Amelia Anne Is Dead and Gone by Kat Rosenfield

head in my direction and said, “Word’s going around.”
    Craig shrugged, a strange little smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Hey, I don’t make the laws. Law says they need a warrant, they need a warrant.”
    “Or you can give permission, you dickhead,” I snapped. “Instead of making things difficult.” I looked at James for help. He shook his head and mouthed,
Stop
. I stared at him.
    “What?” he asked, staring back.
    “Aren’t you going to say anything? I’m sorry, but what if her killer
was
out there? What if he dropped something, evidence or something, that could’ve helped them, but they didn’t find it because Craig is an asshole?”
    Craig was watching the exchange with that same, weird smile.
    “Well, they’re definitely not gonna find it now,” he said. “Even when they do get a judge’s say-so.”
    The words hung in the air as James turned to look at him.
    “What are you talking about?”
    Craig shrugged. “Let’s just say that I did a little cleanup in the yard today. Let’s just say that if there was something to find, it’s gone now.”
    I gaped. Even someone like Craig, someone who’d always taken a little too much pleasure in other people’s suffering, wouldn’t take evidence from a crime scene. Would he? It had to be a joke.
    “Bullshit.”
    “Try again.”
    James’s voice floated out of the darkness; he’d moved away from us without my seeing.
    “Did you really find something?” he asked.
    “I found lots of things,” Craig grinned. “And if one of them was important, well, I guess that’ll just be too bad.”
    “Are you kidding? If you found something”—I was sputtering, my voice rising in pitch—“you have to give it to the police!”
    Craig’s smile kept stretching. “Fat chance. What do I care about some dead, beat-up bitch? And why should I help your incompetent redneck police do their job?”
    There was a long silence.
    “I’m going to tell them about this,” I said, realizing as the words came out how pathetic I sounded, hating the plaintive whine in my voice.
    “Like hell you will.”
    “Becca,” said James. He had reappeared behind me without my noticing. He put a hand on my shoulder. “He’s just kidding. Just trying to give you a hard time. Right?”
    Craig didn’t answer, but shrugged.
    “CRAIG. Come on, man. Give it up.”
    The big hands went up in mock surrender.
    “Yeah, yeah, okay? Sure. Just having some fun.”
    “Oh, so now it’s all a big joke?” I snapped. “Is this funny to you? Maybe Craig doesn’t care about catching a murderer, but—”
    “Hey,
Rebecca
,” Craig said, sneering my name like it was a dirty word, “if you care so much, why don’t you go wait out by the side of the road for a while? Maybe he’ll come back.”
    I stood up, ready to fight.
    James stepped between us, his voice cutting through the tension. “Stop it. Both of you.”
    I looked at his face and realized how unsteady I felt on my feet. My head was heavy, clouded by the beer. I was tired of arguing.
    “Fine,” I said. I sat heavily on the couch. “Fine.”
    For a minute, no one spoke; there was only the incessant noise of the crickets, the hum of the bug zapper, the shorted-fuse sound the mosquitoes made as they incinerated themselves. My hair clung to my neck. It was so still, so hot.
    James moved to sit beside me, stroking my arm.
    “Let it go, all right?” he whispered. The hairs rose on the back of my neck as his breath touched them.
    “All right,” I sighed.
    “We can go now. Do you want to go?”
    “Yes.”
    Craig walked us back through the house (“Watch out for worms,” said James.) and stood under the porch light as we picked our way through the yard. His features, lit from above, stood out in harsh relief.
    The motor coughed and rattled as I slammed my door. The car began to roll. As we reached the end of the drive, I rolled my window open and peered over my shoulder to where Craig still stood on the porch. He