Picked(8)

“He’s fake,” I reminded her of the fact.

“He is not. Stop thinking that way or you’re never going to find a guy.”

Of course, Justine was wearing some sort of sexy party dress. I laughed at her cleavage. Justine didn’t have breasts that big. They were a little big, just not that big.

“Really, Cass? You’re wearing that?” Justine judged.

“It’s a game.”

“You’re never going to find anyone like that. I’m ready to give up on you.”

“Yeah, well your guy is looking at someone else, better pay attention to him,” I warned, not wanting to discuss my game attire. Real life was bad enough.

I wasn’t about to get into that with her. I had other things on my agenda. At least her hot guy would distract her so I could do more research on Becker Cole. That’s what I did. I sat beside Justine on a shiny metallic stool, dropped the game window and typed the name Becker Cole.

I lost myself in everything I could find on this guy, which wasn’t much. It was like the guy didn’t exist until he created an app his senior year of high school. And then, nothing until the online dating game Picked. Becker Cole wasn’t a social butterfly by any means, and I pegged Matt to be wrong. He wasn’t partying it up, living the highlife with these girls. It was more than that. I knew it was, but why?

Lost in thought, I moved back to the game. I was right. Justine was nowhere to be found. I wondered where she went, guess I should have read more about the game. Sitting on the stool alone in the club, I looked around, feeling rejected, just like when Justine and I would go out for real. She would leave with some random guy and I would take a cab home, alone. I tried to tell her she was going to end up in an alley on Main Street, buried beneath restaurant scraps, but she never listened.

The girls on the dance floor were really moving to the beat of the music, grinding their asses into fake people they didn’t even know, just like real life. I had typed to Justine five times before she answered, brushing me off by telling me she’d talk to me tomorrow. That was all I needed. I logged off, wondering about Becker Cole.

Why would he create an interactive dating game? Why would he move here from Utah? I mean if the guy wanted to be a wife hoarder, wouldn’t he stay there, where it was more accepted? I couldn’t wait to hear what Marti found out, certain her detective skills were much better than mine.





Chapter 3





Yawning for about the hundredth time, I stretched my arms. I arrived at Mr. Zimmer’s house early, armed and ready with my discrete video camera. My dad had the camera installed. He said it was safer. None of the other agents had hidden cameras in their cars. I knew it was because my dad knew me. He knew I wasn’t slick enough to video tape a suspect without being caught. I didn’t mind. The camera was pretty cool. I’d learned all about it while sitting there, waiting for Mr. Zimmer to do something. Anything. My legs were getting stiff and my butt hurt, and I’d only been investigating for an hour.

Checking for a nearby Wi-Fi signal, I sighed, disappointed I couldn’t log onto Picked with my phone. I tried doing it without an internet connection, but it was too slow. I opened my lunch box and ate my cheese and mayonnaise sandwich earlier than I’d planned. It was only nine in the morning, but I was hungry, or maybe just bored. Watching a little girl play in her driveway, I thought she was too little to be outside alone, especially around that part of town. The neighborhood wasn’t what you’d call safe. Not quite the ghetto, but close.

I saw the mother come out and sit beside the child on the concrete step. That made me feel better, although I was sure the drink in her hand wasn’t coffee. She swished it around in the cup and scowled when she swallowed. The little girl was wearing a stained shirt, dirty shorts, and no shoes—probably the same clothes she slept in. Kids are so resilient. The little girl was as happy as could be, dancing around and singing.

I was like that at her age, all the way up to six and three-quarters. Nothing was the same after that. My father was different, I was different, and my mother was dead. She was the adhesive that held us together. When she let go, our family frayed, unraveled, and ripped in two.



“No,” I whined. “I don’t want to. Please don’t make me,” I pleaded with my dad, dragging me into the hospital room.

“Cassie, you have to. Your mother loves you. You want her to come home with us, don’t you?” He shouldn’t have put that on me. I know that now. I would never have said that to a six-year-old child.

He made me feel like it was my fault. It was all my fault. I should have gotten a look at the guy, I should have talked to her more when she was in the coma. I should have sung her songs and brushed her hair. I couldn’t do any of those things. Half her face was missing. I was afraid of her. There was no way I was going near her. I stayed by the door, wide-eyed and scared. That person wasn’t my beautiful mother at all. I didn’t know who this person was.