ROUGH DRAFT of Loser || WlW

Five

It's the first time in two years I've had a Saturday afternoon to myself. No school, no work, no Allison. I never imagined I'd be spending it with Brittany Davis.

We're sitting in one of those retro cafes with all the pictures of people from the 50s. She orders a salad with grilled chicken and when I hesitate she tells the server to bring two, along with sparkling water.

"You want a coke?" she asks.

I nod. I feel like a child when I'm with her.

"And bring her a coke," she says, motioning toward me with her freshly manicured nails.

I push the menu to the side, waiting for her to say something.

Her eyes flick to the door as a bell dings behind me. She rolls her eyes. "I told him to stay out of this."

Trevor approaches our table as his football buddies slide into the booth behind me. He slams his hands against the table and stares at me before he turns toward Brittany, flashing his signature smile and cocking his head to the side.

"What are you doing with her?"

Brittany leans forward, a playful edge in her eyes as she smirks. "Trevor, baby. Why don't you do me a favor and leave this to the adults."

Trevor's jaw goes tight. He turns on me, points a finger so close to my face that I flinch, and says, "Just don't kill her too, k?"

Brittany rolls her eyes.

I wait until he leaves to ask, "So, what did you want to talk about?" I can't take the awkward tension anymore.

Brittany leans back in her seat, crosses her legs, and begins digging through her purse. "I know you didn't kill my sister."

"Would you mind telling that to the police?"

Her determined eyes meet mine. "I have."

I open my mouth to say something but I can't find the words. Brittany Davis is pledging for me?

She slides a brown, leather notebook across the table and I catch it before it slips into my lap. She stares at me until I open it. It's a diary.

"What is this?"

Her cheeks flush a shade pinker than her makeup. "It's Claire's journal."

I slam it closed and push it back to her. "Whoa, I can't read her –"

"She's dead, Jordan. Does it really matter?" She puts her too-large sunglasses on and looks at a picture of Elvis. "I need your help finding the murderer."

I slide the book to the side and tuck my hands under my thighs. "We don't know she's dead. She might be kidnapped or something."

Her head snaps in my direction. The sunglasses block her expression but she raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. "Most kidnap victims are killed within the first three to twenty-four hours after the abduction."

I can feel her desperation; imagine her craned over a laptop until the early morning hours looking for statistics that might provide some relief. Grasping for any indication that Claire might still be alive.

The server brings our food and asks Brittany if we need anything else. When he leaves, she stabs a cherry tomato with her fork and pops it into her mouth. "So." She dabs her lips with a napkin, staining it the same red as her bright lipstick. "Will you help me?"

"I don't think I can." I grab my fork but my stomach turns. "I've been going to..." I clear my throat. I haven't told anyone about the police asking me to see a therapist every other week. "They've been trying to help me remember but it's like the night was wiped clean."