Blood on the Bayou by Stacey Jay Page A

the time, and I only got bit twice and it didn’t bleed very much and I didn’t even cry for more than a minute.”
    “Wow.” Only Deedee would think that story was something to brag about. “You’re such a little weirdo.”
    She grins. “Just like you.”
    “No. You’re a much cuter weirdo.”
    “You’re cute, too. I like you,” she says, with such a sweet blinky look that I see her coming a mile away.
    Still, I say, “I like you, too.”
    “Then why don’t you take me home with you?” She drops the sugary act with a stomp of her foot. “I can help you out. I can watch Gimpy while you’re at work and when school starts I’ll do all my homeworkby myself without asking for help. I’m smart. I can do it by myself.”
    “Deedee—”
    “And I can cook for you, too,” she hurries on. “I know how to make Macaroni and Cheese in the microwave. And hot dogs. And bologna and cheese sandwiches. Those are really good. If you heat ’em up just a little the bologna gets all puffy around the edges like a spaceship.”
    “That sounds awesome.”
    “It is. All you need is bologna and you can get it right here at the Quik Mart! We could go make spaceship sandwiches right now!”
    “Listen, Dee. I want to have you over for spaceship sandwiches, and I promise we’ll do that soon,” I say, summoning up my firmest big-person voice. “But you can’t come live with me.”
    “Why not?” Her face scrunches, but thankfully she looks more angry than sad. If she starts crying the way she did the last time we had this conversation, I might have to chug my Sapporo right here in front of the cooler. “You took Gimpy home for keeps. Why not me?”
    “You’re not a stray cat. You’re a kid, and you need things I can’t give you.”
    “No, I don’t. I’m low maintenance. Mrs. Malky said so.”
    Speaking of Mrs. Malky . . .
    “Does Mrs. Malky know you’re here? When I was at Sweet Haven, you had to be at least twelve to get an afternoon pass.”
    “I don’t need a pass.” She crosses her arms and lifts her stubborn chin. “Mrs. Malky’s always off doing her goat business. I climb the gate whenever I want.”
    “Deedee Jones! You can’t do that. You have to follow the rules.” Said the woman who has broken most of the rules and several federal laws in the past two months alone.
    “I don’t want to follow the rules. I hate it there,” she says, tears pooling in her big brown eyes. My hands ball into fists, fighting the urge to reach for liquid relief. “All the kids are mean to me. They make fun of my dresses and one of the girls peed on the fancy satin Mama got me for Christmas last year. Mrs. Klein helped me wash it, but I swear it still smells like pee and I hate Tonya Trace for putting her pee on my dress and I want to kill her every time I see her stupid skinny face!”
    “Well, sh—Sorry,” I correct at the last minute. “I’m really sorry, Dee.” Sweet Haven hasn’t changed much, then. I should have known better than to think that it had. I should have guessed the other girls would be jealous of Deedee’s nice things. Before her death, her mama worked for the richest family in Donaldsonville. They paid her well and she spent half her salary dressing up her baby girl. She loved Deedee so much.
    And now she’s dead, and Deedee is learning what it’s like to be a kid that nobody treasures.
    “Take me home, Miss Annabelle. Please.” Deedee leans her forehead into my stomach, all the fight goingout of her in a rush of breath. I put my arm around her thinner-than-they-used-to-be shoulders, feel her exhaustion and desperation seep into my skin, and for a second I think about it.
    Maybe it could work. Maybe Deedee and Gimpy and I could be a team.
    Maybe even a family.
    And then I look over her shoulder at the cooler door. It’s still open, ready for me to snag that two o’clock beer I was planning to chug in the alley before I lie to my ex-boyfriend about a murder investigation I’ve somehow