Page 82 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

I think of my hiding place in Claudia’s basement. “They won’t. Trust me.”

“How do you know? How can you be sure?”

“You want me to poke around a murderous alderman’s office or what?”

“Okay, okay I’ll do it,” he says. He pops a pickle in his mouth and then freezes midchew. “Oh god, the botulism. Do you guys think I have it? I want to live! Nancy Drew, call 911!”

Amateur.

“No way, you’ll sit in the ER for hours,” I say, hustling Marlowe and the dogs toward the door. “Urgent Care all the way. Tell Jessie I sent you.”

Chapter 27

My confident feelings all ebb away as soon as I’m alone in my apartment, incapable of sleep, three hot poodles shoving me out of my own bed.

What if the calendar forging thing doesn’t work? What if I get on Merle’s list too? Is Benny okay? Benny is definitely not okay. And it’s all my fault.

I called three different police stations (using an alias and disguising my voice, obviously), and every time, I got put on hold indefinitely or left voicemails for cops who were on vacation for the next two weeks.

The Cook County sheriff’s online “inmate locator service” turned up nothing.

I desperately hope Tond got ahold of someone, but he’s got botulism on the brain, and I forgot to get his phone number, which is like Detective 101. I doubt Rodney O’Malley has a video calledMake Sure You Can Get Ahold of People.That’s just a given.

Every hour, I come up with worse scenarios of what is happening to Benny. By 3 a.m., I’m at full-on medieval torture.

Get a grip, I tell myself.Don’t be like Tond.But somehow, knowing Ishouldn’tspiral isn’t actually keeping me from spiraling. What the hell, brain?

When I do finally doze off, I wake up thirty minutes before my alarm goes off, sweaty and confused from a nightmare about Benny being tortured by the poodles, who were secretly cops this whole time? I lie in bed and try to analyzethatfor a while, and by the time my alarm goes off, I’m somehow both exhaustedandjittery, which is a very bad combo for a crossing guard.

Ivaguelyremember a post Hannah forwarded me once about how cold plunges are better than coffee, so I turn on a freezing cold shower, hop in, scream so loud the dogs start howling, and then immediately stumble back out. They swarm my legs, leaving dog residue all over me, so okay—I may not be clean or smell any better, but it’s true, I am awake and laser-focused.

I clamp a leash on each poodle and give myself a quick pep talk; I’ll do one hour of staying awake enough to keep kids alive, a quick hop over to the alderman’s office to keep him from murdering Tond, and then—nap.

Classic morning routine.

I’m hustling down the sidewalk, trying to untangle my neon vest, walk the dogs, and clock in on my phone at the same time, when I hear cheering and clapping coming from my corner.

I glance up and my steps get slower as my brain struggles to process what I’m seeing.

One Chicago Bears beach umbrella.

Two orange-and-blue-striped lawn chairs.

Three thousand percent of my recommended daily humiliation allowance.

“Mom? Dad?But...Why?”

My mom takes off her sunglasses and waves hugely, like I haven’t already seen her. “We wanted to support you at your new job! Save those kids!”

“And we brought mimosas!” Dad reaches into a cooler I hadn’t noticed before and pulls out a travel cup that readsBaby’s Little Babyon it. He offers it to me. “Want one?”

“Honey, why do you have three dogs?” Mom asks.

“Fresh-squeezed orange juice!” Dad says, shaking the cup at me.

“They’re so fancy!” Mom says, reaching out to pet Louis, who is now yanking at my arm to get close to her.

“You can’t be on this lawn!” I squawk.