Page 97 of Red Hot Harmony

“Did you call this Trent guy already?” I switched back into detective mode.

“I called all of her friends I could think of. He didn’t pick up. I left a voicemail.”

“I don’t think teenagers check their voicemails these days.” I snatched the seat belt. “Do you have the address?”

“Yes, I do.” She texted it to me and I punched it into the GPS on my phone before steering the car out of the driveway.

Trent’s place wasn’t far. He lived in a small apartment complex several streets down and his roommate answered the door when we knocked.

I was recognized. Instantly. Even with my face covered up.

The dude’s jaw hung low. “Aaaah.” He made a sound and blinked.

“Is Trent home?” Camille began.

“Sure.” He motioned for us to come in on account of the smoke and ash invading the living room.

We stepped inside, where I picked up the faint smell of weed or beer.

A noise carried over from the other part of the unit, then a tall, green-haired guy who didn’t look much older than Ally or Pauline emerged from the hallway. I remembered him. He was the drummer.

“Hey, Ms. R.” His confused gaze bounced between Camille and me. Apparently, he recognized me too, but wasn’t certain how to address me, so he didn’t say anything.

His roommate hung back in the corner and studied us, all flustered and doe-eyed.

I took the lead again, “We’re looking for Ally.”

“She’s not here,” Trent said.

“What about Braden?”

“What about him?”

“Are you serious right now?” Camille shrieked.

I grasped her arm gently. Screaming at guys like Trent never worked. “Listen, man…” I tried to keep my voice level. “A fifteen-year-old girl is missing. Anything you can tell us…” My thoughts tripped over each other in my head and I lost track of what I was saying for a second but recovered quickly. “If something happened to her, it’s on you and everyone else who thinks they’re doing her a favor by keeping her secrets.”

Trent scratched the back of his neck, fear crossing his face. “I really don’t know where she is. We don’t talk much these days. Just band stuff.”

“Where can we find Braden?” I pressed on.

“Home, most likely. I know his bassist, Cy, was throwing a party tonight at his pad in Moorpark. Braden will probably be there.”

“We need an address,” Camille demanded.

“Which one?”

“Both,” she and I answered in unison.

The call came when we were driving down Fox Canyon, only ten minutes away from the destination punched into the GPS.

Topanga Boulevard had been my first choice. Bigger street. Less risk of falling off the cliff’s edge in this smog, but there was too much traffic there when we attempted that route.

After waiting at a particularly cumbersome intersection that took us nearly twenty minutes to cross through—which gave me a chance to text Malik—Camille begged me to take back roads.

“We won’t get there until morning at this rate.” She nearly cried, clutching at her phone that was lit up by notifications like a fucking Christmas tree.

I didn’t know this area very well, but I had to try. The prospect of spending the next few hours trapped in gridlock while the world around us burned terrified me as much as it terrified her.

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