Izzy says, pulling her iPhone from her sweatshirt. She turns onto her stomach, then turns back, punching at the screen. “It’s only been an hour.” You know because you’ve been keeping track. An hour since Izzy came over, another two until Ben’s back from school, then another three until you’ll be getting to Cabazon—the town Celia, the cop, told you about last night. When Izzy knocked on the pool house this afternoon you tried to seem light, breezy even, excusing the last few days away (you were back at your parents’, you told her). But it’s hard to make conversation now, hard to seem normal. Izzy points the phone at the vines that have grown over the top of the fence, zooming in on a hummingbird hovering there. She takes video for a few seconds, then sits up, pulling a T-shirt on over her bathing suit. “I need to do something,” she says. “Let’s walk to those shops on Hillhurst.” “I’m supposed to wait here until Ben gets back.” As soon as you say it you know how it sounds—like you’re some pathetic girl who lives for her boyfriend.
