Page 41 of Don't Say a Word
“Heading?”
“Hmm... She just crossed Nineteenth heading east down Butler.”
“That’s the back way to the school. Thanks, I’m not far.” I made a U-turn at the next light, then turned right into the neighborhood and drove down to Butler. She’d pass me in a few minutes.
“That’s it? You got me up early to sit on the street for an hour?”
“Call Tess and see if she needs help with research.”
“Aw, man, that’s boring shit.”
“You want to be paid for more than an hour’s work, call Tess. Or you can call my mom and see what she needs.”
“I’ll call your sister,” he said and hung up.
I grinned. Theo was terrified of my mother. He towered over her even when she wore heels (which was always), but he once told me when she looked at him, he wanted to confess to crimes he hadn’t committed.
My momwasintimidating and almost always knew if someone was lying. It could be unnerving.
Angie walked on the opposite sidewalk heading in my direction. She was alone, her head up, her shoulders curved in. She was about my height with dark hair that had once been dyed pink—she had three inches of roots and the rest of her hair was a faded pinkish-beige color that was pulled back into a sloppy bun. She wore torn jeans and a retro black Pink Floyd shirt. I’d seen the thin shirts—made to look old and faded—selling for fifty bucks in the mall. If I wanted to wear Pink Floyd or any other classic band, all I had to do was rummage through my dad’s closet.
I waited until Angie was directly across from where I had parked, then I got out of my Jeep and crossed the street. I didn’t want to scare her by following in my vehicle.
“Angie, hold up,” I said.
She stopped walking and looked at me with narrowed eyes. Her gaze darted around, either looking for help or a place to run.
“I’m Margo Angelhart,” I said when I was ten feet from her. “Lena Clark said you wanted to talk to me.”
“She’s dead.” The words came out quickly. “Last night. Everyone’s talking about it.”
“I heard,” I said. “I’d like to talk to you, then I’ll take you to school.”
She looked skeptical.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t want to get into a car with a stranger. I’ll buy you breakfast.”
“I’m not getting in your car.”
I didn’t blame her. I’d go to Orozco’s, but that was too far to walk from here. “There’s a bakery on the corner of Dunlap and Fifteenth, know it?”
She nodded. It was only a few blocks away.
“I’ll meet you there.”
“Why are you doing this?”
I assessed her. Teens had an uncanny way of knowing when adults were lying, so I was straightforward.
“You were at Elijah’s funeral, right?”
She nodded.
“Father Rafe—the priest who presided over the funeral Mass—is my uncle. He brought Elijah’s mom to my office and asked if I could find out what happened leading up to his death. I agreed.”
“Why?”
“Why did I agree to help?”
