KATHY DAWSON BOOKS
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street
New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2016 by Stephanie Tromly
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Ebook ISBN: 9780698188747
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Tromly, Stephanie, author.
Title: Trouble makes a comeback / Stephanie Tromly.
Description: New York, NY : Kathy Dawson Books, [2016] | Sequel to: Trouble is a friend of mine | Summary: After Zoe Webster’s friend Philip Digby—the weird, manic and brilliant teen sleuth Digby—left town, Zoe experimented with being a “normal” high schooler—but now Digby is back needing help, and not just to find his sister.
Identifiers: LCCN 2015046145 | ISBN 9780525428411 (hardback)
Subjects: | CYAC: Missing children—Fiction. | High schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Mystery and detective stories. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Mysteries & Detective Stories. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Friendship. | JUVENILE FICTION / Humorous Stories.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.T76 Ts 2016 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2015046145
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Jacket design by Samira Iravani and Jessie Sayward Bright
Jacket images by Michael Heffernan, Gary Wade, and Glow Images, Inc/Getty Images; all other images courtesy of Shutterstock.com
Version_1
Contents
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
• • •
I don’t believe in Happily Ever After. Nobody over the age of thirteen with an Internet connection has any business believing in that noise. But the kind of junior year I’m having is seriously challenging the life-saving cynicism I’ve cultivated for years.
Actually, to be precise, I’m having an epic second semester. My first semester was a series of fiascos, all courtesy of my friendship with Philip Digby. Though, honestly, I’m not even sure Digby ever considered me his friend. Accomplice, sure. But then he kissed me, which made us what? More than friends? Something other than friends? I hate semantics.
Normally, I wouldn’t have fallen for Digby’s stray-puppy-in-the-rain act in the first place. But I was new in town, I had no friends, and I was still reeling from my parents’ brutal divorce. And then I found out that Digby’s four-year-old sister, Sally, was abducted from her bed in the middle of the night when he was only seven years old and, to add to the tragedy of losing Sally, the authorities thought either his parents or Digby himself was guilty. Even worse, all of River Heights was convinced they’d done it and had turned against Digby and his parents. The pressure tore that family apart. The stray puppy, it turned out, was also the underdog. I was powerless to resist.
By Thanksgiving, he’d gotten me arrested, then kidnapped, and then blown up in an explosion. On the upside, we’d also dismantled a meth operation and found a missing girl. We didn’t find Digby’s sister, though, so he left town to keep looking for her.
But not before he scrambled my brains with that kiss. And then—nothing. Not a peep from the jerk for the last five months.
Meanwhile, everyone had heard I’d been hanging out with him and that we’d somehow busted up a major drug operation. People in school were curious and I had to act fast if I wanted to convert my infamy into friendships beyond whatever weird crisis-based camaraderie I’d experienced while I was capering around with Digby. I knew I was the flavor of a very short month, so I forced myself past the Digby-sized hole in my soul and Made an Effort.
My first attempts at getting to know new people were disasters. But then I realized that I was boring people with details, and once I basically stopped talking so much and mostly asked leading questions instead, things improved. And then, finally, after a locker room conversation—about the injustice of school going all the way until December 23—with Allie and Charlotte, two of the nicer girls from my PE class, I was in. An invitation to lunch turned into eyeliner tutorials in the good bathrooms and weekends trawling the mall with them. Eventually, I realized that I was enjoying more than just the fact that I was finally feeling included. I was actually having a good time with Charlotte and Allie. They’d been friends since grade school, but I could tell they were trying their best not to make me feel left out. And it worked. Things were looking up.
My luck kept right on improving, in fact, until after winter break, when I got my first official boyfriend: Austin Shaeffer. It happened at the mall. I was with Allie and Charlotte when I saw some guy hauling ass out of the Foot Locker. I didn’t have the time—or maybe I didn’t take the time—to think. Before I knew it, I’d kicked a wheeled HOLIDAY SALE sign into the guy’s path.
The guy hit the sign with a (surprisingly) satisfying splat. Digby would’ve loved watching the Foot Locker employees swarm the thief and pull all the fitness trackers still in boxes from his pockets. For the first time in a while, I let myself feel how much I missed life with Digby. I was so distracted, I didn’t notice that a Foot Locker employee had started talking to me.
“Sorry, what?” I said. That’s when I realized it was Austin Shaeffer. I didn’t have classes with him, but I’d noticed him around school. It was hard not to notice Austin. He was handsome and athletic and one of the few guys who could be funny without being mean. He reminded me a little of Digby’s friend Henry, although that might be because Austin was Henry’s QB backup on our football team.
“You pushed the sign, right?” Austin said.
By this time, people were clapping. Charlotte pointed at me, yelling, “She’s our friend. Our friend did that.” Allie stooped for a selfie with the injured thief.
“How’d you know he shoplifted?” Austin said.
I almost said something about the weird bulge in the guy’s coat and how his run’s head-down urgency seemed more than a late-for-my-movie hustle, but I looked into Austin’s big blue eyes and checked myself. Be normal, Zoe. Austin Shaeffer doesn’t care what you know about body language.
“Actually . . .” I said. “The truth?”
Austin leaned in, forcing me t
o notice his aftershave. “Yeah?”
“I tripped. The sign kinda . . . rolled?” I tried not to judge myself for the giggle I burped out to sell my lie.
“Zoe Webster, right?” Austin said.
“Yeah . . . and you’re Austin—” Then suddenly Austin Shaeffer was holding my right hand. I’d forgotten about my latte and in the course of affecting coolness, I’d let my hand relax so much that coffee was pouring out the spout.
“Careful,” Austin said. “So, Zoe Webster, you saved my ass. They would’ve fired me if my section got jacked again.” He pointed at my cup. “You’ve probably had enough coffee today, but how about this weekend?”
Allie and Charlotte cackled while Austin entered my number in his phone.
“So cute . . . Austin Schaeffer’s blushing,” Allie said.
“Watch out, Zoe, Austin is trouble,” Charlotte said.
“I’m not trouble . . . don’t listen to them,” Austin said.
After Austin left, Allie, Charlotte, and I talked about him for hours. They liked him, I liked them, I wanted them to like me, Austin Shaeffer apparently liked me, and by the end of the afternoon, I liked him a lot. After Austin and I had our first coffee date, Allie, Charlotte, and I parsed every moment I’d spent with him. Being inside that giddy echo chamber was at least as much fun as the date itself.
So now I have a boyfriend and I have friends. I got flowers on Valentine’s Day, I’m invited to sleepovers, and I’m doing decently on social media. Sure, there are moments when I feel alien in my own life but mostly, it feels good to fit in. Finally, finally, I’m a normal.
But that’s all falling apart. Digby sauntered back into River Heights nine days ago, and now my happy ending is toast. Right this second, I’m about to make my entrance at the biggest party of the year. My boyfriend’s waiting inside. He’ll likely be the starting quarterback this fall, which means I’m dating the official Prince Charming of River Heights High. I’m wearing clothes way above my pay grade and riding in a fancy car with Sloane Bloom, my former nemesis who’s somehow turned into my perverse version of a fairy godmother. But here, at the brink of my Cinderella moment, all that matters to me is whether Digby will be at the party. See what I mean? Happy Ending ruined.
But as usual, I’m getting ahead of the story. I need to tell you about the last nine days.
ONE
“April is the cruelest month,” Mom said. “Just say it, Zoe. You told me so.”
Because my mother worked from home on Friday afternoons, I’d thought I’d save time and get her to drive me to my job at the mall. Mistake.
Mom stood on the gas pedal, but our car was officially beached. The left-side wheels were on the asphalt, but our right-side wheels were up in the air because of the huge snow boulder Mom had driven over and gotten stuck under the car. I felt queasy from sitting tilted as the engine ground away uselessly beneath me. Plus, the car stank of the cigarettes Mom didn’t think anyone knew she smoked during her solo commute to the community college where she taught English lit.
“Zoe told me not to park on this snowbank,” Mom said to Austin, who was sitting in the backseat. “But it didn’t seem so big last night.”
“I’ll go get your shovel,” Austin said.
“Zoe, put those ridiculous things away,” Mom said. She took a handful of my vocabulary cards and snorted. “What does this have to do with being a competent reader or writer?”
“Yeah, yeah, Mom. I know. Nothing. But it has everything to do with my doing well on the SATs next weekend,” I said. “I am extremely stressed about it . . .”
Austin came back with our shovel and said, “I’m going to start digging, okay, Miss Finn?”
Austin was still in the “Miss Finn” stage with Mom. In turn, Mom still got shy and combed her hair before Austin came over. Actually, even I still did. Sitting in Mom’s car, watching Austin, all muscles and sheer will, digging us out of the snow, I reflected on how it was probably a good thing that I still got nervous before Austin came over.
Austin flung a shovelful of snow over his shoulder, yelled WHOA, fell, and disappeared under the hood of the car. Mom and I jumped out.
It was a total movie shot: Austin on his back, his pretty face inches from the spinning tire. We pulled him out, so horrified we didn’t even remember we’d shut the car doors until we heard the auto locks engage. There was our car, hiked up on a snowbank, doors locked, keys in the ignition, stuck in drive with the wheels spinning.
“No!” Mom belatedly threw herself on the car’s hood. The car rocked under her weight.
“Careful, Miss Finn,” Austin said.
“Get away from the front of the car, Mom.” To Austin, I said, “Quick, put the snow back. But not under the tire!”
“I think there are spare keys in the house,” Mom said.
“Go. But if you don’t find them fast, call 911,” I said. “Or a tow truck.”
“Oh, God, my life’s a farce!” Mom ran into the house.
Austin resumed shoveling in the opposite direction while I kicked snow back under the car. Then a tall figure in black flitted across the field of my peripheral vision and disappeared behind an SUV. Something about his syncopated gait reminded me of something that made me super-happy, and then angry, and then confused.
Suddenly, there he was. Digby. Standing beside me. He seemed taller and broader than when he’d left, but that could’ve been because of his thick parka. He looked road-weary and his jaw was stubbled. He dropped his backpack in the snow. Clearly, it was the end of a long journey.
“Hey, Princeton,” Digby said. “Need help?”
Digby held a screwdriver and a long antenna he’d removed from the SUV he’d passed. He pried a gap along the rubber seam between our passenger’s-side door and the roof, fed the antenna through, and pushed the driver’s-side DOORS OPEN button. He climbed in and killed the engine.
I got in too, realizing only when we were alone in the car that in the five months since he’d disappeared, I’d collected a ton of confrontational things to say without actually deciding on which to say first.
“Are you back?” I said.
Digby made a ta-da gesture. “Guess where I’ve been. Wait, don’t bother. You’ll never guess. Federal prison.” He laughed when my eyebrows shot up. “I went to Fort Dix to talk to Ezekiel.”
Ezekiel. Just hearing that drug dealer’s name made me relive the horror of his stuffing Digby and me in the trunk of his car and our almost getting blown up in his failed attempt to double-cross his boss.
Digby leaned in. “We’ve been looking at this all wrong, Princeton. Sally wasn’t taken by some pervert . . . it’s a whole other thing. When I finally got Ezekiel to put me on his visitors list, he told me about his friend—let’s call him Joe—who ran a crack squat downtown. Apparently, some guys rented Joe’s whole place for a week—exactly when Sally disappeared. Joe saw them carry in a little girl in the middle of the night. But when they left . . . there was a whole lot of stuff like boys’ clothes and video games in the place.” Digby paused dramatically. “Remember Ezekiel said they were supposed to take me?”
“Who’s ‘they’?” I said.
“Exactly,” he said.
“Exactly what?” I said. “Who’s ‘they’?”
“Well, that I haven’t figured out yet,” Digby said.
“Did Ezekiel tell you anything real? Like, what these guys looked like? Or where the crack house is?” I said.
“His friend Joe said the guys were in nice suits and drove brand-new black SUVs. Ezekiel never got the address. Nice suits and black cars sounds like government types, and you know what that probably means . . . my dad,” Digby said. “I bet it had something to do with his old job at Perses Analytics.”
“Where Felix’s dad works?” I said. “I thought you said your dad’s an alcoholic.”
“Being an alcoholic was
more Joel Digby’s hobby. Alcoholics have to cover their nut too, Princeton.”
“He was a scientist?”
“Propulsion engineer,” Digby said. “I wonder what he was working on.”
“But maybe you’re just being paranoid. Or maybe your father gambled, and his bookie took Sally to collect on a gambling debt? Or maybe Ezekiel’s evil and he’s screwing with your head because you put him in prison?” I said.
“But those are such boring explanations,” Digby said. “And, you know, Ezekiel and I got to talking and he’s not such a bad guy—”
“He sold meth to kids and pretended to be in a weird cult to do it,” I said.
Digby slapped the wheel. “Ah . . . the ol’ Princeton reality check. I forgot how much fun it is.”
“You forgot? Is that why I haven’t heard jack from you in five months?” I said.
Digby looked genuinely surprised. “I was busy . . .” He pointed out the windshield at Austin, who was still shoveling. “You’ve been busy too. I assume he’s . . . ?”
“Yeah. We’re dating . . . we’re together . . . he’s my boyfriend—”
“Got it,” Digby said. “Austin Shaeffer, huh? You teach him the difference between left and right yet?”
Months ago, he’d caught Austin writing an R on his right hand and an L on his left hand before scrimmage.
“That’s a good luck thing he started doing in peewee football,” I said.
“Well, I hate to call him stupid, but he’s still shoveling and the car’s been off . . . what? Two minutes?” Digby tooted the horn, threw up his hands, and yelled, “What’s up, buddy? Yeah. Engine’s off.”
Austin got in the backseat. “Hey . . . you’re Digby, right?”
“Hey, Austin.” Digby pointed at Austin’s gym bag and football helmet on the backseat. “Got a game later or something?”
“That’s my workout stuff,” Austin said. “Uh . . . we don’t play football in the spring, dude.”
I cringed at Austin’s patronizing tone.
“Way I hear it, you don’t play football in the fall either, dude. Still riding the bench praying Henry gets injured?” Digby said.
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