Wicked Games (Hartley Grace Featherstone Mysteries Book 3) by Gemma Halliday (books for students to read TXT) 📕

I pursed my lips, clicking through to the location of the funeral home. I wondered if Connor's manager, the elusive Jason Pruit, would be there. Stood to reason, right?

And, I thought, an idea brewing, it also stood to reason that Connor's cousin should be in attendance at his funeral as well.

I quickly switched screens and texted Sam my idea.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"You want to crash Connor Simon's funeral?" Kyle said, his voice going high enough that it echoed off the walls of Herbert Hoover High the next morning.

"Shhh," I told him, glancing over both shoulders, lest the entire school hear him. Jessica Hansen gave us a funny look from her locker three spots down, and a couple of cheerleaders smirked our way. But luckily they were cheerleaders, so were quickly once again self-absorbed and paying us no attention.

"Yes," I said, my voice low. "I mean, no, we're not crashing really. Just attending."

"Without an invitation," Kyle pointed out. "Dude, you do know that's the definition of crashing, right?"

"Thank you Merriam Webster," I mumbled back.

"Come on, Kyle," Sam said, putting a hand on his arm. "Will you help us or not?"

Kyle pursed his lips, and I could see the mental battle raging in his egg-shaped head.

Truth be told, Sam had done much the same thing last night when I'd told her my plan to finally corner Jason Pruit. For one thing, we had no way to get to the funeral. Which meant asking Chase to drive us again, and as Sam pointed out, we were really pushing our luck with how many times we'd already taken our lives in our hands by riding with him lately. While I agreed with her threat assessment, in this case, I felt the risk was worth it.

However, the other issue had been that the funeral was at 1pm, which was smack in the middle of the school day. I'd convinced her that if we left school at lunch, we'd really only miss one period. And for Sam, that was American Government. Which was where Kyle came in.

"All you have to do is tell Mr. Katsiopolis that I'm having female troubles and I'm in the bathroom," Sam told Kyle. "Trust me, he won't press you for details."

Kyle wrinkled up his nose. "Good. Because I'd rather die than know them."

Sam gave him an elbow to the ribs. "Wimp."

"This might be our only opportunity to talk to Connor's manager," I pleaded.

"The one who couldn't have killed Connor because he was at the Peak Games booth when they found the body," Kyle reminded us.

"He said he was at the Peak Games booth," I amended. "He could have been lying."

"Who was lying?" a voice asked behind me.

I spun around to find Chase approaching, his backpack slung over his shoulder and hands in his pockets.

"Possibly Jason Pruit," I answered, quickly filling him in on my plan. "If we can get him to talk to us at the funeral, we might be able to find out how he really felt about Connor and what they argued about at the con."

Chase nodded, eyes going to a spot over my head as he mentally digested the idea. "Okay. I'm in," he finally said.

We all turned to Kyle.

"So will you cover for me? Pleeeeeease?" Sam made big puppy dog eyes at him as she clasped her hands together in front of her.

Kyle inhaled so hard his nostrils flared before answering. "Fine. I'll do it."

Sam squealed and wrapped her arms around his neck in a hug.

"Thanks," I told him.

Even though I was pretty sure his attention was all on Sam's lips smacking against his at that point.

Chase smirked as he shook his head at the major PDA. "See you at lunch, Featherstone," he called, walking down the hall as the bell rang.

*   *   *

The first periods of the day dragged on so slowly that I thought it might be Friday before they were done. Everyone seemed sluggish and tired after the long weekend, teachers included. Mr. Donaldson looked like he was napping as he put on a video about Shakespeare's lost sonnets in lit class. Mrs. Chapin had a distinct vacation weekend sunburn on her face, and possibly other parts of her if the way she winced as she led us through our P.E. stretches was any indication. And Mrs. Edwards had a sub for American Government—a sure sign she'd partied a little too hard over the long weekend.

Fourth period arrived and Ellen sat in the desk beside me. It took me a second to recognize her in normal stretch pants, sneakers, and a T-shirt.

"Hey," she said and set her notebook down.

"Hey." I nodded her way.

She leaned over and whispered, "Have you found out anything else? You know, about Connor's murder?"

"Not really," I told her, quickly filling her in on our plan to go to Connor's memorial service later that day.

Ellen shook her head. "It's just so sad. I mean, the way Connor pretended to be something he clearly wasn't." Her eyes got a far off look in them, and I could tell she was picturing the gamer now. "No one is ever who you think they are, right?"

I shrugged. "Sorry. I know he was kind of your idol."

She pulled her Spanish book out, thumping it down on her desk. "Yeah, well, not anymore." She shook her head. "I don't idolize liars."

I was about to say more when Senorita Gonzales stepped into the room.

"Let's settle down and put those away," Gonzales said as a couple of kids near the door were laughing over something on their phones.

The chatter lowered but didn't stop.

Gonzales sighed. "I know it's been an extra day away, but it's time to focus."

The talking stopped and everyone faced forward.

I noticed Ellen, however, staring at her open book, eyes not moving,