Page 24 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

I stare at the screen. Nothing.

Except the notification:Read 7:23 am.

Huh.

The memory of Hannah asking, “Did you get fired again?” echoes in my head. Is she busy or is she deliberately not replying? Is she sick of me asking her for help, just like the rest of the internet?

She’s my best friend, she can’t be sick of me... right?

I glance at the screen again. Still nothing.

But this time, I actually process the read notification.

7:23??

SHITBALLS I’M LATE FOR WORK.

I spring out of bed, throw on some clothes and my vest, shove a bunch of pepperoni in my pocket because my stomach is screaming for breakfast and that’s all I’ve got in the fridge, grab my stop sign, and tear down the stairs. I might not be a natural at this job, but itmatters to me that I do it right, that I protect those kiddos, even if they are a bunch of miscreants.

I’ve almost covered the length of the first block when I think that maybe I should go back to see Tasha after my afternoon shift, check if there’s any progress on the sinkhole situation. I need a friend, and if that friend happens to be hot, that’s okay. Hot friends happen. We’ll go to improv shows together and talk about manhole covers. And I’ll stop flirting and sweating so much around her, because we’ll just be normal friends, and anyway my heart belongs to another, even if he’s making things really hard right now.

I just really, really need a friend.

I could like manholes and their covers, I think, as I become vaguely aware of thehonk-honkof a car alarm coming from somewhere close by. Then I turn the corner to where my post is and, suddenly, theonlything I’m aware of is the alarm.

The alarm, and also the car it’s coming from. Which is an SUV.

An SUV that has dived, nose-first, into the sinkhole.

An SUV that is a seafoam-green Kia Sportage.

The back wheels are spinning, several inches off the ground.

Three white standard poodles are gathered by the edge of the sinkhole close to the front of the car, by the driver’s-side window. One of them is standing on its hind legs like a person, whimpering. One of them is sneezing uncontrollably. The other one starts barking like crazy and spinning around in circles as I join them.

And then all four of us peer through the window, where Poodle Dude lies slumped over the steering wheel, blood trickling from his nose, his open, glassy eyes staring back.

Chapter 9

“Wouldya look at that,” says a thick Chicago accent next to me. “He’sdead.”

I’m embarrassed to report that my first bewildered thought was that the dogs were talking to me, and that my second thought was:But aren’t they French?

Let’s just chalk it up to the shock of seeing my first-ever dead body.

But then when I turn away from the accident, the brim of an enormous green sun hat smacks me in the face, and it’s honestly kind of a relief to see the oldMission: Impossiblelady.

This is all awful, but at least dogs aren’t talking to me.

“Super dead,” I agree shakily.

The old lady squints hard into the driver’s-side window, lips pursed. Shehumphs, reaches in, and lifts up the dead guy’s wrist like she’s taking his pulse.

I’m going to barf.

She drops the hand, letting it flop back down lifelessly, and turns to squint at me accusingly. “Did you do this?”

“What?” I squawk. “No!”