The Green Machine was aptly named, both because it was a puke green color and because it was a clean fuel burning car—a 1986 Volvo sedan that Kevin had converted to run on SVO, or straight vegetable oil. Which meant that instead of fueling at gas stations, Kevin pulled up behind fast food joints and begged the use of their old fryer grease. It was cheaper than gas and didn't pollute the environment, but it also meant anyone riding in the Green Machine smelled like french fries and stale onion rings.
But when a beggar did not yet have her own car, she could not be a chooser.
So, ten minutes later we were standing in front of Sam's house. It was a two story converted ranch, like my own, though her mom was more of a gardener than mine. Rows of pink, blue, and white flowers bloomed in the small front yard, along with groupings of succulent plants in low pots and hollowed logs, studded with tiny ceramic fairies and surly looking gnomes. The siding of the house was gray, the trim white, and the lawn was freshly mowed. It was the picture of suburban bliss.
Or it would have been if the sounds of raised voices weren't wafting to us from inside.
I glanced at Sam. "Is everything okay in there?"
She frowned. "Yeah."
"It sounds like your dad is shouting."
She shook her head, the frown deepening as we made our way to the front porch. "That's not shouting." She sighed. "He's singing."
I raised an eyebrow her way. "Since when does your dad sing?"
She blew out a long breath that ruffled her bangs. "Since Kevin didn't move out." She turned her frown on me. "My mom told me when I called to ask if I could stay over last night. None of their arguments took with Kevin."
I shook my head. "Okay, that, any one of us could have predicted. What I don't get is the singing." I heard a female voice join in, harmonizing just slightly off key with Mr. Kramer.
"It was my mom's idea." She sighed again. "Since the intervention was a bust, they've gone with Plan B."
"And Plan B is?"
"Showtunes."
A snort of laughter escaped me as I listened to Mr. Kramer's deep baritone on the other side of the door. "Excuse me, did you just say showtunes?"
The pained expression on her face told me I had not heard incorrectly. "Dad's tried everything to convince Kevin. Reasoning, threatening, five-year plans, and even some low level bribery. Mom said it was her turn to try this time. She minored in musical theatre in college."
I took a step back, suddenly not sure if I wanted to go inside. "Maybe we should text Kevin."
"Great idea." Sam pulled out her phone, typing up our plea.
She sent it off and we waited, listening to the music pick up inside, Mr. Kramer's voice taking on a loud frantic rhythm as Mrs. Kramer wailed alongside him. Then we heard the pounding of footsteps, Kevin's muffled voice, and an abrupt stop to the song as the front door flew open and Kevin practically launched himself out onto the porch, slamming the door behind him.
He was wearing a "Save the Bees" T-shirt and cargo pants with Cheeto dust on the thighs. His hair was pulled into a messy manbun, and he wore a wide-eyed stare that suggested he'd just witnessed something terrible.
"Hey," he said. "Thanks for the save."
"We need a car. Can we borrow the Green Machine?" Sam clasped her hands in a pleading position in front of her. "We promise to be back in—"
He was shaking his head before she even finished her sentence. "No way am I staying here. I'll take you wherever you need to go. I just can't take any more Hamilton."
I stifled another snort of laughter. Poor Kevin.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later we were standing in front of Sophia Larson's totally cute pink wreathed door again, Kevin in tow. We'd tried to tell him he could just drop us off, but after he'd learned we were going to see a gorgeous model, he'd insisted on tagging along.
I knocked on the door just below the pink wreath and waited. A beat later, Sophia swung it open wide, an expectant expression on her face that quickly transformed into a frown as recognition dawned in her eyes. She looked like she'd gotten some rest since the last time we'd seen her. The sunglasses were gone, and her eyes weren't as red. Her hair was blown out and styled in loose waves that fell around her shoulders, though she was still dressed in mourning black. This time a pair of skinny jeans and a loose tunic.
"Can I help you?" she asked, her eyes going from me to Sam to Kevin standing just behind us.
"Uh, hi, Sophia. We were here yesterday. Hartley and Sam," I said, jogging her memory.
"I know." She glanced to Kevin. "The reporters."
"Right," Sam said. "And this is my brother, Kevin."
"'Sup, dude." Kevin lifted a hand in greeting.
Sophia's frown deepened. "I told you everything I knew yesterday."
"Actually, we just had a couple of follow-up questions."
"What kind of questions?" she asked, leaning her hip against the doorframe.
"About Connor's manager. Jason Pruit."
Sophia thought about that a second before she stepped back to allow us entry. "Sure. I guess."
"Thanks," I told her, pushing past her into the stark white living room.
I had a small moment of pause, thinking of Kevin's Cheeto-dusted pants, but luckily he didn't sit, instead wandering around the room, looking at the various pieces of furniture as if doing a home décor inspection.
"Dude, this place is sweet," Kevin said, running a hand over a furry white pillow.
"Uh, thanks," Sophia said. "It's new. I've only been here a few months."
"How much it set you back?" Kevin asked.
Sophia
