Holly Lin Box Set | Books 1-3

by Swartwood, Robert

  Star lies there, clothed now, asleep.

  Meredith leans down to place her own child inside the crib and picks up Star, a simple swap.

  She holds the baby even more tenderly than she’d held her own, smiling down at Star as she whispers.

  “She’s a good baby. Quiet. Didn’t give me no problems.”

  “You bathed her?”

  “Yes. And fed her. She was a dream. Her mom must be a happy camper.”

  She pauses, and I see the gears starting to shift again in her head, the questions that are starting to form.

  I slip the bills from my pocket—the wad of twenties, as well as the five crisp one-hundred dollar bills from Juana’s wallet—and place them on the table beside the crib.

  “Here’s the rest of the money. The three hundred from earlier this morning, plus seven hundred here, that’s one thousand dollars.”

  I watch her, waiting to see if she’ll ask any of those questions, but she eyes the money with an intense greed.

  Nodding absently, still watching the money, Meredith hands me the baby.

  Five minutes later I’m three blocks away, walking with the grocery bag again, Star nestled inside.

  Leila Simmons is parked next to the town’s only bank. By now the bank is closed, the parking lot empty except for our two cars. The flagpole is bare, but its snap hook smacks against the metal pole in the breeze, an insistent and random ding … ding … ding.

  Leila steps out of the car when she spots me heading her way. She stands there with the door open, and I can feel her need to rush forward. But she holds back, scanning the block as if people are watching, which so far I don’t think anybody is. It’s Saturday, after all, and most people are inside or have driven to a town that has far more to offer than Alden.

  Leila Simmons doesn’t ask where I’ve kept Star this entire time. She doesn’t ask who’s been watching her, who’s been taking care of her, or why I’m currently transporting her in a grocery bag. She simply takes the bag from me when I offer it to her, and she immediately turns and opens the back door. A child seat is already prepped there. Leila carefully extracts Star from the bag, secures her in the child seat, and gently shuts the door.

  Turning to me, there isn’t happiness on her face so much as relief.

  “Thank you.”

  “The money from the wallet—”

  “Keep it. I don’t know where it came from. Consider it a reward for keeping the baby safe.”

  I don’t want to get into how I gave the money to Meredith, so I nod.

  Leila watches me for another moment, and then she climbs into the car. She waves just once before she pulls out onto the road and heads north toward the highway.

  I stand there in the parking lot well after I’ve lost sight of her car. Still thinking about Star. Hoping that wherever she ends up, she’ll be safe.

  Ten

  There’s a brown paper bag waiting for me outside my apartment door. On the outside of the bag is taped a small folded piece of paper.

  I crouch down and inspect the piece of paper first. Lift the top half to read the note.

  Hope this helps things run more smoothly.

  I open the bag and glance inside. A box of Imodium A-D. Forty-eight tablets. Which is probably all the corner store had.

  “Ha, ha. Very funny, you dumbass.”

  Erik, of course, is not here to appreciate the insult. I glance at his door, think about knocking, giving him a kiss for his trouble. When I first met Erik, he was always quiet, brooding. It felt like he took himself too seriously. But once I got to know him, especially on an intimate level, I found he could be really sweet, as well as silly. It’s not the type of thing you’d expect from a guy who used to be a Marine, and maybe that’s why I like him.

  I decide not to knock on his door, though—he’s probably working, anyway—and instead let myself into my own apartment.

  Even though the place has always felt empty, today it feels even emptier.

  I have to admit, having Star here last night was a nice change of pace. Granted, the preceding events that led to her entering the apartment were not ideal, but the simple fact that there was another living body in the apartment felt nice, if only for a moment. The baby had barely been in my possession for twelve hours, but I felt like I’d grown a bond with her. Not a strong bond, no, but a bond nonetheless.

  It had physically hurt having to give her to Leila Simmons, and that was why I hadn’t bothered to say goodbye. Hadn’t bothered to look inside the grocery bag one last time. Hadn’t bothered to reach in and feel her soft skin. Even when Leila pulled her from the grocery bag and strapped her into the car, I had looked away.

  I feel confident that Star is in good hands. I did as much research on Leila Simmons in as little time as possible, but I had a good sense that she was genuine when we met. After all, I’d made her drive a long distance. I couldn’t blame her for feeling jerked around, but it was the only way to know she was on the level.

  One of the girls I met with recently. I heard that she was taken.

  Leila’s words echo inside my head, unbidden.

  I close my eyes.

  “No.”

  They have this place out in the middle of nowhere.

  I shake my head suddenly, as if that might dispel the words from my memory. No luck. If anything, my wanting to forget she ever said those words makes them come again, even stronger.

  It’s near an oil refinery. A shed.

  Of course when she mentioned another girl had been taken by the two men from last night, I heard every word and immediately wanted to ask more questions, but my focus—my entire world at that moment—was on making sure Star would be taken care of. Nothing else mattered.

  I’d purposely not asked Leila Simmons any questions about the girl or the location of the shed because I didn’t want to get involved. It wasn’t my place. Not anymore. The person I used to be—the one who did non-sanctioned hits for the government—would have demanded to know more about the girl and the location of where she was being kept. Because that person felt a need to right every wrong. To fix every slight. To correct every injustice. There were people in the world who were helpless, who were weak, and the person I’d been felt I had no choice but to stand up for those in need.

  It had been noble, maybe, but it had also been stupid. Had gotten me into trouble from time to time. Had even gotten some of those close to me killed in the process.

  No, I hadn’t asked Leila Simmons about the girl or where she believed the girl had been taken, because that person no longer existed.

  A yawn hits me, hard, and I glance at the clock hanging on the wall.

  Almost three o’clock.

  I’ve been awake now for over twenty-four hours. I need sleep, and I need a lot of it. Which means I’ll have to call off work tonight. My boss won’t be happy, but he’s never happy.

  I still have the disposable, the one I had used to call Leila Simmons. I dial the bar and wait through ten or twelve rings before Brenda, one of the daytime waitresses, answers.

  I ask, “Reggie in?”

  Brenda recognizes my voice, asks how I’m doing, doesn’t give me the time to answer when she says to hold on a sec.

  The sec takes about a minute, the phone having been placed on a table so the music and voices can be heard in the background, and then the phone is picked up and Reggie clears his nicotine-addled throat.

  “Yeah?”

  “Reggie, it’s Jen. I can’t come in tonight.”

  “Why the fuck not?”

  That Reggie, he’s a charmer.

  “I’m not feeling so good.”

  “It’s Saturday night. We’re gonna be packed. You need to be here.”

  “I’m telling you, Reggie, I’m not feeling good. Best I don’t come in.”

  “Yeah, and whatcha got?”

  I think about the Imodium A-D in the paper bag, and decide with this situation the more graphic the better.

  “The shits, Reggie. I got the s
hits.”

  Eleven

  I stand in the middle of an empty street, a gun in my hand. I three-sixty the street, at first not knowing where I am or what I’m doing there, but little by little recognition starts to settle in.

  The houses around me. The macadam cracked and warped in places. The dark cloudless sky.

  This is a place I’ve been before.

  This exact location.

  Almost a year ago.

  The heart of Culiacán sits several miles away from where I’m standing. Its lights shimmer off in the distance, but I don’t hear the sounds of the city. Of course I don’t. Because this is a dream.

  There is complete silence. Like I’m stuck in a vacuum. Like I’m in outer space. I’m certain that if I lift the gun in my hand and fire off a round I wouldn’t hear a thing.

  I don’t lift the gun and fire off a round. Instead, I start forward down the street. My footsteps don’t make a sound. My own breathing—if one even breathes in a dream—is noiseless.

  I know where I’m headed because I’ve walked this street before in the middle of the night, a gun in my hand.

  Gabriela’s house is now only two blocks away. The fearless Gabriela. Her parents died at the hands of the cartel, and so she decided to take it upon herself to stand up to the cartel. Reporting on their crimes when the national and local media refused. She had known what she was doing put her life at risk but she did it anyway, and so it was probably no surprise to her when, in the end, the narcos came for her.

  Soon I’m standing on the street outside Gabriela’s house. It looks exactly like it did the last time I saw it.

  The garage door is closed, but the gate has been forced open.

  Before, I knew it may be a trap—that narcos may be waiting for me inside—but now I have no hesitation in pushing open the gate and stepping into the yard.

  Despite the cloudless night sky, the darkness is thick. I slip a penlight from my pocket, just as I did that night, and shine it at the door.

  The door, too, has been forced open, the lock smashed apart. The door has been pushed closed, though, so that anybody passing by on the street would think nothing of it.

  I cross my wrists—the penlight in my left hand, the gun in my right hand—and kick the door open and charge inside.

  Like that night a year ago, the living room is empty.

  Except it’s not.

  Instead of Gabriela’s grandmother, Leila Simmons is propped up in the chair in the corner. Her face tilted to the side, her dead eyes open. Her throat has been sliced, and dried blood covers much of her shirt.

  In real life, Gabriela’s grandmother didn’t have anything on her lap, so I’m surprised to see something there now.

  I train the penlight’s beam at Leila Simmons’s lap. A duffel bag sits there.

  Part of me wants to rush forward, tear the bag from her lap, look inside. The only way I’ll know if Star’s in there is by moving forward and opening the bag.

  I don’t rush forward. I shift the penlight’s beam away from Leila Simmons and the duffel bag in her lap. Neither is the reason I’m here now. They’re mere window dressing for whatever my subconscious wants to me to see.

  Because I’ve done this already—have gone through the house clearing the rooms one by one—I know better than to waste my time.

  The penlight in one hand, the gun in the other, I head toward the door that leads into the garage.

  I turn off the penlight as I open the door and flip the switch just inside. The single bulb in the ceiling blinks to life.

  The cinderblock wall is the same as I remember it, as are the tools spread out around the place where Juana’s dead body lies in pieces. Like Gabriela, it looks like they took their time with her.

  My focus is trained so heavily on what’s left of Juana that at first I’m not aware of the man in the cowboy hat standing in the corner. The badge on his belt glints in the light. A gun in his left hand, he reaches up with his right hand to tip back his hat.

  “Evenin’, pretty lady.”

  He says the words, but since this is a world of silence, I don’t really hear them except inside my head.

  Just as I hear his partner’s words as he noiselessly steps up behind me.

  “What took you so long?”

  The silent voice echoing in my ears as the man presses the barrel of his gun against the back of my head and pulls the trigger.

  Twelve

  I wake with a start, breathing heavily, my body covered in sweat. I reach for the gun under my pillow when I realize that it’s not there, that I haven’t slept with a gun under my pillow in months.

  The room is dark, though the streetlamp standing outside the apartment building is just bright enough to push past the curtain and provide a scintilla of light. As my eyes adjust, I spot the P320 on the nightstand where I’d left it when I climbed into bed what must have been hours ago.

  I sit up and take a deep breath, trying to slow my heartbeat and breathing. I can’t remember the last time I had a dream so vivid.

  Deciding to leave the gun where it is on the nightstand, I stand up from the bed and head toward the door. I left the light on out in the main living room, so it’s easy to see the time on the clock hanging on the wall.

  Almost 9:30. Which means I’ve only gotten about six hours of sleep.

  I stand in the middle of my empty apartment, not sure what I should do next. Take a shower, definitely. But then what? Get something to eat, I guess, though I don’t have much in the apartment, and I don’t want to venture out to one of the few food joints in town because word might get back to Reggie that his all-star bartender isn’t really sick. The same with calling to have food delivered. Word might get back to Reggie, too. Which means I’m stuck in my apartment for the time being. Unless I decide to get dressed and head to work. Tell Reggie it turns out it was a false alarm, I don’t have the shits after all.

  I mutter, “Who the hell am I kidding.”

  I don’t bother making it a question, so maybe that’s why I don’t feel the need to answer myself. I can stand here for another five minutes, another ten minutes, another half hour, making excuses and plans and reasons not to go through with those plans, but in the end it won’t matter what I decide to do, because I know exactly what’s going to happen next. I’ve known since earlier today, standing in that rest area with Leila Simmons while the tractor-trailers and pickup trucks roared past us.

  One of the girls I met with recently. I heard that she was taken.

  The disposable still sits on the kitchen table. The disposable that I should have disposed of earlier in the day after I’d watched Leila Simmons drive away with Star. Stripped the battery from the back, dropped it in one trashcan, dismantled the rest of the phone and left pieces of them all over town. Not that I expected anything would come of it had I kept the phone—which I had, after all—but that was my mindset.

  Wait, no. That wasn’t my mindset, not really. Not for Jen Young, the new person I’ve become. That would have been Holly Lin’s mindset. And Holly Lin doesn’t exist anymore.

  I shake my head, mutter a curse, and cross over to the kitchen table. Pick up the phone and key in Leila Simmons’s number and hit the green button to complete the call.

  It rings three times before she answers, her voice hesitant, hushed.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Jen. From earlier today.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Is everything okay? You sound quiet.”

  “I’m at home. My husband is in the other room. What can I help you with, Jen?”

  “I wanted to ask what happened to Star.”

  “Star?”

  “Juana’s baby.”

  “Yes, of course. Everything went well. I found an emergency foster parent to look after her tonight, and we’re working on getting things situated so that she can be adopted.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Yes, it is. Thank you again for reaching out to me.”

 
I say nothing, suddenly unsure of what more I should say. While I of course wanted to learn what had become of Star, that’s not the reason I called. And maybe she senses it on her end, probably standing in another room of her house, keeping her voice lowered so her husband doesn’t hear. Not that she should be afraid of hiding the conversation from her husband, but in her line of work privacy is vital, and so it’s probably second nature to immediately find a quiet space to answer a call.

  Leila Simmons says, “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “Actually, there is. When we spoke earlier, you mentioned one of the girls you met with recently having been taken by those men.”

  Her voice, already quiet, somehow becomes quieter.

  “Yes, I did. I apologize. I shouldn’t have said what I said. Please forgive me.”

  “No, it’s not that. I think I might be able to help you.”

  A beat of hesitation on her end as she mulls this over.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know a cop. A Colton County sheriff’s deputy. He’s a good man. He can be trusted. If you tell me where you think this girl was taken, he’ll be able to help.”

  The silence on her end lengthens. I picture her biting her lip, looking back over her shoulder at her husband in the next room as she weighs the pros and cons. She doesn’t need to know the truth—that I have no intention of telling Erik anything—but the fact that I’m presenting it as the selling point should help.

  Finally she says, “I don’t even know for sure she’s there. Even if she was there before, she might not be there now.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Either way, wouldn’t it ease your conscience knowing for sure?”

  She doesn’t answer, and in my head I picture her finally sitting down, leaning forward, staring off into space as she continues to try to make up her mind.

  “Leila, I understand your hesitation. But believe me, this is for the best. Either she’s there or she isn’t. Don’t you want to know for sure?”

  “But what … what if she is there?”