Wonderland by Jennifer Hillier

sound sleepy again. “And if he doesn’t check in, it’s because he doesn’t need you to know. He’s an independent kid, and I love that about him. He’ll get back to you when he gets back to you. Works for me. Why are you special?”
    At that, Derek Dozier had hung up.
    Her next stop was Glenn Hovey’s house. Donnie Ambrose offered to come with her for this one, as he knew Hovey vaguely from his own Wonderland days. She told the detective she was fine going by herself. Vanessa had always preferred working alone. Some cops were better when they partnered up, as they could feed off each other to get the job done. Vanessa hadn’t had a partner in years, and she liked it that way.
    She pulled up to the Hovey residence and double-checked the address she’d been given. Yes, this was the right house, but the 1960s-style rambler looked as if the Seattle Seahawks football team had thrown up all over it. For starters, it was painted in team colors. The siding was dark blue and the shutters were neon green, a color combination that looked great on a jersey, but terrible on a house. A six-foot-tall Seahawks “12” flag hung from the eaves trough above the garage, and pasted to the living room window was a Seahawks decal that covered the glass almost entirely. The hydrangea bushes in the garden were also blue, green, and white. The house had to be an eyesore for the neighbors, whose homes were all done in shades of beige and brown. Vanessa was a Hawks fan, but this was ridiculous.
    She rang the doorbell, and a moment later a small woman in her late seventies was eyeing her suspiciously. She had a face like a road map, her hair silver with a purple tinge. Dressed head to toe in baggy Seahawks sweats, she was holding a Seahawks mug half filled with coffee. A lit cigarette dangled from the corner of her wrinkled lips, which were smeared with coral lipstick. The lipstick was the only thing that wasn’t a team color.
    Jesus , Vanessa thought. Imagine if it was actually football season.
    “Whatever you’re selling, I don’t need it, don’t want it, or can’t afford it,” the lady said. Her hand was shaking, an old-age palsy of some sort, and the coffee in her mug was dangerously close to spilling.
    Vanessa held up her gold shield. “I’m Deputy Chief Castro, ma’am, Seaside PD. I’m looking for Glenn Hovey. Is he home?”
    The woman’s eyes narrowed, wrinkling the already crinkled skin around her eyes even further. “What do you want with Glenny?”
    “Is he home?” Vanessa repeated.
    “I’m not telling you where he is until you tell me what this is about,” she said.
    Vanessa smiled. “I assume you’re his mother?”
    “I’m Sherry Hovey,” the lady said. “Glenny didn’t do nothing. He’s a good boy.”
    According to Vanessa’s quick background check, Glenn was fifty-three. Not exactly a boy. “I love your house.” She made a show of looking around. “The colors are wonderful. I just bought my son a Russell Wilson jersey. He doesn’t get it till his birthday, though.”
    The lady’s demeanor instantly softened and the door opened a bit wider. “Well, I obviously had to repaint when the Hawks rebranded a few years back. Not all the neighbors are happy, but I think it adds color to the neighborhood.” Her chin jutted out. “Our family’s had season tickets dating back to 1976.”
    “Wow. I hope you got to go to the Super Bowl.”
    The old woman scoffed. “You’d think! We didn’t get picked. Not the year before, neither. They do it by lottery, which is a load of bull crap considering we’re the most loyal fans they got.” The door opened wider. “I’d sooner sell this house than give up our Hawks tickets, that’s how loyal I am.”
    “Hopefully next year.” Vanessa clucked in sympathy, resisting the urge to wave away the cigarette smoke wafting into her face. “Do you think I could speak to Glenn, ma’am? You may have heard, a dead body was discovered at Wonderland.”
    The woman