In this gripping YA thriller, two girls from opposite worlds enter into a dangerous game of cat and mouse after a rich classmate is murdered and they both become prime suspects. Now in Paperback! Sixteen-year-old amateur sleuth Roxie is shrewd, nimble, cunning, and only a little bit damaged. She also has a real knack for finding things, making her the perfect go-to detective for her rich classmates at St. Margaret when they’re looking to retrieve the things they’ve “lost"-- no questions asked. So when queen bee Kirsten Montgomery-Wiggins pays Roxie a hefty sum to track down a mysterious blonde who “stole” her phone, Roxie accepts. Although Kirsten and Roxie have bad blood between them, Roxie could really use the cash. But that same night, Roxie finds Kirsten murdered in her mansion, and police zero in on her as a prime suspect. On the outskirts of town in a trailer park, Inez, a part-time maid and part-time sex-worker, keeps finding blood everywhere. Crusted in her earring, threaded into her shoelace. She should really toss her shoes so there’s nothing to tie her to the body. How could the night have gone so wrong? She really thought she was working her way to a better life, but now she could be headed to jail if the wrong someone puts two and two together. Roxie doesn’t know who she’s looking for and Inez doesn’t know who she’s hiding from. But all roads seem to lead to Montgomery House, as Roxie works to clear her own name and Inez attempts to stay one step ahead of the law and the men who hurt her.

Autorentext

Natalie C. Anderson

Leseprobe
Roxie

The halls of Saint Magdalene Preparatory Academy ring with the dulcet tones of well-­turned-­out girls. On the brink of rarefied womanhood, they leisurely make their way to class. Straightened hair, tidy uniforms. A hum like a content bass line. But beneath it all I can make out a sweet vibrato:

Scheming, backstabbing, and lying.

I like this sound. It’s the sound of money.

On this bright and normal Monday morning, Great-­Aunt Regina’s diamond necklace treasure hunt is fading into the background. I put in a few hours at the restaurant Saturday afternoon, but eventually Uncle Lenny clocked me out early. I’d protested weakly, then dragged myself home, gone to my room, and passed out like a rock.

We haven’t talked about the hunt since. I’m happy to let Uncle Lenny and Aunt Lori handle it. They’re heading to Mont­gomery House today, in fact, for a first go. They know how to play the game. They’ll find the necklace and we’ll all soon be a few million richer. Batty old rich lady gets a final chuckle. Happily ever after without me having to puzzle through that particular poetry again.

Meanwhile, I have plenty to keep me busy.

I wait tables as many weekends and nights as Uncle Lenny will let me, but my real bread and butter comes from being Saint Magdalene Prep’s resident snoop. My forte is finding things. Uncle Lenny doesn’t know about this. But I figure he doesn’t need to know everything, especially since most of the jobs are not so PG as finding lost puppies. Most involve looking at people’s hairy junk on the dark web.

In addition to lost dogs, Saint Maggie’s girls need me to find evidence of cheating boyfriends. They need me to find evidence of cheating boyfriends cheating with their best friends. Evidence of cheating boyfriends cheating with their best friends’ boyfriends. I’m not choosy. I’ll find jewelry, pets, money. But mostly what people need help with are the nudie photos and videos given in earnest to those same cheating boyfriends. Gifts that now need tracking down and obliterating.

What I do isn’t rocket science, but it takes a certain skill set that I spent the first half of my life unintentionally developing. That is,“being as sneaky as a greased copperhead,” as Pastor once put it.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s my best friend, Nina.

Nina: Got a potential new client for you.

Me: Great. Who?

Nina’s been a Saint Maggie’s girl since kindergarten. She knows everyone and sniffs out a lot of jobs for me.

Nina: Kirsten Montgomery-­Wiggins.

I blink at the name.

Nina: Don’t kill me.

It takes me a second to find my thumbs. But when I do, my response is swift.

Me: Nope.

Nina: She seems desperate. Bet you could charge her double. Triple.

I start to restate my position in more colorful terms, but my fingers hesitate.

The problem is that actually I’m not busy at all. Normally I’ve got back-­to-­back jobs lined up, but since failing to find Chloe’s dog, three potential clients have ghosted me. I can only assume Chloe’s to blame. She really should be more grateful. The lost puppy wasn’t my first job for her. Freshman year I made a sticky situation with a photo of a grape Popsicle go away. (Literally sticky. Don’t ask.) But the loyalty of girls like Chloe is fleeting.

Nina: Sorry, I shouldn’t have even asked. Don’t worry about it. It’s not worth it. I’ll tell her no.

Me: Wait.

I chew the inside of my mouth. Kirsten freaking Mont­gomery-­Wiggins. Am I really that hard up? As I’m staring at my phone, words suddenly float through my mind like a bad jingle: Around four heads the angels flew. *Silent in their keeping.

• I squeeze my eyes shut. Nope. I need a job. Something to keep my mind from Great-­Aunt Regina’s word games and all their attendant PTSD.

  Me: Fine. Triple rates. Up front.

  Kirsten owes me at least that much. And she can afford it.

  Nina sends a dollar-­face emoji and a devil.

  Nina: Atta girl. When?

  Me: Now. Tell her to meet me at my locker. I’ve got a free period.

  A few minutes later, Nina writes back.

  Nina: She’s headed your way. She’ll be the one who looks like she moisturizes with the tears of underclassmen. Debrief later?

  Me: If by that you mean you’ll drive me to the Rusty Nail after school, yes,I will take that offer and raise you a basket of okra fries upon delivery.

  Nina: Good. I can’t wait to hear what she’s lost. I hope it’s pics of her perfectly groomed muff. I bet it’s monogrammed. xox

  I pocket my phone and head for my locker with mingled curiosity and dread. Kirsten has to be pretty desperate to stoop so low as to ask for my help. On top of that, she and Chloe are BFFs, and Chloe can’t have had anything good to say about my services.

  Seriously, couldn’t anyone else in the world have lost something?

  I have to walk past old class photos on the way to my locker. Usually I avoid looking at my mom, but today I let myself linger in front of the class of 2005. She had short hair then, a dark bob with bangs. Her eyes are bright and she grins like I never remember seeing her grin. I barely recognize her. It’s hard to imagine her here among these short tartan skirts and worldly girls.

  When the school first offered me a scholarship, I was hesitant. I’d had enough of religious institutions, thanks. But I was curious to see the halls that my mother had walked down as a girl, and after the visit with Uncle Lenny, I’d tentatively agreed. That was four years ago. It hasn’t always been peachy, but I like Saint Maggie’s. Really the only problem I’ve ever had here is currently heading straight for my locker, looking like a cross between a shark and a shampoo commercial.

  All clear skin and long legs, Kirsten Montgomery-­Wiggins somehow manages to make the same uniform we all wear look chic and expensive. How does she do that? …