Possess

Hector said, nodding his head in Bridget’s direction.
    “It’s not Liu’s fault,” Brad said.
    “I’m not saying it is. But how many text messages did you get from Peter Saturday night?”
    Bridget’s eyes dashed between Brad and Hector’s faces. “You too?”
    “A dozen, at least,” Hector said. “Before I turned my phone off.”
    “I got, like, eight from him,” Brad said. “But I was at the dance so I didn’t notice till the next day.”
    Hector raised his eyebrows. “Bridge?”
    “Thirty-seven.” Bridget pushed her tray away and sank her forehead onto crossed arms.
    Hector dropped his diet shake onto the metal table. “Thirty-seven?”
    “Damn,” Brad said under his breath.
    Bridget didn’t raise her head. “Yeah, I know.”
    “What were they like?” Hector asked.
    “Like he was going through the five stages of grief,” Bridget said, sitting up. “But then near the end they got really . . .” Bridget remembered the threats Peter had texted her, the ones she didn’t get until after he was dead. “Ugly.”
    Hector held out his hand. “Gimme.”
    With a sigh, Bridget handed over her cell phone. She guessed Hector and Brad deserved to see them, even though those thirty-seven text messages weren’t from the Peter Kim she’d known most of her life. They were from someone else, someone whose jealousy had turned into a rage so violent it had gotten him killed.
    She wasn’t going to mention that part.
    “Damn,” Hector said as they scrolled through the texts.
    Brad whistled. “I can’t believe Peter wrote these.”
    “Believe it,” Bridget said.
    “I’ve just never heard him swear like this. Ever.”
    “I know.”
    Bridget’s phone buzzed. Incoming text. “Give it.”
    A sly smile appeared on Hector’s face. “Douchebag Quinn?” he said, reading the sender’s name. “You changed his name in your phone to Douchebag Quinn?”
    Ouch. She forgot she’d changed it after he got her grounded. She was going to have to fix that. “Just give it.”
    “‘R U OK?’” Brad read aloud. “‘Worried. Call me ASAP.’”
    “Give it!” Bridget shot her hand across the table to grab the phone, but Brad held it out of her reach.
    The phone buzzed again, and Brad leaned back on the bench to read it. “‘Miss U.’”
    Bridget dropped her forehead to the table with a thud. “Kill me.”
    “Oh. My. GOD!” Hector said. “You’re dating him, aren’t you?”
    “Um . . .” Bridget thought of the brief make-out session on the floor of her dad’s study, of Matt’s sweet good-bye when he left. “We haven’t really talked about—”
    “You totally made out with him,” Brad said, tossing her phone onto the table.
    Bridget raised her head. “Um . . .”
    “Oh. My. GOD!” Hector repeated, and kicked her under the table. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”
    “I, er, was a little busy this weekend.”
    “Yeah,” Brad laughed. “Busy.”
    Bridget yawned. The strain of the last few days had caught up with her, and all she wanted to do was climb into bed and go to sleep.
    “Bridge, maybe you should go home early,” Hector said.
    “Yeah, Liu. I don’t think anyone’s going to give you static after . . . well . . .” Brad’s eyes darted to the empty seat next to Bridget. “You know.”
    She had history, show choir—which had been temporarily moved out of the church and into the gym—and Latin left for the day. She didn’t really want to spend an hour in a classroom with Father Santos or see Alexa in show choir, and the thought of sitting through Latin was about as appealing as a Jersey Shore marathon.
    “Maybe you’re right.” She grabbed her untouched lunch tray. “I’ll go see Mrs. Freely. Talk to you guys later.”
    “Went home early,” Bridget typed into her phone. “Call me l8r.” She hit send, and the text to Matt Quinn sped off into the cellular unknown.
    She rolled over in bed and pulled the covers up under her chin. A nap. A nap would be perfect right about now. If only she could turn her damn brain off.
    Which, of course, she couldn’t. There were too many elements swirling around up there to let her sleep. Peter Kim. Watchers. Alexa’s eyes. Matt’s lips. Gah! Matt’s lips were not a part of the puzzle. She needed to focus. She needed to find that missing file.
    There had to be something she’d overlooked, some connecting clue that her dumb, stubborn eye hadn’t picked up on.
    “Where is it, Dad?” she called out loud. “Where