The Wrong Girl (Return to Fear Street Book 2)

I saw the black-and-white patrol car pull up our driveway. I watched them climb out of the car, two of them. I opened the front door before they rang the bell.

One cop was tall and thin—I mean very thin—with a tuft of short red hair on his pale face. Standing at the front door, he reminded me of a matchstick. He said his name was Officer Raap. He had a deep voice that made his Adam’s apple go up and down in his skinny neck. It looked like a small animal in his throat.

The other cop was Benny Kline, Manny’s brother. I’d never seen him with such a stern expression on his face. And when he spoke, he kept his eyes on me as if trying to dig into my brain. “Can we come in?”

What was I going to say? No? Sorry, I’m busy watching Dr. Who.

I led them into the living room. Mom and Heather came into the room, and everyone arranged themselves as awkwardly as possible. Because it has to be awkward when you have two police officers in your living room, questioning you.

Benny and Raap sat together on the couch. Mom and Heather perched on chairs on either side, and I dropped onto a leather ottoman across from everyone. It was too low and made my knees come up almost to my face.

I didn’t really care. Keith told me about Ivy and Jeremy being taken to the hospital. I was horribly upset and worried about my friends and not prepared to answer questions about the awful things someone had done to them.

Both cops dropped their caps on the coffee table. Raap scratched his short red hair. Benny’s belly poked at the front of his uniform. “We’re talking to all your friends,” he started. “Everyone in your group.”

“You want to question Poppy about Ivy and Jeremy?” Mom chimed in. She had her hands clasped tightly in her lap, and she kept shifting in her chair, unable to get comfortable.

“Yes, we do,” Raap said in his surprisingly deep voice. “You visited Ivy last night, Poppy. Yes?”

I nodded. “Yes. I did my shift at the taxi company where I work. Then I went home. Then to Ivy’s.”

“And where did you go after you saw Ivy?”

“Well . . . nowhere, really. I drove around for a while. I was upset and I didn’t want to just go home.”

Benny leaned forward. “You said you were upset. Can you tell us what you were upset about?”

“Well . . . Ivy and I . . . we were friends for a long time. And now we aren’t friends anymore. Because I’m furious at her. And she thought she could just apologize, and that would be that. But she and my other friends did a very mean thing to me. And . . . and . . . I’m not ready to forgive them.”

The two cops exchanged glances. Raap typed something with two fingers onto an iPad mini. They sat there silently for a few seconds, their heads down.

Then Benny said, “I know you were very angry about the robbery prank. I was there at Harlow’s store, remember? I was there, Poppy, and I heard you say you would get revenge . . . that you would pay them all back for embarrassing you like that.” His dark eyes locked on mine. “Did I remember that right?”

I couldn’t deny it. “Well, yes,” I started. “I went a little crazy. I was so hurt . . . so humiliated . . . I just lashed out, let my anger take control. Yes, you’re right, Benny. I did say that. I did say that I’d get my revenge. But, of course, when I calmed down, I realized that was . . . silly.”

They both stared at me, studying me. I suddenly felt cold. I wrapped my arms around myself. Mom fidgeted on her chair. I could see she was totally tense. Heather looked on, a silent observer.

“So you decided not to get revenge on your friends?” Raap said. “Are you sure? You abandoned the idea?”

I nodded. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“Someone put acid in Ivy’s shampoo bottle,” Raap said, not lowering his gaze. “Do you know anything about that, Poppy?”

“No way,” I said, feeling the tears well in my eyes. “No way. I would never do something like that. Poor Ivy. All she cared about was her beautiful hair.”

“And you don’t have any idea who might have put the acid into the shampoo bottle?” Raap asked.

I shook my head. “No.”

“Are you accusing my daughter of this hideous crime?” Mom broke in, her voice tight and shrill.

“No. Not at all,” Benny answered quickly. “We’re just gathering information. That’s all.”

I shuddered. “I don’t know anything about acid,” I said. “I’m telling the truth.”

Suddenly, Heather turned to me. “Poppy, what was that stuff you used to clean that old jewelry of Grandma’s?” she said. “Remember? Down in the basement?”

Both officers reacted in surprise. They both looked at Heather as if they hadn’t noticed her before. Then they turned back to me and waited for me to answer.

“I—I don’t know,” I said in a whisper.

“The instructions said to use rubber gloves to protect your skin, didn’t it?” she kept on.

Thank you, Heather. Thank you, dear sister. Now I can see that they both suspect me. They think they’ve solved their case.

“I used a cleaner that contains hydrochloric acid to clean my grandmother’s gold jewelry,” I told them. “The bottle . . . it’s in the basement. I never took it out of the basement.”

Raap started to his feet. “Can we see it? Mrs. Miller, is it okay if we go down to your basement?”

Mom just shrugged. “I guess.” She stood up. “I’m sure Poppy is telling the truth. The acid was just for cleaning jewelry.”

“It’s pretty powerful acid for jewelry,” Raap said, his eyes on me.

“Not for gold,” I said. “The woman at the store told me it’s best for gold.”

I led the way to the basement stairs. I noticed that Heather was avoiding my gaze. I hoped she was embarrassed for revealing I had a bottle of acid. I didn’t really know her motive. Had she just blurted it out without thinking?

Was she actually trying to get me in trouble?

The air in the basement was warm. We ducked under the low ceiling. “The acid bottle is on the shelf over there. In my dad’s old workshop,” I said.

Mom and Heather held back. I led the two officers to the shelf where I kept it.

My eyes glanced up and down the shelves. My heart started to beat a pounding rhythm. I squinted and let my eyes go over each item on the shelf—paint cans, brushes, piles of rags, cans of shellac.

“Oh,” I gasped. “I . . . don’t believe it. The bottle is gone.”