Also by Todd Strasser: Blood on My Hands Wish You Were Dead

toDD strasser

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. All statements, activities, stunts, descriptions, information and material of any other kind contained herein are included for entertainment purposes only and should not be relied on for accuracy or replicated as they may result in injury. First published in Great Britain 2012 by Walker Books Ltd 87 Vauxhall Walk, London SE11 5HJ Published by arrangement with Egmont USA 2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1 Text 2011 Todd Strasser Cover illustration 2012 Photolibrary The right of Todd Strasser to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 This book has been typeset in Meridien Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data: a catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 978-1-4063-2994-0 www.walker.co.uk

To Richie, whos been there for 43 years. Thanks, man.

CHAPTER 1

THIS IS AMAzING, Roman said, staring at her iPad.

We were sitting at a table in the library, waiting for school to end. What now? I asked. In Cold Blood, by Truman Capote? Roman said. Its one of the best true crime stories Ive ever read. Coming from you, thats saying a lot. And it was written in the nineteen sixties, she stressed. Oh, you mean, like before the invention of the modern alphabet? Roman gave me a droll Youre so funny, Shels. My BlackBerry vibrated, and I slid it into my lap to read. It was an email, which was odd, since none of my friends ever emailed anyone. Stranger still, it was from someone calling themselves vengeance13773288@gmail. com. This is weird, I thought, then opened the email:
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Ur such a sweet nice girl with Ur perfect house and riding around in daddys Ferrari. 2 bad U dont no what hes really up 2

Roman hooked her black hair behind her ear and looked at me curiously. She must have seen the perplexed expression on my face. What is it? I handed the BlackBerry to her under the table. Creep show, she said, handing it back. Who sends emails? And what does he mean by what your dads really up to? How do you know its a he? I asked. The sweet nice girl part. A girl wouldnt write that. Roman was my best friend and really smart, but sometimes the stuff that came out of her mouth was offthe-charts bizarre. Why not? She just wouldnt. That makes no sense. Says you, Roman replied with a dismissive shrug. What should I do? I nodded at the BlackBerry. Write back, Roman said. And say what? Who are you, and why did you write this? If he wanted me to know who he was, he wouldnt have used this creepy vengeance at gmail address. Say that you already know what your dad does and that youre dealing with it, thank you very much. Good idea. I thumbed in the message and pressed Send.
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Roman looked past me. Guess who just came in. I turned to see Chris Clarke, the tall and broad-shouldered all-state tight end with a 3.9 GPA, signing on to a computer. When he saw me, he smiled and waved. I did the same. Hes interested, Roman whispered. I know. Chris and I had been exchanging looks and smiles for the past week. Youd be such a perfect couple, Roman said. Has he said anything? I shook my head. So far its been all smiles and nods. Maybe hes waiting for you to make the first move. Before I could respond, my BlackBerry vibrated again. It was another message from vengeance13773288@gmail. com. I quickly opened it and found one word: Liar.

CHAPTER 2

AFTER SCHOOL, I drove to Dads studio and parked next

to his bright red Ferrari. That car, I sometimes joked, was my only serious competition for his affections. Id just gotten out of my Jeep when two men Id never seen before came out of the studios back door. They got into a dark green sedan, with a laptop computer mounted inside, and drove away. It didnt take a rocket surgeon to figure out that they were police. I let myself in and started down the wood-paneled hallway that was lined with autographed head shots of famous models and actors. Almost all the photos were autographed to Dad in black Sharpie with personal thanks and salutations. In the kitchenette, Mercedes was making coffee. Petite and pretty, with dark hair and gold hoop earrings, she was Dads stylist and general modeling agency gofer. Hola, Mercedes. I stopped in the doorway. Cmo est Pedro?
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Pedro was her little boy, and, at the mention of his name, Mercedes would usually respond with a big smile and a story about his latest achievement or mischievous behavior. But today her brown eyes slid away, and she fingered the gold cross on her neck. Est bien, gracias. Her English was fairly good, but I liked to practice my Spanish with her. After high school, I planned to travel around Central America for a few months before starting college. I wondered if Mercedess lack of enthusiasm had something to do with those detectives. What did they want? I asked. You should ask your father. Her solemn mood was unsettling. Okay, I said. How do you say, Give Pedro a hug for me? Mercedes smiled weakly. Pedro dar un abrazo para m. Gracias, Miss Shelby. I continued down the hall to the office, where Janet, Dads modeling agent and office manager, was standing at a file cabinet with her back to me. I didnt want to startle her, so I knocked gently on the doorframe. Despite my cautious approach, Janet jumped, the stack of files in her arms spilling to the floor, papers and head shots going everywhere. Ahhh! she sort of gasped. Sorry, I said. Someone else might have said, Its not your fault. But Janet stared haplessly at the papers, photos, and files on the floor. Gray roots showed along the parting in her
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brown hair. Now what am I going to do? How am I ever going to figure out what goes back in which file? Ill help. I knelt down to gather the files. No! she practically barked. Leave it alone. But I said leave it. Please, Shelby? You could see that she was in an extra fragile mood today. When I straightened up, she was trembling. The tiniest things could send her into histrionics, but it usually took more than a few dropped files. What a freaking day. She plopped down on the corner of her desk, crossing her arms tightly and looking jittery. Like the floor, the desk was covered with loose papers and photos. You had to wonder why Dad had hired someone so disorganized to be his office manager. Whats going on? I asked. Two girls are missing. The dicks wanted to know what we knew about them. Were they models? I asked. Dads studio and agency did photography and got work for the models he represented. We did their head shots, Janet said. What happened to them? She gestured with a shaky hand to the pile of photos and papers on the floor. Theyre probably there somewhere. Not the head shots, I said. I meant, what happened to the girls?
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Their parents reported them missing. Theyre probably runaways. Across the hall, the door to the photo studio opened and Gabriel Gressen, ridiculously gorgeous hunk, parttime model, and Dads photo assistant, came out with a plate of Chinese food. I felt my heart flutter and not because I found beef with broccoli irresistible. With his dark eyes, wavy black hair, and chiseled looks, Gabriel was nothing short of drop-dead dreamy. Half the reason I stopped by Dads studio so often was to gaze upon his Greek-god beauty. He crossed the hall and stepped into the office, holding out the food. Anyone interested? If only hed been offering himself, I thought. Ill take it. Janet reached for the plate and began to eat hungrily with her fingers. Gabriel glanced at the papers on the floor as if it was nothing unusual, then smiled at me. Hey. My insides turning to Jell-O, I calmly replied, Hi, whats up? Big glamour shoot today. Really? Who? General Tso and his friends Moo Shu and Ginger. Hardy-har-har. I showed him I got the joke, then pointed across the hall at the photo-studio door. Can I go in? Sure. The prawns wont mind if you see them undressed.
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I went into the photo studio, which, not surprisingly, smelled like a Chinese restaurant. Dad was focusing a camera on a brightly lit plate of chow mein. On a table near by, a dozen other Asian dishes waited their turn in the spotlight. This for a food magazine? I asked. Not exactly. Dad fired a few shots. Strobes popped and flashed, leaving spots in my eyes. Advertising? Sort of. He repositioned the plate. A menu. For the Whacky Wok. The Whacky Wok was a hole-in-the-wall takeout place on a side street in Soundview. A sign over the counter displayed photos of the various menu items along with corresponding numbers. A wisp of sadness swept over me. In the world of commercial photography, shooting menus was about as low as you could go, especially for a man whod once done $10,000-a-day fashion shoots. More pops and flashes followed, then Dad replaced the chow mein with what looked like cashew chicken. Whats with the detectives and the missing girls? I asked. You got me. He adjusted a light. Seems that we did some shots for their books. Books was model-business slang for the portfolios in which models carried their photos. Did they say what they think happened to them? Nah, just asked some questions. Again strobes popped
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and flashed. Dad seemed totally unconcerned. I decided to show him the strange email from vengeance13773288@ gmail.com. Interesting, Dad said after reading my BlackBerry. Any idea what it means? He rubbed his hands together, made his eyes bulge, and grinned maniacally. I could tell you, my dear, but then Id have to kill you. Im serious, Dad. Seriously? His shoulders sagged. Not a clue. Probably just someone playing with your head, you know? Sounded logical, I thought. But who? Dad picked up his camera. Gotta get this done before the food starts to look soggy. Feel free to take home anything Ive finished shooting. You wont be home for dinner? Looks like Ill be here pretty late. I accepted the news with resignation. Dad always had a reason to stay away from home. And not just for late nights at the studio, but on weekends, too, when hed go out of town to shoot weddings and anniversaries. I put my arms around his neck and hugged him. Why dont you have dinner with us tonight? Too much to do here, he said, hugging me back. But I promise well do something special on Sunday, okay? Just the two of us? I kissed him on the cheek, took the chow mein, and went back out to the hall. There was no sign of Gabriel.
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In the office, Janet was thumbing through a file cabinet, the contents of the dropped files still scattered all over the floor, and the half-finished plate of beef with broccoli on her desk. I thought of saying goodbye but didnt want to risk startling her again. As I passed the kitchenette, Gabriel stepped out. I practically wound up in his arms. Ah! I laughed nervously and backed away, feeling my face grow hot. Sorry! He smiled calmly, as if women stepped into his arms all the time, which, come to think of it, was probably true. Nothing to be sorry about. That was nice. His words had a slightly teasing quality. Meanwhile, those dark eyes burrowed in. You look pretty. Thanks, I said, and almost replied, You look gorgeous. Got a boyfriend? he asked. No one special. Thats surprising. Not if you saw what Soundview High has to offer. That wasnt really the case, but I never let the truth get in the way of snappy repartee. He smiled again. This wasnt the first time Id felt attraction vibes emanating from him. But something always seemed to hold him back. I suspected it was because he worked for Dad and was worried that if we started dating and things went sour, it might make for an awkward situation.
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Which was too bad. Maybe Id have to talk Dad into firing him. Just kidding.

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