Chapter 1
You know what the worst thing to be told at six a.m. is? That your best friend is dead; she was hit by a car on the other side of town, and the driver—her killer—is yet to be found, even though it’s been almost a full week. There was no witness. There has been no punishment. Mady Kingston was murdered, and it seems as though no one besides me cares about finding her murderer. Whether it was an accident or not, justice shall prevail. I’ll make sure of it.
“Brooke,” my father says, opening my bedroom door.
I quickly close out of the program I’m on and open iTunes, then begin “searching” for new music to listen to, like I used to do all the time. My father would kill me if he found out I was using the police database again, but what he doesn’t know cannot harm him.
“Find anything good?” he asks, pulling up the spare desk chair.
I want to scream, yell that nothing will ever be good again—not without Mady. Nothing will ever be the same now. I’ll never pick her up on my way to school again or go to the mall and shop for clothes with her.
I never even got to say goodbye.
The funeral was closed-casket because of the severe injuries to her body. Her parents said it was best if people remembered her for who she was before the accident, not after.
I shrug my shoulders after a few minutes, realizing I never answered him. He must think I’m crazy because he puts his hand on my shoulder, which is what he did when I was a kid to calm me down. Only I’m not mad right now; I’m infuriated, and I have the right to be.
“I think you should see a therapist,” my father says. “They might help you feel better.”
“I don’t want to ‘feel better,’” I tell him, quickly and quietly, almost a mumble. Oh, God. What will he think of me now?
He takes his hand off my shoulder. I can hear the pain in his voice as he says, “Sometimes, the only way out is to push through. Eventually it’ll be easier.” He pats me once before leaving my room.
You’re wrong, Dad. It will never be easier.
Mady will never be not dead now.
She’s a girl living in memories and photographs. Strangers will read her name in the paper and think “how sad” and “that’s so terrible” before continuing on with their day. Because when it comes down to it, they don’t really care whether or not Mady Kingston is dead or alive. I do.
I reopen the database and sift through the north side of town, waiting for the program to locate Mady’s cellphone. The wait is always the worst part about investigating. I’ve never been a patient person. Why wait when I can make things happen now, when I can get things done and over with in half the time?
The tiniest, almost inaudible, beep escapes my computer. I practically leap out of my seat as I grab a pen and write down the street name. I don’t have time to snag the address before the dot blinks out again. My brows furrow. As far as I know, cell phones don’t normally lose service on the north side of town.
My father opens the door again and stares at me, glances at the monitor which is already blank.
“I thought we could go out and eat,” he says. “Your mother will meet us there.”
“Of course,” I say, then grab a sweatshirt and slip it over my head. Going to dinner with them is the least I can do, considering I’ll be “staying at Emma’s” over the weekend.
Dad opens the passenger door of his Mercedes, and I climb in. “Where to?” he asks, sliding into the driver’s seat.
“Wherever you’d like, Dad,” I say because tonight belongs to him, but tomorrow—that belongs to Mady.
