Back inside, Mom and Raley were chatting on the sofa. I feared Mom would call me over to watch TV with them or ask about tonight and Chase, but they paid me no attention. What a relief.
I ran up to my room and quickly changed into sweats. It was early still, so I did a little homework that I'd put off until the last minute. Then I snuggled up in my bed with my phone.
I pulled up the game Phoebe had downloaded for me and played for a few minutes. While the graphics weren't top notch, it wasn't bad for a mobile version. It required a lot of dexterity, which was challenging, but the rewards came often enough that it was hard to stop. I finally hit a level where I kept dying in the same spot, and shut it down for the night.
I switched screens and watched a few YouTube videos and scrolled through some social media posts. After several from classmates lamenting the end of the three-day weekend, I somehow ended up browsing postings about Gamer Con and Connor Simon's death.
OMG, I can't believe he got killed. He was cute.
What happened? Why am I always the last to know?
Who is he? Who cares?
No, this can't be. He and @SophiaLarson are my #relationshipgoals
I clicked on Sophia's name in that last post and was taken to her page. I noticed that her posts had become more subdued in the past day. A little fewer bikini photos and less squealing about totally cute handbags and more somber and about how she'd miss the "love of her life" who had been "taken from her too soon." Her latest post was dated just an hour ago.
Can't believe he's really gone. Saying my last goodbye tomorrow.
It was accompanied by a link to a memorial service notice for Connor Simon. 1pm the following day at Green Hills Memorial Home.
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, totally not reading it. Her breath was coming in and out quickly, as if she was trying hard to rein in some emotion. I wasn't sure if it was sadness at the thought of Connor's funeral or anger at, along with all his other fans, being duped into thinking he was something he wasn't.
The period dragged as we conjugated verbs with their proper pronouns and recited how to ask where the baños and the biblioteca were located. Well, the class recited. I zoned out and spent most of the period watching the clock tick down with agonizing slowness.
When the bell finally rang, I tossed Ellen a smile and a "see you later" before I leapt out of my seat and practically ran into the hall. I didn't even bother stopping at my locker to
swap out my books, instead making for the parking lot, feeling a little like I was leading a prison break. Which was silly since we had an open campus at lunch—half the student body left to pick up food, coffee, or generally just escape for a few unsupervised minutes. We were no different. Except for the fact that we'd be attending a funeral instead of waiting in line at Starbucks.
Considering our agenda that day, I'd worn a charcoal gray sweater dress over a pair of dark leggings and knee-high black boots. It was still casual enough for a day at school, but respectful enough for a memorial service. Sam had gone with a black A-line skirt, a navy button-down shirt, and a black cardigan and Mary Jane shoes to go with it.
Luckily, Chase was sort of always dressed in funeral black.
He was waiting for us at his car, and Sam and I arrived at almost the same time—me taking the back seat and Sam sliding into the passenger side. Though I quickly realized the back was no safer feeling than the front, the light speeds at which Chase drove slamming me from side to side even in the confines of my seat belt. I was glad I hadn't had the opportunity to actually eat lunch yet—if I had, it was likely to have made a repeat appearance.
We hurtled through space for a good fifteen minutes before Green Hills Memorial Home came into view. Once we landed—er, parked—I pressed a hand to my stomach, waiting for it and my other internal organs to join the rest of my body.
The building was a one story, long wooden structure, painted in a puke green color that had been popular sometime in the last century. Two long, black hearses sat to the right of the building under an overhang, and the small parking lot in the front was filled almost to capacity as mourners in dark suits and subdued dresses exited their cars and slowly walked up the pathway to the front doors.
We joined them, and I tried not to look as guilty as I felt, glancing at the sad faces of the people who actually knew Connor Simon. I watched an older couple enter ahead of us and vaguely wondered if they could be Connor's parents. Aunt and uncle? Hard to say. While there were a fair number of people in attendance, most seemed to be on the younger side, probably friends and colleagues of Connor's.
As we stepped into the main reception room a long table spanned the back wall, filled with flower arrangements and several framed photos of Connor in various smiling poses. While I obviously hadn't known Connor personally—and the more we learned about him, the less he seemed like a model citizen—I still felt a sudden wave of sadness at the images of a life cut short.
Sam nudged my arm. "There's Sophia." She nodded to the right, where the girl stood next to the flower arrangements. She was alone, and her eyes held a blank sort of stare, as if she were going through the motions of being at the event but her mind was a million miles away. Probably at a time when Connor was alive. While she'd worn a simple little black dress for the occasion, the way it clung to her slim hips and lay across her tanned collarbone, she looked more dressed for a fashion shoot than a memorial. Her hair was fluffed around her face in elegant waves, and while the makeup was tasteful, it was a little heavy for a daytime event. Sophia clearly expected to see and be seen.
Then again, she was a model, so maybe she always just looked that way.
"That's Connor's girlfriend?" Chase asked.
I nodded.
"She does look just like the Athena character," he noted. "Right down to those blue eyes."
I felt an odd sensation flutter in my belly as he talked about how blue the model's eyes were.
"They're probably contacts," I mumbled.
"Let's go talk to her. Maybe she can point out Pruit to us," Sam said. She didn't wait for an answer before leading the way toward the floral table.
I could see recognition hit Sophia's features as we approached, a small frown forming between her thick eyebrows. "You two again."
Not the most welcoming greeting I'd ever had, but then again we were crashing her boyfriend's funeral.
"Hi, Sophia. How are you holding up?" I asked.
She sniffed, eyes roving the room behind us. "It is what it is, you know?"
"I'm so sorry for your loss," Chase said.
Sophia's eyes went to his, and I could see her interest pick up. "Thanks. I don't believe we've met."
"Chase Erikson." He extended a hand her way, which she took in her manicured one. And held on to just a little too long if you asked me.
I cleared my throat. "He's our editor at the paper."
Sophia's eyebrows rose. "The editor? So, you are, like, in charge?" She looked down at his black T-shirt. Today sporting the image of an evil jack-o-lantern with a knife sticking out of its face.
"It's casual Tuesday," I quickly covered for him.
But she barely glanced my way, all of her attention on Chase. "I've had a few other news outlets contacting me, you know? For interviews."
"Oh?" Chase asked.
She flipped her hair over one shoulder. "Of course, it's all just been so distressing that I haven't given an interview to anyone yet. But, I could give you my number and we could arrange a time?"
Chase gave her a wide grin. "That would be great."
Yep. Swell. My stomach did another uncomfortable flutter as Chase pulled out his phone to punch in Sophia's digits.
"You know, you look just like her," Chase said when she finished rattling off numbers.
"Her?" Sophia asked.
"Athena," Chase told her. "The character in Connor's game."
Sophia smiled, even though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Well, I was his muse."
I bit my lip, hesitant to tell her that she was actually just the face of his advertising, Connor not having created any of the game at all.
"I was wondering, Sophia," I said. "Did Connor ever mention a guy named Tyler to you?"
Sophia's little bow of a mouth pulled down in a frown. "No, I don't think so."
"Tyler McGowan?" I tried again.
She shook her head. "Sorry. Who is he?"
"Just someone who Connor worked with," I said, not wanting to be the one to ruin her image of her late boyfriend.
"I don't really know a lot of Connor's co-workers," she said, her eyes roving the room where several of them seemed to be in attendance. "Coders. Engineers. Not really my crowd, you know?"
"Sure," I agreed. I didn't point out that Connor had been one of those too. Well, at least in theory.
"Why do you ask?" Sophia said. "I mean, about this Tyler guy?"
I opened my mouth to answer but realized she had her full attention on Chase again, addressing the question to him.
"We were just curious," Chase answered for me. "Tyler said he worked with Connor on Athena's Quest."
Sophia shrugged. "I'm sure a lot of people worked with Connor on the game. It's a huge deal for VizaSoft."
"You think they're going to release it still?" Sam asked.
"Of course." Sophia frowned again. "Why wouldn't they?"
"Well, I just thought that with Connor gone…" Sam trailed off under the model's icy glare.
"Connor would have wanted his fans to play it," Sophia said with conviction. Then she paused. "Besides, VizaSoft is already looking at film licensing."
"Film?" I asked. "You mean, like, someone wants to make an Athena's Quest movie?"
Sophia nodded. "They're in talks with a couple of studios. My agent says I'm a shoo-in for the lead. I mean, I am Athena after all, right?"
"Right," I said, wondering just how much money was on the line now that a movie franchise was on the table. And how much of that would have disappeared for Connor if his secret about a teenager actually creating the game had gotten out. "Uh, Sophia, do you know if Connor's manager is here?" I asked.
"Jason?" She nodded. "Sure. That's him." Sophia pointed to a guy in his mid-to-late thirties in a dark suit. Despite the fact we were indoors, he wore a pair of dark sunglasses, and his black hair was pulled back into a sleek low ponytail at the nape of his neck. He reminded me of the human equivalent of a ferret—all sleek and slim and looking like he could wiggle out
of any tight spot.
"Thanks," I told her. "We wanted to pay our respects."
She shrugged again, as if not caring in the least what we wanted with Connor's manager.
"Nice to meet you," Chase told her, giving her another wide grin before we stepped away.
Once we were out of earshot, I leaned over. "Laying it on a little thick, don't you think?" I mumbled.
Chase lifted one eyebrow at me. "What do you mean?"
"You know all the big toothy grins and fanboy eyes you made at the girlfriend."
The corner of Chase's mouth lifted. He leaned in closer and whispered in my ear. "Don't tell me you're jealous, Featherstone."
I blew a puff of air out through my lips. Pffft. "No! Of course I'm not…I mean, why would I be…I mean, it's not like you and I are…"
"There's Pruit," Sam said, thankfully saving me from having to finish any of those thoughts. She grabbed my arm, steering us toward the man in the suit who was sipping from a paper cup near the exit.
I licked my lips, willing my cheeks to cool down as I avoided looking at Chase's teasing grin.
"Mr. Pruit," Sam said, hailing the man's attention.
He turned an expectant gaze our way. "Yes?"
"Hi, I'm Sam and that's Chase, and this is Hartley Featherstone."
The man gave us a blank look.
"We left a message for you with your receptionist," Sam continued. "Hartley is Connor's cousin."
His eyes slowly went from Sam to Chase to me. I wasn't sure if he'd ever received the message, but his face showed no signs of recognition. Instead, the overarching emotion written there was pure suspicion.
Smart man.
"Uh, hi," I said, extending my hand his way.
He just looked at it. "Connor never mentioned a cousin."
"No? Oh, well, we weren't super close. I mean, we weren't distant either, but you know, not like that close." I bit my lip, realizing I was babbling.
"Anyway," Sam jumped in. "We were hoping to talk to you about Connor."
Wicked Games (Hartley Grace Featherstone Mysteries Book 3) Page 13
