Read The Night She Disappeared for Free Online

older woman named Sunny demands. She works days, and mostly right here in this dough room. It’s hard to imagine she’s in danger; she waddles.
    Pete clears his throat. “I’m changing the schedule. No more girls doing deliveries. It’s going to be guys only. Guys with cars, it goes without saying.”
    Crap! What’s that mean for me? All I have is a skateboard.
    “Here are the new schedules.” Pete hands a stack of papers to people in the front row. They pass them back as the meeting begins to break up. When one comes to me, I see how bad it is. Lately, I’ve been working four days a week (and filling in whenever)—and now it’s down to two.
    Gabie moves her finger down to my name. “Wow—they really cut your hours.”
    “Yeah, it’s going to suck,” I say. Which is an understatement. A lot of the other kids work at Pete’s for spending money or maybe to add to a college fund. For me, my hours mean food on the table and lights that come on when I flip the switch.
    Before, I worked on Tuesdays and Wednesdays with Gabie. Kayla and I worked together Friday nights. And pretty much everybody worked Saturdays. But now I’m only scheduled on Fridays and Saturdays. And the two weekdays I normally work with a girl who does deliveries have been given to Miguel. I look over at him. He’s still staring down at the schedule. He’s a senior, too, but he’s always looked older than any of us. He’s over six feet tall, and his dark hair is buzzed right down to his scalp. His long, close-trimmed sideburns follow the angle of his jaw. Miguel’s been shaving since sixth grade. He catches me looking at him, and I turn away. But not before I see his mean little smile.
    Gabie looks up at me. “Do you have a driver’s license?” Her eyes are an unusual color. Not green, not blue, not gray, not hazel. They’re the kind that can look different depending on the day and the lighting and the color of a sweater.
    I shrug. “Yeah, but what difference does that make? Pete doesn’t have a car we can use for deliveries.”
    “You could use my car,” she says, and then looks away.
    I can’t believe it. Gabie and me, we get along fine, but it’s not like we’re good friends. I don’t even know why she works. She doesn’t need to. Her parents have money—they’re both doctors. Surgeons, I think. Her black Mini Cooper is probably only six months old.
    Most of the rich kids at our school are popular, too. But Gabie’s not in that group. She’s not part of any group, really. She’s quiet, always holding back, always watching.
    Kind of like me.
    “No,” I say, but it comes out too hard. She flinches. Mentally, I curse myself. “I mean, sorry, but no thanks.”
    She straightens up so we’re almost eye to eye. “I’m serious.” She looks around until she spots Miguel. He’s in the front, talking to Thayer. She turns back, and her voice gets lower. “I would much rather work with you. When I work with Miguel, all he does is slack off. Plus, he’s always making vulture pies.” Vulture pies are pizzas so bad they’re suitable only for vultures or employees. “And then at the end of the day he takes them home. I’ve seen him do that with as many as three pizzas.”
    “I’m surprised Pete hasn’t figured that out yet.” Pete’s incredibly cheap. Once Danny found some glass in a five-pound can of mushrooms. Instead of telling him to throw them out, Pete offered him a dollar for every piece of glass he found. Danny ended up with fourteen bucks and a big cut on his thumb.
    Gabie shrugs. “Pete’s been taking inventory more often, so he might be catching on. So please? Please use my car and save me from Miguel?”
    I hesitate. The truth is, I need the money. Sometimes I even think about doing a fake pizza order myself. Even though by now I’m totally sick of pizza. Pete already lets us make a personal pizza for our breaks if we work more than four hours. Lately, I’ve been putting anchovies on mine or leaving off