Proposal (The Mediator, #6.5)(14)

Jesse smiled at her politely. “Yes, I know. Thank you for clarifying that, though.”

“Oh,” she gushed. “Not a problem.”

I tapped her on the shoulder. “So do you know what the deal is with this Zack kid?”

“Yeah, totally. It’s Zakaria, not Zack. I mean, his Westernized name is Zack, but in Persian it’s Zakaria. His parents are friends with my parents, and I’ve been to their house a few times. That kid is so spoiled—-I mean, that’s true of a lot Persian kids, but he’s even more spoiled than most because he’s the youngest, and his family is, like, mega rich. His dad’s a heart surgeon. And they’re super good friends with the Ahmadis, the parents of that girl who died last month. I think they were even distantly related—-second cousins, or something. I was at the funeral, and Zakaria’s mom was bawling her eyes out. Well, we all were, because it was so sad. Jasmin was just a kid, and some guy killed her. How does that even happen?”

“Ask your boyfriend,” Valentina suggested.

Parisa ignored her. “But Mrs. Farhat was especially upset. And Zakaria, too. He kept his sunglasses on the whole time so no one could see how red his eyes were.”

“Aw,” said Melodia. She was the girl whose family didn’t allow her to speak to men outside of her religion. Obviously, this was not a rule she actually followed when her family was not around. “That’s so sad.”

Jesse and I exchanged glances. I knew what he was thinking. Zack had kept his glasses on to hide the fact that his eyes were red from crying . . . or something else.

“So do you know what kind of car this Zack kid owns?” I asked Parisa.

“What kind doesn’t he own? Last time I was there, he had, like, three cars . . . a Jeep for the beach, a Beamer for school, and a pickup truck for whatever the hell kids like that do with pickup trucks.”

Kill girls who aren’t interested in them, apparently.

“Thanks, Par,” I said, stuffing the address in the pocket of my jacket. “This is a huge help.”

“I don’t understand why you guys are going over there now,” Lauren, the witch, said. “Not that I’m ungrateful to the mother goddess, because we need the rain, but there are flash flood warnings everywhere, and they’re advising -people to stay off the roads.”

“Yeah,” Melodia said. “This is a good night to stay in, not go out.”

I couldn’t tell how much of this was genuine concern on their parts, or a desire for us to stick around so they could listen some more through the door, and hear the drama through to the end. I wasn’t sure how much they’d already learned. Not enough, evidently, to know that I could speak to the dead, but enough to know that Jesse and I were on the outs for some reason.

I understood—-and could even sympathize with and appreciate—-their interest. Real--life drama is infinitely preferable to most of what we see on TV. That stuff is so unbelievable.

I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction, however, for a variety of reasons. We had a soul to save, not to mention a life.

“Sorry, girls,” I said. “Jesse’s really worried about this kid. What disease was it that you think he might have come into contact with in your ER? Ebola?”

Jesse rolled his eyes heavenward. He was always getting on my back about my alleged inability to lie convincingly, but my sociology prof says that studies show, the bigger the lie, the harder -people will fall for it, because most human beings believe no one would ever tell an enormous whopper to their face (which is why they fall so easily into the clutches of corrupt politicians, kitchen contractors, and sleazy boyfriends).

“It’s probably only a mild case of salmonella, Susannah,” Jesse says. “And it was from the hospital cafeteria, not the ER. Still, it’s important we question him and the rest of his family immediately. These things have a way of spreading if proper precautions aren’t taken.”

“I thought you were here to take Susannah out for dinner for Valentine’s Day,” Ashley asked, suspiciously. Being a thief, she had sharper hearing than the others. She needed it for her trade. And since she was a criminal justice major, she was going to need it for her future career, as well.

“Well, I thought I’d combine work with pleasure,” Jesse said, assuming a properly shameful expression. “I suppose you caught me, Ashley.”

She grinned and patted him on the shoulder. “Sorry about that, Jess. Didn’t mean to put you on the spot there.”

That’s when I noticed an unfamiliar flash of green on her wrist. Looking more closely, I saw that she was wearing an emerald and diamond tennis bracelet with white gold links. It looked expensive.

An emerald and diamond tennis bracelet? Where had Ashley—-who’d had to pawn all her jewelry to pay off the criminal fines she’d accrued during the height of her disorder—-gotten hold of such an expensive piece of jewelry?

Then I remembered the bulky envelope I’d stuffed into my messenger bag.

Swiftly, I opened the bag and pulled out the envelope. It had been opened and re--sealed—-cleverly, so that it would have been difficult to tell if I hadn’t already been suspicious. But I probably would have observed it earlier if I’d taken half a second to look.

Now I slid open the envelope and found inside it only an empty jewelry box—-one of those beautifully wrapped ones that come from the high--end jewelry stores, with the wide silk ribbon and certificate of authenticity—-and a card.