I Spy Dead People Read Free Page B

only to stagger and trip, sliding into a cart. It jabs into my boob and I cry out. But I don't care. I'm just glad I'm no longer moving or touching him.
    "Are you okay?" he asks.
    "Are you? I mean, I hope I didn't…you know, hurt you. I mean, I know it's sensitive and…" Heat bursts into my cheeks as if I just doused them in gasoline and struck a match. Hey, there's a way to end my humiliation.
    "I'm fine." His smirk tells me he's enjoying this way too much.
    Where's a knife wielding maniac when you need one?
    "I'm Troy." He holds out his hand.
    Whoa. I've never met another person my age that shakes hands. Dad will love him. I'm caught between wanting to feel his skin, still feeling uber mortified, and not wanting to be rude. Dad hates when I'm rude.
    His grip is warm and slightly rough, and my breath catches a little.
    "Piper," I say.
    "Troy, what's taking so long?" A woman in beige pants and jacket and a white top walks over. She's a female version of Troy, but with a chin length bob rather than 'fro.
    She looks at our hands, still connected. "Oh, I see."
    "Piper?" Dad calls. His sneakers slap on the asphalt like he's wearing clown shoes, such a heavy walker.
    Troy and I let go and turn to our parents.
    "This is Troy."
    "This is Piper."
    We talk at the same time and share an awkward chuckle.
    After introductions are complete, we learn that Troy and his mother, Olivia, have lived in Hollow Ridge all their lives and were expecting us.
    Dad rubs the stubble on his chin. "How?"
    "You arranged renting your house with a local realtor, Bridget Lansing. She informed us that Vincent Grimaldi was visiting. It is temporary and not permanent, right?" Her smile is friendly, but there seems to be a slight edge to her tone.
    "Yes. The school year. So you're friends with the realtor?"
    She frowns, confused, and looks to Troy, who shrugs, before back to Dad. Her eyes widen. "Oh, no. Not 'informed us' as in 'Troy and me.' 'Us' as in HRPD. I'm the Chief of Detectives."
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    After Dad makes an excuse about rotting eggs, we hightail it home, put away the food, and he goes into his office to begin work. He won't admit this, but he doesn't care for the cops any more than they care for his theories and involvement with closed cases. Dad doesn't disprove every murder. Some towns have great police forces and are meticulous. But some…
    I walk from room to room looking for something to do. The Internet and cable won't be turned on until morning, and I'm sick of unpacking. I can access Tumblr and Facebook via my phone, but nothing interesting is going on, so I sit on the front steps staring at the street.
    I'd knock on Kinley's door, but all the lights on the first floor are off. Her mom looks fuddy-duddy enough to go to bed at nine o'clock.
    "Hey," a faint voice calls.
    I lean forward and stare in the direction of her house.
    The street lamp in between our homes illuminates Kinley in the upstairs window waving. She must have the front room like me. She holds up her index finger then runs off. A long minute later, she peeks her head out her door and slowly steps out, shutting it behind her. She runs over and bounces up my stairs.
    "Sneaking out?" I ask.
    "Yeah. My folks head to bed around eight. They're awake until ten, but they don't like me out after they settle down."
    Knew it. I really should become a detective, but my options aren't great. A private investigator doesn't handle murder, and a police detective must be a patrol officer first, which totally stinks. Those uniforms are hideous, and who wants to direct traffic or break up bar brawls?
    "How's your dad's car?"
    "He needs a new one. They're hunting for one tomorrow. Dad's really picky and really cheap. So what's your dad doing?"
    "Working. You'll meet him tomorrow. He doesn't like being interrupted. Do you know Troy? His mom is the Chief of Detectives." I don't remember if they mentioned a last name.
    "Williams? Yeah, he goes to our school, but he's two