Nineteen
“SO WHAT DO YOU THINK?” I ask as we drive to Sprockets for a much needed late afternoon snack—diet cola with blue coconut and blue raspberry flavor for Helen, cherry limeade for me because somebody wants me to cut back on milkshakes, and a large order of fries to split.
“I’m not sure yet,” Helen shrugs.
“But Rick definitely was stalking Ashley.”
“I can’t think of another reason there would be a camera with dozens of photographs of her taken at a distance. So, given that, I think he had some kind of sick obsession with her.”
“Oh, man,” I say, wiping my eyes. “This is bad. This is very bad.”
“That, it is,” she says.
“Do you think—I mean, it’s impossible, isn’t it? I mean, it’s just so . . . icky.”
“Icky? Are you twelve?”
“OK, gross, disgusting, immoral, illegal.”
“It’s cer
