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took us, what, half an hour to get Kevin’s car and drive over?”
    “At least,” Sam agreed.
    “And a few minutes to climb the shed.”
    “Right.”
    “So, we’re looking at a very small window between when school got out at two thirty and when we found her at, say, three fifteen.”
    “Well, maybe someone in the neighborhood saw something?” Sam offered.
    Lightbulb moment.
    “The neighbor with the camera!” I pointed my finger at Sam. “The guy in black. He was outside taking pics of his car. Maybe he saw someone go into Josh’s house. Maybe he even caught them on camera!”
    “Worth a try,” Sam said. “Let’s go find out.”
    Since neither of us had any idea what the guy in black’s name was, we started by scanning the back parking lot for his dented Camaro. We passed by souped-up pickups belonging to the football team, hand-me-down station wagons driven by the debate team, and a silver sedan with a sparkly purple heart hanging from the rearview that served as the Color Guard’s conveyance of choice. But no Camaro. Which meant either (A) his dent damage extended to engine trouble or (B) he was cutting, too. From the bad-boy look he had going on the other day, we took a gamble on (B), and twenty minutes and one bus ride later, we were back on Josh’s street. Today, however, his lawn was flattened in patches, showing signs of being trampled by dozens of pairs of feet. A fine sheen of black dust covered the doorjamb and windowsills where fingerprints had no doubt been lifted. And the welcome wreath on the front door was askew, tilting haphazardly to the left.
    Josh’s Wrangler was conspicuously absent. I sincerely hoped that meant he’d taken off in the middle of the night and not that the cops had confiscated it as evidence.
    I marched purposefully down the street, past Josh’s, and up the walkway of the house with the Camaro out front, Sam a step behind me. Unlike Josh’s, this one had no welcome sign. Instead a “No Soliciting” plaque hung next to the doorbell. In black. With a skull and crossbones on it. I quickly rang the doorbell before I could change my mind.
    Two beats later our gamble paid off, and the guy in black opened the door. He looked from Sam to me, recognition immediately dawning. “You two again.”
    Not the most friendly greeting I’d ever gotten . . .
    “Uh, hi. I’m Hartley.” I stuck my hand out.
    He just looked at it. “Is that the hand that touched the dead girl?”
    I pulled it back, rubbing it on the seat of my jeans instead.
    Sam took over and waved at him. “I’m Sam.”
    “Chase,” he responded. “I think I’ve seen you guys around school.” Then he paused before adding, “What do you want?”
    I shifted from foot to foot on the porch, his directness unnerving me. Not to mention the fact that he looked a lot bigger than I remembered. Taller, more menacing. But he smelled kinda nice, like leather and soap. It was a disturbing combo.
    I cleared my throat. “We were wondering if you might have seen anything in the neighborhood while you were taking pictures yesterday.”
    “What kind of anything?” He crossed his arms over his chest. His very broad chest. He easily could have been on the football team, though I had a feeling from the antiestablishment black and the rebellious guyliner that he wasn’t the team spirit type. He seemed more like the playing-depressing-music-in-his-parents’-basement type.
    “Anything . . . suspicious? Anyone going in or out of the house down the street?” I clarified.
    “You mean other than you two?”
    “We didn’t kill her!” I said quickly.
    He narrowed his eyes. “You sure?”
    I threw my hands up. “Yes, I’m sure. Do I look like a killer?”
    He let his gaze roll over my body, taking me in from head to toe in a slow assessment that ended in a smirk of approval. I wasn’t sure if I should feel flattered or violated.
    “That was a rhetorical question,” I mumbled, my cheeks heating.
    “So, did you?”