures nailed up on the door with giant
X
’s marked over our faces.”

“Very funny.” I fake a laugh.

“So, anyway, I figured that since I was in your area…”

“Is that the only reason for your visit?” I ask, giving him a suspicious grin.

“Am I that obvious?”

“In a good way,” I say, taking a seat on the front step.

Adam joins me. “Okay, so maybe I was feeling a little confused after last night…after you kicked my butt to the curb.” He rubs the alleged bruise on his butt.

“It was only because I thought I needed some alone time. For the record, I thought wrong.”

“You could’ve called me.” He bumps his shoulder against mine.

“I wish I had,” I say, feeling partly responsible for the insecurity he feels. “But I guess that after all that butt-to-the-curb-kicking, I didn’t feel I had any right to call.”

“You can always call me. No matter what.”

“Well, thanks,” I say, feeling a smile cross my lips.

Adam smiles, too, taking an extra moment to push a strand of my hair back from my face.

“And not only have I come bearing treats, but I’ve also come fully loaded with highly valuable info.”

“What kind of valuable info?”

“I’ve been asking around about Danica,” he explains. “More incentive to get you to talk to me.”

“I
want
to talk to you.”

“Good,” he says, “because I really want to help you, for no other reason than because I care about you and want you to be safe.”

“Well, thanks,” I say, feeling my face heat up, and thinking how while Ben’s away, having other people look out for me
for
him, Adam’s here, trying to help me out on his own. “Do you want to come in?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?”

I smile and get up to unlock the door. In the kitchen, I fetch us a couple of plates for our brownies, and then we sit down at the kitchen island. “So, what did you find out?” I ask, recalling that the only thing I told him about Danica was that she was someone I went to school with and someone I thought might be in trouble.

“You mentioned that she might be a skater, or might be connected to a skater,” he begins.

“And so I asked a friend who’s well connected in the whole sporting circuit in this area—”

“Do you mean Janet?”

“Right,” he says, lighting up, having apparently forgotten that I met his gymnast friend a couple of months ago at his apartment. “Janet’s dad, who’s also her coach, works at the Flint Arena in town, as does Janet, from time to time. I guess that’s where most of the local skating competitions take place.”

“And?” I ask, anticipating the news.

“And both Janet and her dad know a bunch of the skating coaches. So, I asked Janet if she’d mind calling a few of them to see if they’d worked with someone by the name of Danica.”