Page 24 of Shark Cove

She didn’t look like the kind of girl who’d break into a house and hack a police officer’s computer.

A wave of fright washed over her; Malia felt the urge to puke, the toilet so handy nearby—but she’d at least found Leonard William’s contact information.

Now she had to call Blake to talk over next steps. That thought was enough to make her slap more water on her cheeks. “You sick bitch,” Malia said aloud. “He’s Camille’s boyfriend. He’s totally not into you.”

“Malia!” Harry called. Malia turned away from her schizophrenic moment to trot downstairs.

“Just so you know, I called the fat camp,” Malia said at one point during dessert, forking up a bite of pie. “They were closed.”

“I did, too.” Harry said. “They have a confidentiality policy. Without a subpoena, they can neither confirm nor deny that Camille’s a client there. And again, I didn’t have enough proof of wrongdoing to get one issued. Believe me, Malia, I took this seriously.”

“I know, Mom.” Guilt twisted her stomach. “I’m sorry. I’m not hungry.” She got up and carried her plate to the sink, and Harry didn’t stop her.

Malia glanced at the wall clock in her room; it was 8:00 p.m., still early enough to call Leonard William.

Camille’s fatherhad a deep voice with sandpaper in it. “Yes? Who is this?”

“Hi, Mr. William. This is Malia Clark, your daughter’s best friend.” Malia imagined the man shifting the cigar to the other side of his mouth, squinting keen blue eyes in annoyance as he dealt with this intrusion.

“How did you get this number?”

“Camille gave it to me.” Malia crossed her fingers behind her back. “Before she was sent to an abusive fat farm to lose weight. Her mother sent her there, and I’m hoping you can help me get her out.”

A short, charged silence. “Who is this, again? Malia who?”

“Malia Clark. I’m calling about Camille. I think she’s been sent to a fat camp against her will by your ex-wife. Maybe you can help her.” Malia’s voice trembled. “I know she’d want to come home if she could.”

A sudden bark of laughter, so harsh that Malia moved the phone away from her ear. “I know all about that camp. Won’t hurt Camille a bit to toughen up, lose a few pounds.”

Malia’s stomach hollowed with disappointment. This had been her last hope to bring Camille home. “I don’t agree, Mr. William.”

“We’re her parents, young lady.” Mr. William’s voice warmed slightly. “But I’m impressed that you care that much about Camille. She’s lucky to have a friend like you.”

“Yeah, well. I just thought it was worth a try, because I know how miserable she would be there.” Malia shut her eyes against the prickle of tears.

“Camp Willow-something, right? Regina’s having me foot the bill. We’ll see her soon enough, and I’m sure she’ll be fine until then,” Mr. William said heartily.

“Thanks, Mr. William, for not being offended that I called you.”

“No problem. You’re a very enterprising young lady,” he boomed.

Malia ended the call. She was so depressed that she got out of bed and went to her mother’s room. “I came for a snuggle.”

Harry opened her arms with a welcoming smile. Kylie joined them. Malia fell asleep, squished in the middle, as the three of them watched TV.

Harry shook her shoulder.“Time to get up, Malia.” Somehow, she’d migrated down near the foot of her mom’s king-sized bed.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to camp out here.” She sat up groggily.

“It’s fine. Reminds me of when you were little girls. Remember the puppy pile?” Harry’s mouth pulled down with old sorrow. Deep creases Malia hadn’t noticed before had gathered around her mom’s eyes.Damn Dad.Mom was still not over him.

‘Puppy pile’ was a game they’d played on Mom’s day off. The girls would run and jump on their parents’ bed for hugging and tickles in the mornings. As they got older, Malia would sneak down and start coffee and bring Mom and Dad each a mug after Kylie woke them up by cannonballing into the middle of the bed.

“Thanks for letting me sleep.” Malia patted her mom’s shoulder. She got out of bed and went straight to the bathroom, hopping in the shower to wash her hair and get a few extra minutes to blow dry it halfway—fully dry took so long it was out of the question. She braided it in two tails that hung over her shoulders, dampening the turquoise-colored scoop neck shirt she chose. She wriggled into flattering jeans Camille had bought her for her birthday.

“I’m gonna wear these jeans until you come home, Camille,” Malia said aloud. She pulled her camouflage sweatshirt on over the whole ensemble and snatched up her trademark ball cap.

Today was Friday, and the weekend loomed without a plan to find her friend or the blog to update. Nothing to do but get through the day.

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