Page 23

CHAPTER 23

AFTER WE’D GOTTEN HOME from Santa Monica, Baby had retreated to her room, and I went to mine. I strapped an ice pack to my knee and looked over the bizarre trophy collection again. I had Jarrod Maloof’s jersey and the newspaper cutting about the missing troubled youth on the bed.

As I was lifting the grimy backpack, I heard three muffled pops come from the front of the house. I turned. Three more. I hesitated, then went downstairs, noting the light in Baby’s room was off. It was well after midnight, and I was glad that she was getting some sleep. I had a feeling the next few days were going to wear us down in a way that hunting for missing pets and photographing adulterers in motel parking lots had not.

I opened the front door, stepped out — and narrowly missed being hit with an egg that smashed on the wall beside me. By the time I realized what had happened, I saw the egg-hurlers already legging it up the hill away from the beach, toward the Pacific Coast Highway.

“Jesus.” I sighed. I might have chalked this up to random kids pranking random homeowners if I hadn’t spotted a drone hovering above the adjacent house. That gave the game away. Our home was being targeted by web sleuths who were angry at me for being on Team Troy. I slumped with exhaustion and cynicism. These kids were incensed by true crime but reacted to it by filming themselves vandalizing someone’s house like they were trick-or-treaters.

I drew myself up. I refused to let the case and the weight of everything resting on my shoulders get me down.

I changed into my workout gear, went to the roof, and stepped out into the dim blue light coming off the enormous pool. Whatever else I could say about my dad, his house was a winner. The glittering city of Manhattan Beach sprawled around me, the moonlit sea in front.

Leg day could wait. I loaded the barbell for a gentle chest-press set, a hundred pounds. I sat on my weight bench, drew another huge breath, tried to clear my mind. I lay down and wrapped my gloved hands around the barbell resting in its hooks two feet above my face. I told myself I would finish my night with a win of some sort if it killed me.

Then I felt the hard nudge of a gun barrel against the top of my skull.