Page 93 of Without a Clue

Ten seconds later, she comes into view. Strides past without stopping.

What is Crystal doing going out, alone, at two in the morning?

And who, precisely, is she supposed to be bunking with now?

Is she bunking with anyone?

There’s really only one way to find out.

I tap Nash on the shoulder.

“I’m going to do a little sleuthing.”

Chapter 18

“I find you concerningly good at that. What other secrets have you not told me about?”

We are standing just inside Crystal’s room.

I’ve just shut the door behind us.

The room is pitch black but for the dim light of a muted television screen.

And yes, I did just use a variety of household goods to break into the room in under a minute.

“I’ve practiced breaking into everything for Hugh,” I say. “I can pick 90 percent of the locks in New York City in under fifteen minutes. Ninety-five percent if you give me an hour.” I pocket the pin I pulled from the hair dryer and wind up the cord.

“And this is your party trick?” Nash says. “Something that really wins the guys over? Your ability to break into things.”

“Hey, apparently I won you over, didn’t I?” I say, tossing my head back.

A little slip of a smile moves up his lips. “I will say, watching you know your way around a lock was oddly attractive.”

“Weird, but I’ll take it.” I grin, flick on a light, and cast my eyes around the room. “You man the door,” I say. “I’m going to check for clues.”

“Which are?”

“I’m not sure yet. Hence the vague term clues. Now make sure not to touch anything.”

“Okay, Edward Scissorhands. Noted.”

I give him a sarcastic thumbs-up—though at the moment, my thumb, like the rest of my fingers, is tied up in an elaborate twist of elastic bands and a plain T-shirt. It took me a couple of minutes (longer than the lock, if I wanted to brag, and I don’t mind if I do) to get the makeshift gloves in place, but once they were all together, my fingers fit snugly, and except for the excessive number of rubber bands, they’re a pretty decent pair of gloves. Nothing to see the opera in, but here in the silence of this suspect’s room (a.k.a. little old Crystal . . . which is super weird, but I gotta stay focused), there are no fingerprints to be found.

I slip off my shoes and begin my light step on tiptoe in my socks around the room.

“What are you doing?”

“Leave no trace,” I say, moving around a lamp. “It’s not just a motto for the woods.”

The room is in disarray (no surprise there). Clothes are dumped from her massive backpack suitcase and are strewn about the room in various piles. Multiple hair appliances clutter the desk. The remote rests on the unmade bed around a pile of open chip bags. At least three little gummy men litter the formerly perfectly white sheets, staining the white in colors of blue, green, and red.

I clench my teeth.

I’m going to be the one who hears about this.

A woman holding a stinky sock in her hands goes on elaborately about the power of her laundry softener in a commercial on the television inside her mirror. Her mirror. I had no idea we had a television inside the gold frame of our mirrors.

I look at the ring on the desk made by a coffee mug.