The Kill Club

by Wendy Heard

  Carol unlocks the door and brings the gift basket inside. She unties the bow and pulls apart the cellophane. Inside is an assortment of goodies: See’s candy, a bottle of sparkling nonalcoholic apple cider, bright red pomegranates, scented candles, a new travel Bible in light pink and, her very favorite treat, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.

  She opens the wrapper and sits to enjoy the candy. She’s hungry after a long day, and she polishes off each peanut butter cup in two bites while reading random passages in the Bible. It’s a New Living translation, which is a little strange, since everyone at her church agrees the New King James Version is the only accurate translation. Maybe they delegated the Bible-buying to someone new.

  She uncorks the cider. She pours herself a glass and takes it to the television. She sits in her armchair and whispers, “Thank You, Jesus, that I do not have to worry. Thank You that today brings enough problems of its own.” Ain’t that the truth. Her stomach growls uncomfortably. She winces. Chocolate for dinner may have been a bad idea. She recalls her attention back to her prayer. She whispers the verse: “‘Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds.’ Shhraaam hararrra calaaaa—”

  Her prayer is interrupted by her stomach lurching in a horribly familiar way. She jumps off the chair and runs for the bathroom, where she barely makes it to the toilet. She groans and clutches her stomach as she relieves herself.

  She’s washing her hands when the sink and soap go blurry. She grips the edge of the sink. She’s exhausted. She needs to sleep.

  She heads for her bedroom. It’s too far. She collapses on the hallway carpet.

  She vomits on the carpet in front of her. She almost can’t breathe—she’s going to choke—and then her throat clears of vomit. Now she can’t breathe for some other reason. Her airways are closing. She clutches at her neck and tries to make her lungs expand.

  And suddenly she’s not alone. A pair of shoes stretches into legs above her. The shoes are covered in clear thin plastic booties. She tries to look up through her wheezing, tries to see the person above her.

  It’s a woman with a blond ponytail tucked into a plastic shower cap. The woman is watching her dispassionately.

  “Help me,” Carol squeaks through a throat that closes tighter with each passing moment. Her vision spins and darkens around the edges.

  The woman squats down beside her. Her entire body is clothed in a coverall made of the same plastic material. Why isn’t she calling an ambulance?

  The woman smiles. “This is better than I was expecting. I knew it would take under an hour, but this is impressive. Especially for my first time. I haven’t done this type of chemical extraction since college.”

  Carol closes her eyes. She needs to rest for a minute. Then she’ll get up.

  Something soft and fluffy touches Carol’s face. She tries to understand the cotton that rains down around her.

  They’re flowers. Fresh purple flowers.

  The room goes dark. The purple flowers cover her face.

  53

  JAZZ

  WE HAVE TO get a bigger apartment.

  I pull the comforter up to my chest and stare at the slats on the underneath of Joaquin’s bunk. Of course he took the top bunk.

  I pick numbers apart in my brain. If I stop saving up for Joaquin’s college tuition, I can probably get us a two-bedroom. But is it financially responsible? We need more space, though, and he deserves privacy.

  I turn onto my side and try to shut my brain off. I need to stop worrying. It won’t do me any good. Besides, money worries feel so petty.

  And they’re distracting me from thinking about Sofia.

  I play the courtroom scene in my head again. I remember Sofia’s battle for custody of her daughter, and I feel so much guilt that she’ll never get a victory like that. Look at the cost of Joaquin’s life: Olive has to live as an orphan, just like me. It’s a horrible, awful tragedy.

  And now the images come.

  Sofia on her side, coughing up blood, clinging to my hand. Me, pressing her hands together like a baby elephant, leaving her alone to die.

  I did that. I left her.

  I pull the pillow over my face and cry into it. This is the only time I can mourn her. I can’t show any of this to Joaquin. I don’t want to burden him or make him feel like I regret saving him. I don’t. I’d do it the same way again, and Sofia would tell me to do it that way.

  But here in the dark, I can remember that I would have loved her. I would have helped her with Olive. I would have been kind to her. I wanted to be those things.

  Imagine if we had both gotten our kids back. My brain constructs the image without my permission: Us, sharing an apartment with both our kids. Oh, God, it’d have to be a three-bedroom, and even with Sofia’s and my combined income, we might not have been able to afford that.

  I laugh-sob into the wet pillowcase. What a stupid thing to think about.

  The bed creaks. I freeze. I think Joaquin’s rolling over in his sleep, but then the ladder squeaks and he topples into bed beside me. He stretches out next to me and pats my arm.

  “You have school tomorrow,” I whisper. “You should go to sleep. I’m sorry to wake you up.”

  “Shut up.” He snuggles into my blanket and puts a hand on my shoulder. “You thinking about Ms. Russo?”

  “How do you do that? You’re such a creepy little psychic.” I wipe my eyes on the pillowcase.

  “Because I know you.” He rolls onto his back and rests his head in his arm. “I’m sorry. It’s not fair.”

  “It’s not.” My voice cracks.

  We’re silent.

  At last he says, “Come on. Go to sleep. Olive isn’t alone. She has her grandma. That’s a lot more than you had.”

  I swallow a sob and nod.

  “She’s little. She’s not going to remember anything bad. She’s going to be okay. She’s in a nice safe place with a grandma who loves her.” He rubs my back like I used to rub his when he was little and had a bad dream. The tears stream hot and angry down my cheeks, but then eventually, worn out by the emotions of the day, I fall into a restless sleep filled with nightmares about syringes, vacant eyes, and beautiful, special women coughing up blood.

  * * *

  “Hurry—the fuck—up!” I yell at Joaquin, who’s molding his hair into a fine art sculpture in the bathroom. I pull on my Trader Joe’s shirt and gulp down the rest of my coffee.

  “I’m coming!” he yells back. “I’ve only been in here for, like, two minutes!”

  “Yeah right,” I mutter. I shove my feet into my new Docs. He’s been extra popular since he got shot by the famous Blackbird Killer, which has led to some serious before-school primping I have exactly zero patience for.

  Joaquin comes trotting out of the bathroom, his hair looking exactly like it always does. “I’m ready.”

  “And I have no makeup on,” I complain.

  Suddenly, he has no idea where his phone is, even though I just reminded him ten minutes ago to make sure it was charged. We have a last-minute scramble to unearth it from his piles of clothes all over my formerly clean apartment. I find it in the pants he was wearing yesterday and give him shit about not having taken it out of the pocket, and what if it went through the washing machine, and now we can finally leave. I’m right behind him on the doorstep with my keys in hand when he tosses an Amazon box back into the apartment. It must have been delivered yesterday after we got home. I’m lucky it didn’t get stolen. I think it’s the new pair of Vans I ordered him.

  I stop. I turn to look at the box. It rests just inside the front door on the “vintage” wood floor that always reminds me of Sofia.

  It’s not really the right size for shoes. Too small.


  “Jazz?” Joaquin calls.

  I toss him my keys. “Go start the car. I’ll be right there. You can be DJ.”

  “Yes!” He runs off.

  I pick up the box and examine the label.

  Unlike the ones Patel sent me, it has a legit return address to the Amazon Fulfillment Center. I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m never going to look at an Amazon box the same way again.

  Still, I wonder what it is. I grab my box cutter out of my purse and cut through the tape. I open the box.

  It’s full of purple flowers.

  On top of the flowers is a note written in cursive on flowered notepaper.

  I wouldn’t touch these if I were you, it says.

  I’m so confused.

  The box starts buzzing.

  I cry out and drop it. The flowers tumble onto the floor. I kick at the box with the toe of my boot.

  A black flip phone falls out. Its little screen is lit up green. New Text Message.

  My heart is going to pound completely out of my chest.

  I have no intention of getting my fingerprints on any of this. I grab a nearby sock from one of Joaquin’s piles of clothes and use the sock to open the flip phone.

  The message says, You’re welcome.

  Welcome for what?

  In my back pocket, my iPhone vibrates. I pull it out. It’s a 213 number. I slide the button to answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Jasmine? It’s Detective Gonzalez down at Central Police Station. Do you remember me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Jasmine, I have some bad news for you. Are you sitting down?”

  “Yes. What is it?”

  “Carol Coleman is dead. She was found in her home last night.”

  My heart beats. One, two, three.

  “Dead?” I echo at last.

  “Yes.”

  “How? What happened?”

  “We’re not sure yet. Were you at home last night after court?”

  My head swims. “I took Joaquin out to dinner after court, with our lawyer. We got home around ten.”

  “That’s fine, then. I’ll still need you to come in and answer some questions. I’ll need to speak with your lawyer, as well.”

  From the floor, the flip phone buzzes with another text message. I poke it with the sock until I can see it.

  You owe me.

  * * *

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  At its heart, this book is a love letter to the working-class Los Angeles that doesn’t always make it into books and movies. Watching TV, you’d swear LA is one huge amalgam of Sunset Strip, Rodeo Drive and Muscle Beach, but the LA I know and love is so much more than that. I hope I did it justice.

  None of the Blackbirds’ stories of victimization are fictional, although they have been fictionalized to protect all identifying details. I chose to include true stories because I didn’t want anyone to be able to claim I was exaggerating the scope and severity of this problem the Blackbird Kill Club was formed to combat. This is the world we live in—I had so many stories to choose from that I used only a fraction of the victim accounts I collected.

  A reader may observe the many homeless individuals in this book. Between fifty to sixty thousand Angelenos are currently homeless, 75 percent of them unsheltered (LA Mission and NPR). An even greater number of Angelenos live on the precipice of homelessness, where one life event might tip them over the edge. The Downtown Women’s Center (downtownwomenscenter.org) has been working for forty years toward providing permanent housing and services for women struggling with homelessness and is a great place to send donations and volunteerism.

  Thank you for spending time with Jazz. She is a fictional character, but she has become very real to me. Sometimes, I swear I can hear her cracking a joke in the back of my head, and I can’t help but smile.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing books is a highly collaborative process, and I’ve been fortunate to work with a group of talented writers and colleagues who continue to provide support and to challenge me throughout the demanding writing process. My agent, Lauren Spieller, helped me hone this idea, which was at first scattered and disorganized, and turn it into something book-shaped. Two different, talented editors, Michelle Meade and April Osborn, gave me invaluable feedback, helping me detangle all these story lines. They worked tirelessly to help me create something readers would connect with. Without these three ruthlessly intelligent, artful and infinitely wise women, this book would not exist in its current incarnation. Thank you for giving me the chance to tell this story.

  I’d also like to thank my writer buddies and critique partners, Tracie Martin, Mary Widdicks, Kit Rosewater, Meghan O’Flynn, Layne Fargo and those readers who read early drafts and provided feedback. Lastly, I need to express my utmost gratitude to Luis J. Rodriguez for allowing me to include a line from his beautiful “Love Poem to Los Angeles” as the epigraph for this book. I was honored and privileged to do so, and I hope readers in LA will visit his nonprofit bookstore, Tía Chucha’s Centro Cultural and Bookstore.

  ISBN-13: 9781488052286

  The Kill Club

  Copyright © 2019 by Wendy Heard

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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