JACQUARIOUS

I was pulling into my driveway when I got the call from Officer Longchamp.

"Jacquarious—it's TaKylar."

I'd slammed the gear shift into reverse and rocketed back onto the neighborhood road, rounding the edge of houses that lined the street toward the nearest park's gazebo. I'd gasped aloud as he detailed finding TaKylar and hiding with some other guy in a basement where they'd been trapped by a shooter. I'd zoomed to Browning Heights while a million questions littered my mind—who was the shooter, what was he after, was TaKylar alright?

Officer Longchamp said it would be easier to explain once I arrived, once TaKylar and her "friend" could answer my questions...and once he could ask a few questions of his own.

I barely even considered what that meant; all I knew was that I needed to get to TaKylar. If her parents weren't still back in town, she could stay with me—I knew my mom and dad would approve.

My car skidded into a space outside Browning Heights Pharmacy; I leapt from the driver's seat the moment I arrived, tearing across the parking lot toward the building's entrance.

I gripped the handle and pushed the glass door wide, darting ahead as a trio of officers in black uniforms surrounded Mrs. Georgia, her arms crossed and her face overwritten with worry.

"Jacquarious!" Officer Longchamp called from the corner opposite me, where painted cans bordered fallen racks of cookies and Nay'Sha-brand hairspray.

I jogged over to him, TaKylar twisting to face me on his left when—Huh? I stopped in my tracks, eyebrows springing up in unison as her "friend" showed his face for the first time.

"Grey?"

He gulped, bowing his head as his cheeks flushed a faded pink. "H—hey, man."

A low exhale trembled from between my lips. "I don't get it," I mused. "Why're you...here? In Browning Heights?"

He sighed, glancing at Officer Longchamp.

"Tell him, kid. He's part of this too."

"...Right." Grey sighed, turning back to me. "I uh...I might know who murdered DeWayne."

"What!?" I practically screamed.

"I...I think Cody had something to do with it."

I took a step back. "Wait—as in the guy on the basketball team?"

"Yeah," Grey nodded. "I saw him carrying these bloody towels the same day we found DeWayne's body. And TaKylar showed me footage of him buying the towels here that same morning." He shivered, shaking his head. "His arms were covered in blood, man."

I let out a shallow breath. "Do you...still have the towels?"

"No, but...I bet we'd find them if we checked his house."

"And what about the footage?"

Grey tilted his head. "What about it?"

"It's your proof, right? You caught Cody with...with DeWayne's body, yeah?"

Grey sighed. "Well, not exactly. All we've got on the recording is Cody using towels to wipe off the blood."

I scratched the side of my head. "And you're sure nobody saw him at school that day, right?"

"No, man. He was gone the whole morning, and the cops locked down Goldengate after—"

"Then I don't think it was him."

"What?" Officer Longchamp asked in unison with Grey.

"It's not enough evidence, you guys. And I don't think Cody's a murderer. He just doesn't seem like the type."

"Jacquarious," TaKylar trilled, stepping forward, "he's the type who waltzed into a pharmacy and paid off the cashier not to tell anyone he had blood on his hands."

"And we still don't even know why." I sighed. "There's something we're missing here."

"Like what?" Officer Longchamp asked. "Kid, the timing is way too crazy to ignore. No way it's just a coincidence Cody was in here last Monday."

I sighed again. "Yeah, I know—but that doesn't mean he murdered anyone."

"You're right. What it means is I'm going to interview him, figure out what he knows." His eyes flicked off into the distance briefly before finding their way back to me. "And figure out whose blood that really was."

****

Grey tailed me and TaKylar until I made it to my house and dropped her off, climbing out to let her inside before returning to my vehicle.

I gave Grey a single nod as we both backed out of my driveway, then we cruised down the neighborhood street, weaving past homes before arriving at an intersection letting out onto the main road.

A few miles later, we were turning underneath a brick awning that overhung the entrance to Aldridge Lane. We drove inside and passed the first house, a pristine painted three-story steeped on both sides by wooded lattices. Branching, turgid vines of bougainvillea peeked out and straddled the wood, gleaming in a soft magenta glow that swayed with the wind.

It was a gorgeous home, but not the one we were looking for.

"In four-hundred feet," came the singsong trill of my GPS, "the destination is on your right—670 Aldridge Lane."

I gulped as I stared ahead, as four-hundred feet became two-hundred, then one-hundred, then fifty. So this is his place, huh?

"Arrived," sang my GPS.

Sliding his car in front of mine on the side of the road, Grey climbed from the front seat and stepped out onto the paved sidewalk adjoining the street.

I turned to him, spotted his shoulders hunched and his arms shivering. "You straight, man?"

Grey nodded the best he could. "It's just...not every day you ask your best friend if he...committed murder."

"We're not here to accuse, Grey. Just to investigate. Who knows—he might have a perfectly normal reason for buying those towels. Even for having blood on his arms."

Grey shivered. "I hope so, Jac. I really do."

Jac? I quirked an eyebrow, but I didn't push the issue. Since when do I have a nickname?

A trail of trepid footsteps and bated moments later, Grey rang the doorbell and sent its echo rebounding.

Just beyond the wisping fog of our icy breath, a pair of locks unhitched behind the ivory doorframe. The narrowest of cracks sidled open as a set of incredulous eyes stared back at us, the eyes of a tall girl—no, not a girl...a grown woman—overdraped with simmering waves of auburn hair.

Huh? Who's that—?

"Grey?" the woman puzzled, pushing the door wider. "What're you doing here?" She turned to me. "And who's your friend?"

"Hey, Casey," Grey mused. "This is Jacquarious. He's...in my Lit class."

She crossed her arms. "Okay?"

Grey's eyes dropped to the pavement. "Look, um...is Cody around? I kinda need to talk to him."

Casey shook her head. "You just missed him—some cop picked him up."

What?

Grey glanced up at me.

"It was Longchamp, wasn't it?" I asked. "Officer Gavin Longchamp."

Casey nodded. "Yeah—Gavin something, for sure." She tilted her head sideways. "Is Cody in trouble?"

Grey winced, shooting me another look.

"No," I blurted. "He's—that's not it. Just...a lot's going on right now."

Casey shut her eyes, shivering with the chill of the frosted air as it swept between the three of us and rattled the windchimes decorating front door. Hugging both arms across her chest, she rubbed at both elbows and winced with the wind, left arm twitching upward to reveal her armpit...and a swollen purple bruise emerging under her shoulder's shadow.

I nudged Grey, but Casey reopened her eyes a moment later.

"Well, whatever it is," she said, "Please. Look after him? I know he's a lot sometimes..." Her words trailed off as she met my gaze, as I swept to the right and stared past her shoulder.

"That's a...nice painting," I tried, angling my head toward an oil portrait that hung in the foyer, blushed strokes of bronzed sepia mingling with figures of thick, ostentatious brown. "Life Among the Lowly," I read the title aloud, nodding once. "Modern classic."

Casey gave a half-smile. "It's my boyfriend's."

Hold on—

"Well, when Cody gets back, could you tell him we were looking for him?" Grey's request ripped me from my thoughts.

"Of course I will," she said. "Now if that's all, I really should get back inside. It's...it's getting dark soon."