“We’re her friends,” Kyra mutters stiffly. “Her best friends.”
“Then I have to ask again—who are her enemies?” More honking, while the last of the bell fades away.
“The police are wrong,” Kyra declares flatly. “Angel wasn’t like that. She wouldn’t keep secrets, she wouldn’t backstab her friends, and she sure as hell—” Whatever the girl is about to say, she bites it off. One last glare at me, then she grabs Marjolie’s hand and they both bolt for the academy steps.
I’m alone in the middle of the street with plenty of cars willing to tell me about it. I take the first step back toward the sidewalk, still thinking.
They’re lying. Angel’s friends, her brother—they all know more than they’re saying. And yet they also seem genuinely concerned and want her back. Meaning?
I make a quick stop in the corner market to grab water and dash a bunch of notes in my spiral notebook. Then I realize I need to do some hustling of my own in order to get to work on time.
I exit the grocer and round the corner to what I hope is the correct bus stop, casting a glance over my shoulder out of sheer habit.
Which is when I see him. A tall, skinny Black male standing across the way, staring straight at me. At least six foot four. Anywhere from late twenties to late thirties. Wearing a blue nylon tracksuit, with a thick gold chain around his neck, like he last got dressed in the early 2000s.
Cars zoom between us. When they’ve passed, he’s gone. But the shiver of unease follows me back to the bar.