“Listen, Rick’s –” “In Birmingham. Helping out a buddy today,” Ian says. “He left ‘bout an hour ago. Almost forgot his phone and everything.” A wave of nauseating horror rolls over me. Oh my God. There’s no school paper. There was never any school paper for me to pick up. “You’re the one who texted me,” I realize. “From Rick’s phone. You lured me here.” I lean against the workbench, my legs no more functional than a pile of instant Jell-O. “Did Rick –” Ian laughs, cold and sharp. “‘Course not. I deleted the texts.”
Fuck.
