Light of Day by Allison van Diepen Page B

of mail. The presence of mousetraps in every corner (thankfully empty, at the moment) didn’t help.
    Olive looked like a living doll in a white doily sundress and ballet flats. “I can’t believe people still send letters. They’resuch a pain to reply to.” Olive used a letter opener to pry one open. She scanned it. “Some old man doesn’t want Caballero using the word pissed . Talk about having too much time on your hands.”
    I frowned. “What’s an old guy doing listening to WKTU, anyway?”
    â€œDamned if I know. Some people need a cause.” She shrugged, her glossy side pigtails bouncing. “Should we recycle it?”
    I was tempted, but I shook my head. “Put it in my pile. I’ll answer it.”
    My phone vibrated.
    I glanced down, my heart skipping a beat. It was X.
    If you still want to help me find Bree, meet me tonight at 9. Wear casual street clothes. I’ll text you later with the location. No pressure to do this.
    My pulse sped up. I answered: I’m in.
    Olive had a knowing look in her eyes. “Somebody has a date,” she sang.
    â€œI wish.” I couldn’t deny the thrill of receiving a text from X, but this was far from a date. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been on a real date. With my ex, we never really dated. We just, sort of, got together.” I pondered that. “Maybe ifthere’d been some sort of trial period, I’d have realized sooner that we were better off as friends.”
    â€œHindsight’s great like that, isn’t it?” Olive said wryly. “You’re so right—most people don’t even date anymore. It’s hook up, hang out, then break up. What a shame. I like to make a guy work for it. Andrew takes me on a date once a week. I’m talking dinner and a movie, the whole shebang. And I make him pay.”
    â€œHey, with my cash flow, if a guy wants to pay, no argument here.”
    â€œWhat can I say?” She grinned. “I’m an old-fashioned girl.”
    At eight thirty that night, I stood in my bedroom, pulling on jeans, old sneakers, and a gray hoodie. I took a deep breath, staring into the mirror.
    We’re gonna find her.
    We have to find her.
    Downstairs, I zipped up my hoodie. “Going to a movie with Adriana and Caro,” I said to my parents on my way out. “Later.”
    Traffic on the expressway was lighter than I expected, and I made it downtown in twenty minutes. I loved downtown Miami at night. The city lights were like glow sticks against the dark sky. It was a place of endless excitement andpossibility, where the party didn’t start until half the city was already in bed.
    The GPS guided me through a few turns, and before I knew it, I was heading up Flagler Street. It was a student ghetto where dive bars with flashing neon signs advertised two-for-one drinks, ladies’ nights, and starving student specials.
    Although I was a few minutes early, I figured I’d get out and look around. Across the street, a group of young people was hanging out. They were street kids, the kind with piercings in their cheeks, gauges in their ears, and crude tattoos across their knuckles. Several were sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk playing bongo drums. A street artist in a knit cap was drawing something while others gathered around him.
    Pulling up my hood against the breeze, I tapped my feet to the rhythm of the drums. I’d only been standing there a couple of minutes when someone called from across the street. “Hey, Gabby! Over here!”
    I scanned the area, then I did a double take. It was X. He was the street artist.
    Seriously?
    He was standing now, holding the sketch under his arm. In a long, beat-up cargo jacket, baggy jeans, and ratty old boots, he looked every bit the young street artist.
    Holy shit. This must be his cover.
    I hesitated only a beat before crossing the street to join him. I couldn’t believe