Page 36 of Shark Cove

“Wait. I need a goodbye kiss.” Blake had a hank of her hair in his hand, and, his eyes on hers, he began winding the wavy, rich brown skein around his finger, drawing her toward him.

“It’s wrong,” Malia whispered. “I’m going to hate myself later.”

“I promise there was nothing going on between me and Camille,” Blake said, inches from her mouth. “We never even kissed. We never went on a date. We liked each other; I care about her. That’s all. But not like this.”

Malia melted like butter in the sun as he kissed her. If only she could freeze time, hold this breathless feeling close, and make it last . . .

“I’ll see you later.” Malia gathered her backpack and opened the door. “But no more— you know. Seriously. We have to clear things up with Camille before . . . anything else.”

“I’ll be a perfect gentleman on our midnight raid. But if you end up kissing me, well.” He shrugged. “I’ve been called a man-slut before by a certain Wallflower.”

“I mean it.”

“Of course. No means no.” He started the car and backed out of the driveway.

Malia madesure her door was locked before she plugged in the burner phone to recharge it, then lay down on her bed with her spiral notebook and a pencil.

She scrolled through texts, wincing at comments about her and Blake:“What does he see in that emo chick?” “Apparently Blake’s slumming now that Jodie dumped him for the prom...”and more in that humiliating vein. Well, Malia deserved it, had been thinking the same herself.

More comments had come in about the post on Camille, including some “sightings” everywhere on the island from Upcountry to Hana, but nothing seemed solid enough to pursue.

Then, as suddenly as if surrounded by neon, a text:“This is Camille! Help me! Tell MPD I’m being held prisoner. I was kidnapped out of my house by two guys with hoods on. They made me write a note about running away. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m in a small storage shed. I stole this phone off the guard’s belt, so don’t call this number. Please just get someone to find me, I’m somewhere about an hour away from home by car. This is Camille, and my favorite shoes are my glitter Converse. Believe me! Please get help!!!!”

Malia shot upright, her stomach churning.

Her instincts had been correct. Someone had taken Camille!

If her friend was kidnapped and her parents were being threatened, that explained why Regina William had recanted her story about Camille running away. It also explained the oddities in Malia’s conversation with Leonard William. He must be the one being hit up for kidnap money—though Regina William was wealthy too.

Malia had to get this information to her mom.

But how? If she told Harry she’d got a text from Camille, she’d have to disclose the burner phone and admit she was the Wallflower.

She would call in to MPD, disguise her voice, and pretend she was Camille. She’d have to keep it short. Her mom had said at least a minute was needed to get a trace on a cell phone and triangulate its location—that’s why emergency calls were better done from a land line.

Malia held an old T-shirt over her mouth and dialed. “911. What’s your emergency?”

“My name is Camille William, and I’ve been kidnapped! I’m being held somewhere about an hour by car from my home near Wailuku. I’ve taken this phone from a guard, so don’t call this number back. Please help me! Don’t believe what they say about me running away or being at a fat camp!”

Malia ended the call. Her message had sounded realistically terrified, because she felt totally hysterical.

She turned the phone off and took the battery out, though she was fairly sure they couldn’t have traced her location during the brief call.

She heard her mother come home, her shouted greeting, and the sound of her putting away her weapons, computer and ID. The shower turned on in the bathroom across the hall.

Harry was washing off her tiring day, and all Malia could think about was telling her this news.

She’d passed on the call for help from Camille to the MPD. Wasn’t that enough? Wouldn’t they call Harry’s work cell, as she was a detective on the case? But what if they thought it was a crank call?

Malia found herself biting a nail, and stopped, grossed out—she’d never done that before. She got up, paced back and forth. She checked the number of minutes on the burner: only thirty-five left.

She called Blake. “Camille texted me that she was kidnapped!”

“Oh shit! What did she say?”

“I’ll read it to you.” She read the text message aloud. “I just called 911 and left a message that I was her. Is there something more I should do, do you think?”

“Give that phone to your mom,” Blake said.

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