Games We Play (Thistle Cove 2)

“It has a shape, right? Like a triangle?”

Janice barely looks up. “Could be anything.”

There’s something else. A faint inverted imprint. Or maybe it’s just typical bruising. I sigh and push the photograph back over. Janice tucks it back in the file.

“I get it. Our brains are trying to create a pattern—some kind of recognizable sense out of something illogical. If we can just connect the pieces, then we can solve the puzzle.” She gives me a smile. “You’re a smart girl, Kenley. You’d make a great journalist or investigator. You’ve got all the right qualities.”

“Is this how you feel all the time?” I ask, thinking of Chief McMichael and all the years he’s worked on this case. “Like you’re holding a ball of loose threads?”

She laughs. “Not all the time. Sometimes we get it right. But I’m afraid this time there just aren’t enough pieces to put it together, in either of the girls' cases.”

The waitress walks over and slides a bowl of oatmeal and fruit on the table. She asks if I’d like to order something, but I pass, my stomach full of knots—or rather, loose threads.

“How do you let it go?” I ask.

“You don’t,” she replies, spearing a strawberry on her fork, “not exactly, but that’s the catch with crime; there’s always another one around the corner to catch your attention.”

28

Ozzy

Two days past homecoming and it’s like a gear shifts in the school. We’re past all the big stuff. Two things matter; school work and the final game of the season.

Mrs. Gimple, along with all the other teachers, unleash huge assignments. By the end of school Monday, I’m loaded down with two group projects, one major exam, and three papers.

Oh, and don’t forget college applications.

Even with all that, I’m singularly focused—and it’s not on school work or college. It’s Kenley Keene.

“You know what I want?” she asks, and I use every ounce of self-control not to ask her if it’s sex. Because that’s what I want. All the time. Desperately. With her.

“Uh,” I say, squeezing her knee. “No.”

“Ice cream.” She flashes me a grin. “Double chocolate peanut butter.”

I lift an eyebrow. “Kendrick’s?”

She makes a u-turn, tires squealing, just before the bridge and heads back into town. We pass Main Street, and she pulls into the parking lot of the flat-roofed building. She turns off the car and leans over, kissing me on the mouth. My hand inches upward, feeling the soft warmth of her upper thigh.

“Ice cream,” she says, like she’s trying to remind herself of our task.

“Yep,” I reply, thinking something cold may be the best thing to calm me down anyway.

Her step doesn’t falter until we walk inside and she sees Alice standing behind the counter. Even then it’s just a blip before her shoulders push back.

“Hey,” Alice says, eyes darting between us.

Kenley unconsciously rubs her lips. “Hi.”

“I’ll have a chocolate strawberry shake and,” I nod at Kenley, “she’ll have a—”

“Double chocolate peanut butter,” Alice says, cutting me off. “Waffle cone. Got it.”

Kenley gives me a look before slinking off, heading across the small space. There’s a row of old photographs mounted to the wall in the small breezeway. She enters the small, quiet space, and busies herself while I wait for our order.

Alice tediously fills our order; scooping four identical balls of ice cream in a metal cup to make my shake. She turns her back to me and flips on the blender, the sound ricocheting through the room.

“Do you think she’s happy?”