“A little,” I admit.
“I got another hoodie in the car. You can layer up.”
“Aww. You willing to share your hoodie with me,” I tease, bumping his shoulder. “I MUST be special.”
He stares before giving a shy shrug. “Yeah. A little.”
There, in the flicker of that awkward pause, I feel it. An extra heartbeat, melting the ice it’s wrapped in.
Yusef rises to his feet, reaching a hand out. “Come on, let’s be out.”
I take his hand, the rough patches on his palms connecting with my own, and stare up into smoldering eyes. We can come to the beach every day, just the two of us. Picnics and bonfires and—
Stop it, Mari!
Yusef is a friend, nothing more than that. If I wrap myself in heat again, I’ll be the only one left burned. Resisting his warmth, I wiggle out of his hold, glancing up at the sky.
“Oh, uh, thought I saw a shooting star,” I say with a nervous laugh, taking an inconspicuous step away.
Yusef shakes his head with a chuckle. “Um, I hope you bought a real coat.”
“This IS a real coat,” I say, pulling at my fleece jacket.
“That’s a sweater with a zipper. It gets real cold here, like negative fifteen. Snow so thick you can’t see in front of you.”
“Ugh! Dude, you don’t have to threaten me with such violence. I’ll take the damn hoodie!”
As we head back to the car, I think of Sammy, walking Buddy on his own.
“Do you think there’s still squatters living in the houses on my block?”
Yusef chuckles. “Doubt that. Ain’t nobody wants to be near the Hag’s house.”
Back at home, I find myself doing exactly what Dad suggested . . .
“Follow the money.”
Because throwing people out of their homes after they’ve already been through so much can’t be legal. Going to jail practically for life because of weed shouldn’t be legal either. But I have to pick my battles; I’m an army of one. The new girl, a stranger. And if I can find out who’s planning on ripping the rug up from under my neighbors, then maybe I can tip off the community and we can all rise up together.
I’m also trying to avoid any and all thoughts of ghosts. Sure, the house is old, this block is creepy, and yes, some major weirdness has been going on. But to lay it all on a ghost is just . . . ridiculous. And daring to bring up that type of crazy talk around Mom or Sammy will score me a one-way ticket to the nearest psych ward.
The Foundation’s website is bright and inviting, but there’s not a single picture of what Cedarville really looks like. No wonder so many people were enticed by the residency offer. I click through the various pages until I find what I’m looking for: a list of board members.
—Patrick Ridgefield, heart surgeon
I guess that makes sense. Some doctors can make six figures at their practices.
—Richard Cummings, retired football player and community activist
That’s . . . interesting. Maybe he made a lot of money in the NFL. But his hair is white. He’s clearly been out of the league for years.
—Eden Kruger, philanthropist
Generic title. She must be a trust fund baby or a rich man’s wife.
—Linda Russo, partner at Kings, Rothman & Russo Law
A lawyer. That seems fitting.
—Ian Petrov, CEO of Key Stone Group Real Estate
Hm. Why would some random Russian real estate bigwig be interested in Cedarville?
Even with their combined incomes, it doesn’t seem like enough to fund an entire citywide buyout. Where is all this money coming from?
Curiosity piqued, I type “Maplewood Devil’s Night” into the search bar. Only four photos appear. Strange, considering the way Yusef and Erika went on about it. They made it sound like the whole city burned down, and judging from these photos, there were only a couple of old homes being put out by fire departments. The only other fires mentioned were the riots, which seemed more to do with justice than anything else.
Maybe they were exaggerating. But the look on Yusef’s face . . .
Against my better judgment, I type in one more name: Seth Reed.
The first article is from the Cedarville Gazette:
Reed, age 10, was found in an abandoned lot in the Maplewood section of Cedarville. His body, discovered by one of the search party members, Richard Russo, a business owner, was said to be covered by a beige carpet. The manhunt for the alleged child killer has sparked community outrage. Over twenty homes have been set ablaze . . .
Wow. He was the same age as Piper.
Wait . . . Russo? Like Linda Russo.
Russo seems like a common last name . . . but is it possible he’s related to Linda?
Searching Richard Russo, I come up with dozens of them, but a few have businesses. One of them is a window replacement company. They even starred in their own commercial. And they must do a lot of windows that cost some serious cash, because they are flossing like millionaires. With Versace glasses, gold watches, rings, stacked chains . . . all with black hair so shiny it looks wet in the light. Now, I don’t want to be judgmental or anything, but these clowns are giving me hella mobster vibes. I keep digging, searching all the businesses with Russos attached—a flooring company, carpet cleaners, air duct installers, electrical engineers. On LinkedIn, there’s a bunch of Russos who work for Cedarville Electric. There’s even a Russo working as an SVP of the local cable provider, Sedum Cable. Another Russo, the president of the local union, was in the news last year.
The Local 83 has reached a $2.5 million dollar settlement with the city of Cedarville. . . . The union was represented by Kings, Rothman & Russo Law firm.
Bingo!
The phone buzzes. Yusef.
“Hey,” I say, trying to hide my surprise. “What’s up?”
“What up doe. Just, um, making sure you got in okay.”
“Uh, yeah,” I chuckle. “You watched me walk in the house.”
“Oh, right,” he says. “Well, guess I’m making sure homeboy isn’t chilling in your room again.”
My stomach clenches at the gesture. He’s being nice, I tell myself. People are allowed to be nice. Even boys. But the other side of me fidgets. I don’t deserve nice. Not after . . . everything.
“Hello?” Yusef says, seeming worried.
I sigh. “Dude, if you just wanted to hear me snore again, you can just say that.”
He laughs. “Damn, you caught me.”
BEEP BEEP
7:00 a.m. ALARM: GET UP!
Shit. I should have nixed the alarm last night. After all the research and chatting with Yusef, I’ll be operating on two hours of sleep today. Going to need coffee and lots of it. The absolute worst way to Monday on a Monday.
“Nice going, Mari,” I grit through my teeth, throwing back the blanket to roll out of bed. The room is like a freezer. I slip on some cozy socks and head to the closet in search of something warm and comfortable to wear, which will most likely be the sweats everyone has seen me in five thousand times now.
BEEP BEEP
7:03 a.m. ALARM: Don’t forget your pills.
Ugh! There has to be a better way of fighting acne than pumping my body full of hormones and . . . wait. That alarm is hella early. Usually doesn’t go off until after breakfast. Must have set it wrong. Maybe?
Whatever.