Proposal (The Mediator, #6.5)(17)

“Of course.” The girl pointed down the hall. “To the left. You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks. Oh, hey, do you know if the Farhats’ son, Zack, is here tonight? A friend of his asked me to say hello.”

The girl smiled in a friendly way, anxious to be helpful. “Yes, he’s here. He was hanging out in the kitchen a while ago. I think he took some food up to his room.” Her gaze went toward the showy curved staircase across the foyer from the front door, signaling to me where I could find Zack’s room, though I doubt she’d done it on purpose. “Well, not this food. He microwaved a pizza.”

“Thank you so much,” I said, and took another radish. “Yum. These are just so delicious.”

“Consuming fruits and vegetables, combined with regular physical activity, and avoiding harmful use of alcohol and tobacco products, has been shown to reduce the risk of cardiovascular disease,” she said, clearly because she’d been asked to by the hostess.

“Wow,” I said. “Great. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome!” She moved on to her next victim, I mean guest, and I moved toward the staircase, acting like I had every right to be heading to the second floor. The only way you’re going to get caught snooping is if your performance while doing it lacks confidence. If anyone walks in on you while you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be, just act angry. It’s their fault you’re in the wrong place, because you were told (by someone else) that that’s where you were supposed to be. How were you supposed to know that person was wrong?

Seriously. It works (almost) every time.

It only took me four rooms (two more than usual) before I found Zack. He hadn’t even bothered to lock the door, the idiot.

“Really?” I said, when I walked in and discovered him sitting up in bed in front of a large plasma--screen television, playing video games and vaping. “I could have been anyone—-your mother, your father, the police chief. He’s downstairs, you know. Is it really wise of you to be partaking at the current time?”

Zack peered at me through weed--reddened eyes. “This is e--juice. Who the hell are you, and what do you want?”

“That is not e--juice, and as a minor, you better have a prescription for it and your parents’ permission. Otherwise you’re in violation of California health and safety code and could lose the right to operate your vehicle. All your vehicles.”

This information caused him to lower the e--cigarette and swallow, hard.

“My name is Suze Simon,” I went on. “And as much as I can’t believe I’m saying this, I’m here to rescue you. Now get up, before Mark Rodgers comes in here and kills you.”





Nueve


IF I HADN’T believed Mark’s version of what had happened that night on Rocky Creek Bridge, I did when I saw the expression that flashed across Zack Farhat’s face when I said Mark was coming to kill him.

Sheer panic. For a second, he lowered his hands to the king--sized mattress and began to push himself up from in front of the plasma screen, as if to go with me.

Never had I seen a more guilty--looking individual, someone who’d known he’d done wrong and had been expecting what was coming to him. Zack—-a strong, dark, handsome boy—-was accepting his fate like a man.

Well, this is good, I thought. Not what I was expecting, but good . . . the first good thing to happen all day, as a matter of fact. Maybe things are starting to go my way.

Of course I thought too soon. It didn’t last. Why would it?

Because a split second later, Zack seemed to realize something through his drug--induced haze, and froze. The panic left, and was replaced by a look I recognized, because I’d seen it before on the faces of a hundred guys just like him.

Nope. Never mind. No win for Suze. This guy thought he was smarter than me. He thought he was smarter than everyone.

Well, why not? He’d already killed two -people and gotten away with it. All he had to do was stick with his story, and he was home free.

Or so he thought.

He lowered himself back against his bed.

“Wait,” he said, drawing the word out so that it had about five syllables, in true stoner form. “Mark can’t be coming here to kill me. He’s dead.”

“You’re right about the last part,” I said. “Not so right about the first. Mark’s dead, but he’s not very happy with you for killing him, and Jasmin, too. See, that’s why minors aren’t supposed to smoke that stuff unless they’re under a licensed physician’s care. It makes them forgetful.” I hit him in the forehead with the flat of my hand on the word forgetful. “And also stupid.” I hit him again on the word stupid.

“Ow.” He ducked and crawled to the far side of the bed so he’d be out of my reach. “Stop that. What are you talking about? What makes you think I had anything to do with—-?”

“The deaths of Mark Rodgers and Jasmin Ahmadi? Oh, gosh, Zack, I don’t know. Maybe that?”

I pointed to a far wall of his room, opposite a pair of French doors that led out to a balcony overlooking the Pacific Ocean (which for once didn’t look so pacified, thanks to the storm). Taped to the wall were dozens—-maybe even a hundred—-photos of Jasmin, including the one from her headstone, which must have been one of her senior photos, since there were other equally posed photos of her in the same outfit, smiling confidently into the camera.