Hemlock by Kathleen Peacock Page A

had hit me.”
    Without a word, I walked to the car and slid into the passenger Without a word, I walked to the car and slid into the passenger seat. I quickly wiped my eyes with the heel of my hand, not wanting Jason to see how close to crying I was.
    He had accused me of not caring. If he only knew what thoughts were running through my head.
    I couldn’t save Amy, but maybe I could find the thing that had kiled her—maybe I could do that one last thing for her. And save Jason while I was at it.
    If someone found Amy’s kiler—if I found Amy’s kiler—then the Trackers wouldn’t bother sticking around.
    We’d al get closure, and Jason would never turn up with a black-and-red tattoo on his neck.
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    HarperCollins Publishers
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Chapter 8
    I LEANED FORWARD AND RESTED MY ELBOWS ON THE smal, round table jason had managedto snag for us. I grimaced as my arm came into contact with a sticky substance that I hoped was spiled beer. “Ugh. This place is disgusting.” I had to yel over the din of the crowd and the bad dance music pumping out of the speakers.
    Jason started in on another beer.
    “Maybe that should be the last one,” I suggested, already having resigned myself to the role of designated driver—despite not being sure if I could talk a drunken Jason into the backseat. At the rate he was downing drinks, I wasn’t sure he’d even be able to walk out of the club.
    I should have known he’d start getting tanked as soon as we were through the door. After sitting through Derby’s slideshow of death, I could understand wanting a little oblivion. No, the only real surprise was that I’d let him convince me to go out after the fight we’d had.
    Part of it had been my need for a distraction. For a second, when I had wanted to hit Jason, I’d reminded myself of my father.
    Hank had never laid a hand on me, but I’d seen him hit plenty of other people. Guys who owed him money. Dealers who pissed him off. Crooks who screwed him over. He hadn’t always needed an excuse—though he’d always been able to think of one later.
    Hank practicaly lived for that feeling he got when he swung a first punch. Facing down Jason, just for an instant, I had wondered what that feeling would taste like.
    With a shake of my head, I locked the thought away and focused on the present.
    As usual, Bonnie and Clyde was far more crowded than it had any right to be. The duct tape on the seat of my chair kept sticking any right to be. The duct tape on the seat of my chair kept sticking to my jeans and a glance at the floor in the blinking lights showed years’ worth of grime. This was one club where girls never visited the washroom to check their makeup or gossip. Serena and I had gone in once—on a dare. It was not an experience I ever wanted to repeat.
    At least the main part of the club was dark and crowded enough that the smaler vermin kept out of sight. Despite its flagrant health code violations and habitual serving of minors, B&C was never raided or written up by the health inspector—just one of the perks when the owner’s brother was the chief of police and cops always drank free.
    Tess would kil me if she knew I was here—though it was hardly the first time.
    The guy who had spoken to Jason after the Tracker meeting approached the table with a girl in tow. When I realized he was with Alexis Perry, I stifled a groan.
    Without waiting for an invitation, they both puled up chairs.
    Alexis looked like a punk pixie—her petite build and heart-shaped face were accompanied by a pink bob, combat boots, and a jacket that was held together with safety pins—and her dad was about as racist as they came. If you wanted proof, al you needed was a glimpse of the ink covering his chest and arms. The guy’s body was like a walking white supremacist bilboard. Even though Alexis lived with her mom, she’d embraced his beliefs with a zeal