Shade Me by Jennifer Brown

not getting back together, Jones. Not ever.”
    He sighed. “So you’ve told me. Time and time again. Why are you so interested in Peyton Hollis all of a sudden, anyway?”
    Instantly, the image of Peyton lying in her hospital bed flooded my mind. Dru, sitting there next to her, looking at me with a mixture of gratitude and suspicion. “Never mind,” I said. “But thanks for the information.”
    I hung up and headed for a shower, my back stiff and aching from sleeping bent over my desk. I pushed my hands into the small of my back and stretched, mulling over what Jones had told me. It felt like important information, but I couldn’t quite figure out why.
    Halfway through my shower, it hit me.
    When she moved out, it upset everyone, Dru had said.
    When she moved out . . .
    I shut off the shower, dried myself, and slicked my sopping hair into a ponytail. It was now 6:42. School started in an hour, and I still had yet to get dressed and get my shit together. But how was I supposed to think about world history or English literature, or—the worst—chem, when I had just been handed a clue that might lead me to what happened to Peyton Hollis?
    I wrapped myself in a heavy robe that Dad scored for me at Four Seasons Chicago last year and hurried back to my desk.
    Just as I sat down, the doorbell rang. Glancing downat myself in my robe, I decided to let it go. Probably just a delivery. But a few seconds later, it rang again, followed by insistent knocking.
    â€œFine, fine,” I muttered as I hurried down the steps, pulling the robe tight around me as I went. “You can just leave it on the porch, you know,” I called.
    There was a pause, and then, “Miss Kill? It’s Detective Martinez. From the hospital. Mind if I talk to you for a moment?”
    Alarmed, again I glanced down at myself, my hands instantly flying up to my dripping hair. I wasn’t one of those perfect-princess types of girls who always had to look like she just stepped off a runway when she left the house, but a robe with nothing underneath was maybe just the tiniest bit too casual for conversation with strangers.
    â€œMiss Kill?” he called again. “Nikki?”
    Groaning, I accepted the inevitable and opened the door a crack, awkward fern turning into all-out-embarrassed pine in my vision. There was Chris Martinez, smiling and holding up a steaming cup of coffee.
    â€œMind if I come in?”
    Now, standing next to him in his pressed khakis and button-down shirt, I felt really naked. “I’m kind of busy,” I said.
    But he was unflappable. “It’ll only take a minute. You like French vanilla?”
    Eyeing the coffee, I sighed and backed up, opening the door wider for him to come in. He stepped through the threshold without a word and pressed the coffee into my hand.
    â€œSorry to bother you so early. I thought I might try to catch you before school.” He paused and looked me up and down. “I apologize if I’ve caught you at an inappropriate moment.”
    My face burned—I might as well have been standing in the middle of a pine forest at that point, I was so mortified—and I crossed my arms over my chest, just in case my robe might get any ideas. I sipped the coffee, which was—frustratingly—really good.
    â€œIs there a place we can sit?” he asked.
    â€œNot really,” I said. I didn’t love cops to begin with. And Dad absolutely hated them after they botched Mom’s case so badly. If he found out I’d let a cop into our house for a cup of coffee, much less let one sit down, he would probably flip. “Can we make this quick?” I gestured at my hair like I needed to do something with it. As if I ever did anything with my hair.
    He shuffled his feet, shifting his gaze down to them momentarily, and then nodded. “Okay. I just wanted to ask you some questions about Dru Hollis.”
    â€œWhat about