Her father had loved this car and was so proud of himself when he gave it to her for her sixteenth birthday. No, she couldn't risk Blake's friends finding out anything about her. But she knew nothing about his friends and she had her rules. She could have asked Carter, one of her coworkers, to hack into their building's property-management company and print her a parking pass, but unlike him she had principles. The Olympic Society for Paranormal Research and Analysis had been relentlessly pursuing her since she started blogging, pressuring her to join their organization of crazies--vampire hunters, ghost hunters and alien-invasion enthusiasts.
Sure, they could've been drinking, but given the fact that it happened at the Devil's Backbone it was enough to pique her interest. If Xtark Software found out how she spent her free time, that she lied on her employment application about having a blog, she'd lose her job. The hems of her jeans were damp from running into the office and she was still chilled. But a blog run by any employee was a huge no-no. In a write-up in the local paper about some community service project, his marketing teacher had called him a leader. If it hadn't been for Carter, who beefed up her security settings, they'd have succeeded. Using her internet-sleuthing abilities--some people would call it stalking, but she preferred to call it due diligence--she'd tracked his movements online. She grabbed her phone, hit Redial, and a young man answered on the first ring. The blog was her way of exploring topics she couldn't discuss out loud. They'd tried to explain that shadows don't just come alive and kidnap people; a real person took her mother. But she knew what she'd seen and a toy wasn't about to convince her otherwise. It could show up later online somewhere, making it easier for Xtark to discover what she was doing. Problem was, she'd been nineteen at the time and he'd mixed up her birthday with one of his many ex-girlfriends. Many of them had never seen pictures of the site of the old sanitarium, which had burned to the ground at the turn of the century. Adding a new scratch when she was frustrated or pissed off always made her feel better. She pulled the address from the front pocket of her jeans and realized she still needed to change her shoes. He was a seventeen-year-old honor student at Cascadia High School, on the varsity tennis team, vice president of the French club. He'd posted on her blog that he was too scared to go with them, so he waited in the car. She stretched her arm over the seat and peered out the back windshield. If they went to the site of the disappearance, traipsing through wet bushes in flip-flops would really suck. Ever since Blake posted that the captain of the football team never came back after visiting the site and a watered-down version hit the news outlets, her blog readers had been pestering her to interview him. Although she did hate crowds, she guarded her online identity with the finesse of someone navigating a minefield. As far as she was concerned, however, it was no one's business but her own, and she preferred to keep it that way. She hated having an audience for these things. George wouldn't be able to compete with that.
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