It wasn’t that I didn’t know what to say—it was that I knew from experience that almost anything I did say would be wrong. After my mom died, I wanted to plug my ears every time someone found out ... or zap them with an energy bolt before they could speak.

It was always the same empty words. I’m sorry for your loss, from people who didn’t give a shit about me or my loss. Deep down, your mom was a good person, from people who, deep down, thought she was an evil bitch. She’s gone to a better place. That one killed me. Like any twelve-year-old gives a damn where her dead mother went—all that matters is that she’s not with you.

The only thing I liked to hear was stories about her—something cool or funny she’d done. But I’d never met this girl’s mother, so I couldn’t offer anything there. After fumbling around, I said the obvious—you must be Ginny’s daughter—which was obvious because only Ginny Thompson had a child.

She nodded. “Her real name was Genevieve, but the newspapers didn’t say that because the reporters were too lazy to ask.”

Stupid cops. Lazy reporters. A girl after my own heart.

“They didn’t mention your name either.”

“Kayla Thompson.” She extended her hand.

I shook it. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“I’m homeschooled. Grandma didn’t like the way the other kids acted after my mom died.” After what she’d said about the chief’s grandson, I didn’t blame her grandmother. I’d like to have a chat with the little ghoul’s parents myself. “Grandma’s at work today, so I’m staying with Aunt Rose. She thinks I’m at the library.”

“Well, then, Kayla, since it seems we’re both investigating this crime, we’d better get to work.”