Page 4 of The Executioners Three

Freddie’s mom had never been one to fuss. Now, though, it was all she seemed able to do. Ever since Sheriff Bowman had called and told her to pick up Freddie from the Village Historique the evening before, Mom had been nonstop fuss-fuss- fuss .

Freddie wanted to throttle her.

Especially because Freddie hadn’t even seen the body (which apparently belonged to a middle-aged man). All she’d seen were a pair of dangling Nikes, blue with orange accents. Mud on the tread.

And yes, it was true that those shoes were imprinted on Freddie’s brain for all of time now, but cups of tea and Snickers bars weren’t exactly helping. Nor was tucking Freddie into bed, stroking her hair every ten seconds, or surprising her with a “real breakfast” of bacon and eggs.

By the time Freddie was supposed to meet Divya to walk to school the next morning, she was desperate to get away.

She didn’t care that it was raining. She didn’t care that her usual Friday outfit of cute tights and a festive fall skirt was missing an accent scarf and now getting wet.

Nor did she care that, in her race to leave the house, she’d forgotten to trade her glasses for contacts.

Why, Freddie didn’t even care that she couldn’t roll her bike by the handlebars and fit under Divya’s umbrella either. She was free, and it tasted so good. Drizzle-frizzed hair or eighth-grade glasses couldn’t ruin it.

Divya, it would seem, felt the same. She and Freddie had just stepped off Freddie’s leaf-strewn lawn onto the street when Divya tipped back her umbrella and said, “My mom wants me to see a counselor.”

“Mine too.” Freddie’s nostrils flared, and she pushed the bike faster. “Parents don’t know anything.”

“Old people don’t know anything.” Divya stomped her feet. “I mean, I didn’t even see the body!”

“And I only saw his shoes!”

“So we definitely aren’t traumatized.” Divya flipped her braid over her shoulder.

“Definitely not.” Freddie mimicked the movement with her rapidly expanding curls. “It takes more than a little murder to scare the likes of us.”

“Exactly. No, wait.” Divya skidded to a halt. “ Murder? What are you talking about? It was a suicide.”

Freddie squeezed her bike brakes. “That was not a suicide, Div.”

“Uh, Sheriff Bowman herself said it was a suicide.”

“The body was hanging twenty feet off the ground.” Freddie rolled the bike backward, then ducked under Divya’s umbrella. At least far enough to protect her hair.

“So? Maybe the man wanted a climb before he died.”

“A climb on what ladder? And on what branches? There wasn’t a single thing he could’ve used to get up there.”

“So what are you trying to say?” Divya launched back into a march. Rain sprayed Freddie once more. “Are you saying you know better than Sheriff Bowman?”

“Maybe?” Freddie pushed her bike after Divya. “You didn’t hear the screams on Wednesday night.”

“You mean the screams of drunk prep schoolers?”

“But what if that wasn’t what I heard, Div? What if I did hear screams for help?”

“Sheriff Bowman was in those woods arresting people. Surely if there’d been a murder underway, she would’ve heard those screams too.”

“Okay, but how do you account for the dead guy’s clothes? He was wearing jogging shoes. Who dresses up like that to go kill themselves?”

“I don’t know.” Divya shook the umbrella. Rain splattered. “But I do know you’re not a detective. Just because you solved one shoplifting case when you were riding with Bowman does not qualify you as a pie.”

“A pie?” Freddie cocked her head. “You mean a… PI?”

“It can be pronounced both ways.”

“It definitely cannot.”

“That’s not the point!” Divya shook the umbrella again, and this time, rain splattered Freddie’s face. “The point is that you aren’t a Pee Eye, and while I get that your gut is doing its spidey-sense tingling, maybe you should leave it to the actual professionals.”

Freddie’s fingers instinctively tightened on the brakes. The bike gave a skittering skip. She knew Divya was thinking about Sheriff Bowman right now, since Bowman was the current “professional” in charge of such things.

But Freddie couldn’t help but think of her dad instead. He had been local sheriff before Bowman—meaning he would have been the “professional” that Freddie would leave this murder to… if he hadn’t died when Freddie was five.

Sometimes she wondered if it was mere coincidence she wanted to follow him on the same career path. Her mom had divorced Frank when Freddie had been only two, so she’d barely known the man, and she’d learned young to never ask about him.

The consequences just weren’t worth the curiosity. Mom always clammed up and got stony—sometimes for days at a time—while Freddie’s stepdad, Steve, just looked heartbreakingly sad.

Freddie hated it. And she hated how even thinking of Dad made her own insides get stony. Made her feel guilty, like she’d broken some rule that no one had ever actually told her was in effect.

She squeezed again at the brakes. They squeaked a sympathetic reply.

“I know I’m not a professional,” Freddie finally admitted, pushing past the sudden rocks in her abdomen. “Not yet anyway. But you know I’m the Answer Finder, Divya. Everyone at school asks me to find them sources in the archives. Like all the time.”

This earned one of Divya’s you sweet, innocent child faces. “Oh my Honey Bunches of Oats. You’re just being used.”

“You mean you’re using me.”

“Never.” Scowl. “Second of all, having access to the archives via your mom doesn’t qualify you to investigate murders.”

“Ha!” Freddie cried. “So you do think it was a murder!”

“Silence.” Divya’s eyes narrowed in a way that spoke of bodily harm in Freddie’s future.

Fortunately Freddie was saved the indignity of not getting in the last word by an explosion of flapping wings. Then a shadow stretched over Freddie and Divya. They lurched their faces upward, to where…

Freddie gasped.

Birds. Hundreds of them, maybe even thousands, covered the sky like a thundercloud. Freddie huddled toward Divya, who huddled toward her, and they both took shelter beneath the umbrella.

At least until muddy water sprayed upward in a geyser, drenching Freddie’s entire body. She shrieked, Divya yelped. Then the crows were past and a black Jeep Cherokee was skidding to a stop on the road.

“Jerk!” Divya bellowed, launching herself at the Jeep. “Giant jerkity jerk!”

A door slammed and a voice called out, “Are you okay?” A boy scrambled around the back of the Jeep. “Crap, I am so sorry! My bad, my bad, are you okay?”

“No,” Divya snarled. “You almost killed us.”

Freddie grabbed for her best friend. “That’s Kyle Friedman,” she hissed.

“I’m aware.” Divya lifted her voice again. “You should watch the freaking road. My friend here is soaked—” She broke off with a yelp as Freddie stabbed Divya’s wrist with her nails.

Kyle Friedman was the coolest guy in school, and he had been ever since sixth grade when he’d shown up at school with the words Surf’s Up monogrammed onto his L.L. Bean backpack. He progressed to the hottest guy at school two years later, when he hit puberty and his jawline came in.

“I’m so sorry,” Kyle said again, and Freddie couldn’t help but notice how well the slightly panicked and disheveled look worked for him.

His white button-up was turning dark with the rain, and his brown curls looked shower fresh, while pink flagged on his summer-tanned cheeks.

“I didn’t mean to splash you like that.”

“It’s fine,” Freddie said, surprised by the strange syrup layer on her voice.

“No, it isn’t.” Divya gaped at Freddie. “These jeans are new, and your sweater is drenched.”

Kyle flinched. “I really am sorry.” Then his eyebrows drew together. “Wait… you’re Freddie Gellar.”

Freddie nodded mutely. Kyle Friedman had said her name. She didn’t think he had ever said her name despite three plus years in the same homeroom.

It was glorious.

Then it became even more glorious when he added, “Awesome! I was looking for you.”

I was looking for you too, she thought. All my life. She sent a silent thank-you to Lance Bass in her pocket.

“Laina told me you lived on this street, but I didn’t know which house.”

“Laina?” Divya repeated, anger giving way to shock. “As in Laina Steward?”

Kyle beamed. “Exactly. I’m supposed to pick you up.”

“Pick who up?” This was Divya again because Freddie had lost all ability to speak. Kyle was just so pretty with his green eyes, golden tan, and floppy dark hair. Part surfer, part prep, part athlete, and all perfection.

“I’m supposed to pick up Freddie,” he said. “And take her to the Quick-Bis.” He paused and wet his lips, as if realizing this sounded very strange. “I mean, you don’t have to come… Or you both could come, if you wanted.” He glanced between them.

“We will definitely come,” Freddie breathed at the same instant Divya barked, “ Divya . My name is Divya.”

“And his name is Kyle.” Freddie grabbed Divya’s bicep in a death grip. “Can we please get in the car now?”

Divya glared. “What about your bike?”

“We can fit it in the trunk,” Kyle offered, and Freddie only nodded. Then her heart ramped up to light speed because suddenly Kyle was touching her. He was resting one of his perfect hands on her muddy shoulder and guiding her toward his car.

She could die a self-actualized person now.

While he shoved the bike into the back, Freddie hunkered into the passenger seat and started cleaning mud splatter off her glasses. Her shoulder felt seared by his fingertips.

In a good way. Swoon .

Divya, meanwhile, climbed into the back and pushed through the front seats. “Um, where are your survival instincts, Miss PI? The most popular guy in school shows up to find you—at the command of the most popular girl in school—and you don’t think that’s weird?”

“Yes,” Freddie whispered, glancing at Kyle back by the trunk. “I do think it’s weird, but he’s just so handsome.”

“If you’re drunk.”

“As if you know anything about being drunk. Besides, you know I’ve had a crush on him since sixth grade.”