by S. F. Kosa
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2021 by S. F. Kosa
Cover and internal design © 2021 by Sourcebooks
Cover design by James Iacobelli
Cover images © Carmen Martínez Torrón/Getty Images, Shebeko/Shutterstock
Internal design by Danielle McNaughton/Sourcebooks
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
sourcebooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Kosa, S. F., author.
Title: The night we burned : a novel / S.F. Kosa.
Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Landmark, [2021]
Identifiers: LCCN 2021002068 (print) | LCCN 2021002069 (ebook) |
(trade paperback) | (epub)
Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction. | Suspense fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3606.I5337 N54 2021 (print) | LCC PS3606.I5337
(ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021002068
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021002069
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Epilogue
Excerpt from The Quiet Girl
Chapter One
Reading Group Guide
A Conversation with the Author
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
For Claudine. I am so grateful for your friendship.
Chapter One
Portland, Oregon
December 9, 1999
She’d survived another night on the street, but she wasn’t sure how many more she could take. As the 20 bus roared to a halt a few feet away on East Burnside, hope lapped at her like a receding tide—a little weaker each time. The fifth bus since she’d dropped herself onto the curb, it ground to a halt in front of the graffitied thrift shop. After the third bus of the morning, she’d taken to letting the gritty water kicked up by its tires splash all over her shoes. Brown droplets sank into the sodden canvas of her stolen Keds and spread a renewed chill along the tops of her feet.
There was a smell to her weariness now: the low, flat, oniony funk of her own body, the acrid, iron backbone of scent wafting from the clothes she’d scrounged in St. Louis and hadn’t taken off since, and the high, stinging note of gray bus exhaust. She wasn’t sure which day it was; it didn’t really matter anyway. And she wasn’t sure what time it was because apparently the sun never came out in Portland this time of year.
A chubby girl in a trench coat carrying two Walmart bags stuffed full plodded down the bus’s steps. At the bottom, she paused to secure her grip on her bags, twisting the loops around her fingers. She stepped out of the way with a murmured apology when she heard an annoyed sigh from behind her. A Black woman in a raincoat tromped down the stairs next, followed by a white, middle-aged man scowling at the sagging, gray sky.
As the man and woman turned in her direction, she tucked her damp hair behind her ears and shook the cup that bore her last two quarters, a Starbucks one she’d dug out of a garbage can, dried foam crust grubby on the rim. The woman in the raincoat sidestepped and kept walking, not even sparing her a glance.
It barely hurt anymore; she’d learned that people who had enough avoided making eye contact with those who didn’t, people like her, as if even seeing her was too much to ask. Didn’t mean she could afford to stop trying to be seen, though. She’d gotten kicked out of the Mercy Lamb shelter for fighting with that bitch who stole her socks, which meant no breakfast. It felt like her stomach was eating itself.
“Sir, I’d be grateful if you have any spare—” she began as the man approached.
“Five if we step off into that alley behind you,” he said in a low voice, stopping directly in front of her. Stained khakis and Timberlands. He was already half-hard.
She stared down at her soggy shoes, frayed and knotted shoelaces. Shook her head.
It wasn’t that she hadn’t done it before, and that was the problem. A little chunk of her died every time, and she didn’t have many vital pieces left.
“You’re an ugly little bitch anyway,” he muttered as he stalked by.
She lowered her head onto her knees and shivered. Gritted her teeth to keep from screaming. Maybe she could get hit by a car. Do something crazy. Mug someone, not that anyone would be intimidated, scrawny as she was. But if she could get hospitalized or arrested, maybe they’d give her something to eat. A place to sleep. God, she just wanted to sleep.
She flinched when someone brushed up against her. It was the girl with the bags, settling herself onto the curb. “I’m Eszter,” she said. “What’s your name?”
She turned her head. Looked at Eszter. Lowered her head onto her knees again. Then held her cup out and feebly shook it.
Eszter stayed quiet. Didn’t move or fidget. Like she was perfectly comfortable sitting there in the cold and damp. “I really would like to know,” she added after a few minutes.
“My name is Christy.” It wasn’t; she hadn’t told anyone her real name since leaving
home. Eszter didn’t seem like a social worker—she actually didn’t look any older than Christy—but Christy wasn’t about to risk being sent back home.
“You look hungry, Christy,” said Eszter. She dug in her purse, fake tan leather. Came up clutching a grease-spotted paper sack. “These were made this morning.”
The smell hit, cinnamon sweet. Christy peeked inside. “Muffins?”
“Have one. They’re really good. Morning glory.”
Christy glanced at the outside of the bag. No logo. The muffins weren’t wrapped. “You made them?”
“No—a friend of mine did.” Eszter took the bag from her, reached inside, and pinched off a chunk of muffin. She popped it into her mouth and chewed. “Not poisoned or anything. See?” She offered the bag back to Christy.
“I didn’t think they were poisonous,” she muttered, retrieving a muffin for herself—nuts and raisins, not her favorite. But she’d eat headcheese and brussels sprouts at this point. The sugary burst on her tongue dropped her eyes shut.
“When was the last time you had a real meal?” Eszter asked.
Christy shrugged, her mouth still full. She wondered if Eszter was a volunteer, like for a church or some high school community service thing. Just looking for someone to help.
“How old are you?” Eszter asked.
“How old are you?” snapped Christy, shoving the rest of the muffin into her mouth.
“Eighteen,” replied Eszter. “How long have you been on the street?”
Christy wrapped her arms around herself, running fingertips over the bumps of her ribs.
“Eight months for me,” Eszter said quietly. “I left home when I was sixteen.” She let out a dry laugh. “I actually thought it would be better.”
She hadn’t expected Eszter to be homeless, what with the freshly baked muffins—she’d have to find out which shelter doled them out. Christy nodded toward the Walmart bags, which looked like their owner: thin, pale skin stuffed to bursting. Clothes with tags still attached. “So you stole all that?”
Eszter shook her head. “Things are different now. I’m in a really good place. But I remember. I mean, it was only a year ago.” She chuckled and looked around. “I think I once sat on this exact curb, actually. Have another muffin. There are three in there.”
“I don’t want to—”
“Go ahead,” Eszter said, smiling. When she smiled, she was almost pretty, dirty-blond hair framing her moon of a face. “You need it more than I do.”
Christy made short work of the last two muffins. They were more delicious with every bite, a buttery, soft crumb laced with warm spices. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
“You heard me say I was on the street, right? Where are you from? I can tell it’s not Oregon.”
“Midwest.” It was more truth than she usually told.
“Really?” Eszter’s hazel eyes were bright. “Me too! I stole money for a bus ticket. Mom had a stash in her drawer.” Those shiny eyes rolled. “Probably hiding it from my stepdad. He was such a…” She shuddered.
Christy grunted. “I stole my mom’s purse too.” But it hadn’t had anywhere near enough to pay for a bus ticket. She’d hitched. And learned what it took to make it across the country, little shards of her soul scattered from Chicago to St. Louis, Kansas City to Denver, Boise to Portland. “I left in July. Didn’t bother to pack a coat.” With a bitter laugh, she rubbed her hands along her arms, trying to raise some warmth. Her fingers were gray with the cold.
“Winters are the worst,” said Eszter. “At least we’re not in Chicago.”
“I used to like winter. I liked the snow. Now I’m thinking I should head south.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“I did that too,” said Eszter. “I didn’t even know how to tell I was in a good place until I’d already been there for a while, since I’d never been in a good place to begin with.” Eszter bumped shoulders with Christy, strangely familiar, strangely…nice. For the first time in a long time, Christy didn’t feel the need to flinch away. “You know what I’m saying?”
“Yeah.” It was weird, sitting here on this curb, the cold gnawing at her ears and chin, her fingers and clammy, sockless feet, making a new friend. “So what happened? You just bought a bus ticket and came to Portland? Do you have family out here or something?”
“Yes,” said Eszter. “A big, extended family. It just took me a while to find them.” She turned to Christy. “And none of them are related to me.”
Christy’s eyes narrowed.
“We actually live just a few blocks away,” said Eszter, jerking a thumb behind her. Then she patted the stuffed bags. “I was just out getting us some supplies.”
Christy glanced at the Walmart bags. Shirts, sweats, packages of…tighty-whities? Fruit of the Loom. “Looks like you guys go through a lot of underpants.”
Eszter pressed her lips together, obviously trying not to laugh. “Yeah, we do.” She turned to Christy and said, “I’m wearing three pairs right now, actually.”
Christy found herself giggling at the fake-somber confession. “Maybe I should try that. My butt is freezing.” She eyed Eszter’s attire, thick gray sweats stretched across generous thighs, newish-but-cheap-looking sneakers, a pink sweatshirt beneath that big trench. “Do you all dress alike?”
Eszter looked down at herself. “It’s not like it’s required or anything. We wanted to make sure everyone has something clean and nice to wear, and this stuff doesn’t cost much. Whatever works.” She pawed through one of the bags. “You look like you could use a change of clothes.” The corners of her mouth twitched upward. “And maybe a few layers of underwear.”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re soaked.”
Christy felt squirmy all of a sudden. For a moment, she’d felt an easy camaraderie, but now she was back to feeling like a charity case. And sure, she’d been panhandling for days, but she’d liked it better when she’d felt like Eszter actually liked her. “I’ll warm up once I start walking again. I’d better get going.”
“To where?” Eszter asked. “You really have somewhere great to be?” She pointed at the cross street by the bus stop. “I live on Twenty-Ninth Avenue. Three blocks up. Come and hang out. Everyone’s nice, I promise.”
Christy scooted away. “It’s a church, right? This whole thing?”
Eszter gave her a solemn look. “The last time I set foot in a church is when I was eleven. Holiday service. The whole family. It was, like, the only time we ever went. Me and my little brother, my mom, and Bob.” She bit out his name like a curse. “And my brother, right in the middle of the singing, he needed to pee, so Mom had me take him. And then he wanted a snack, and we found a bunch of crackers and grape juice in this little room. I was so hungry—” She pulled her trench coat tighter around her, cheeks growing pink. “I was fat even then, and Mom hated it. Hated me. I don’t think she’d let me eat anything that whole day.” She sighed. “Anyway. Long story short, we got caught, and I got a beating that I will never forget.” Her voice was shaking. “But I guess the good part about all of it was they never made me go to church again.”
“That sucks,” Christy murmured, wrapping her arms around her knees.
Eszter made a distressed noise and dug in her Walmart bag, coming up with a big black sweatshirt that she held out to Christy. “I can’t stand to watch you shiver anymore. Please?”
Christy’s first instinct was to refuse, but then she realized how stupid that was. It didn’t matter why Eszter was being so nice—Christy badly needed another layer. She took the garment and pulled it over her damp flannel. “Thanks.”
“But you’re still afraid I’m a church person?” asked Eszter.
Christy watched a few cars go by. “I used to like going to church. My grandma took me and my little brother.” She couldn’t remember if her mom had ever
gone; most days, she was closeted with her loser of the week and a bottle of Wild Turkey, and the only time she’d emerge was to yell at Christy for having the TV too loud or running the AC too long, using too much electricity. But Grammy had taken them to church every week for a while, and she’d always have them back to her place for ham and potatoes and green beans. “It was really nice.”
“Does she know you’re out here?” Eszter asked quietly.
“She’s dead.” Dropped right at her cash register at the dollar store where she’d worked for over ten years. “My mom called it a brain bleed.” It had taken Grammy three weeks to die.
“I’m so sorry.”
“That’s why I never go to church anymore.”
“Because it reminds you of your grandma?”
She shook her head as a familiar rage bubbled up. “Because it’s all crap. They say prayer fixes stuff, right? I prayed every single day for Jesus to make her better.” She’d smelled like pickles and peaches and Pall Malls. She’d had a raspy laugh and loved to rewatch Seinfeld episodes she’d recorded on her VCR. To Christy, she’d been the best person in the world. “And if Jesus even exists, he didn’t listen. Didn’t care.”
“I don’t blame you.”
Christy looked up the street. The next 20 bus would come soon; every half hour seemed to be the schedule. Already there was a skinny, old Asian man waiting for it, holding a wilting newspaper over his head, pathetic defense against the icy mist. Even in the new sweatshirt, she felt raw, oddly bare and exposed. But she wasn’t sure if it was the weather or the conversation.
Eszter placed a hand on her arm. “You’ve been through a lot,” she said. “Maybe more than I have, but I feel like I dealt with enough to get what you might be feeling. I’ve had to do things I didn’t like just to survive. I’ve let people hurt me because I felt powerless, because I thought I was worthless and that no one cared. And even when I found people who did care, I didn’t trust it at first.” She smirked. “I’m thinking you know the lyrics to this song.”
Christy sighed. Rubbed her face wearily. “By heart.”
“I’m not trying to convert you or church you or whatever, okay? It’s not like that. It’s just that I’m in a good place now, and I got here because people cared enough to help me, and I’m trying to do the same here. That’s it, I swear.”