The Dying Breath: A Forensic Mystery

case—Sheriff Jacobs hates me now. If Kyle doesn’t murder me my dad will, and now you’re upset with me and—”
    “I’m not upset.”
    Cameryn paused, aware of how close Justin’s face was to hers. Her mind reeled as she whispered, “You’re not?”
    “No. We’re still friends, right?”
    “Yes. Of course.”
    “And when Kyle is taken care of we can move on.” It was a statement, not a question.
    “Justin, I want to, but—”
    “But my timing sucks,” he broke in. Softly, he added, “The thing is, you’ve just upped my motivation to get Kyle O’Neil.” His lips were close, too close. She could smell cinnamon on his breath and the clean scent of his skin as her thoughts spun like a whirligig.
    “Justin . . .” She couldn’t finish because she no longer knew what she wanted to say.
    He pulled away and placed his hands on the steering wheel. “I’d better get you home.”
    The engine roared as he backed up, the end of the car spinning against ice. “One thing you should know,” he said, shifting as he accelerated onto the Million Dollar Highway, “when I say ‘get’ Kyle, I don’t just mean catch him. I’m going to find him and make sure he never hurts anyone again.”

Chapter Three

    “SO JUSTIN’S REALLY into you, just like I told you he was from the very beginning,” Lyric proclaimed in the school lunchroom, her kohl-rimmed eyes opened so wide Cameryn could see the whites all around. “I said he liked you, remember? Now the romance is finally about to happen! And I can’t believe the man checks out your house at night—the way Justin’s trying to protect you is hot .” Lyric, her best friend since grade school, pumped her chubby fist in the air and made a whooping sound so loud everyone in the cafeteria turned to stare. At least, to Cameryn, it felt that way.
    “Lyric,” Cameryn begged. “Stop.”
    “Why should I? This is good stuff. And you, ever-cautious one, should go for it. Besides, I would think this Kyle thing would really up your ‘carpe diem’ factor. Come on, Cammie, seize the day!”
    Over the clanking plastic trays and hum of lunch-time conversation, Cameryn heard another, more sinister sound: the current of gossip, a riptide of innuendo that she was forced to wade through once again. Cameryn saw it in the way heads bent together, the concerned looks being shot her way, the thrilled sympathy that made her want to crawl away and hide. Only Lyric seemed oblivious to the drama being played out all around. Leaning forward, she put her hand on Cameryn’s arm and said, “Listen, it’s going to work out between the two of you. I’m a psychic—I know.”
    “Why don’t you tune your psychic powers to another channel?” Cameryn hissed. “People are staring.”
    “Not a chance. I’m digging this one.” Lyric shook her hair, this time dyed black and cut with swaths of ruby red. In many ways Cameryn’s opposite, Lyric was the closest thing to a sister Cameryn had ever had. And yet, from the outside, everything about the two of them seemed paradoxical. Lyric towered over Cameryn, both in height and personality. While Cameryn’s wardrobe consisted mainly of hoodies and jeans, Lyric favored loud colors that reflected her mood. Today she wore a peasant blouse tie-dyed in every shade of orange, black jeans, and platform shoes that made her taller than most of their teachers. Every finger on her hand sported a chunky ring, each a different jewel color that bumped against the others like a plastic rainbow. Honey brows revealed her natural shade of hair, while her pale blue eyes seemed to brighten and darken with her moods. In contrast, Cameryn felt she was a plain brown package. Dark hair, brown eyes, simple jeans, no flash. It was lucky that Lyric had enough character for the two of them.
    “So when do you think you’ll move up from the air kiss to the real deal? My spider sense is tingling.”
    “See, this is exactly why I should never tell you anything. I think Tiffany just heard you.”
    “Sorry,” Lyric replied in an exaggerated whisper. “But since when did you start caring about them ? We’ve been rebels since fifth grade, remember?” She waved her hand dismissively toward the corner table. “And who worries about what Tiffany and her Bratz posse thinks? Actually, that might be an oxymoron.” Tapping her chin thoughtfully, she added, “I don’t believe Tiffany actually thinks. “
    “Great. Now she’s whispering to Heather.”
    Lyric