by K. A. Tucker
“Oh yeah?” I take a big sip of my beer and then coolly ask, “What does she say?” I can already tell I’m not going to like it.
Gracie picks at a piece of thread on the bedcover. “That she was part of my father’s setup.”
“We are bad, bad people.”
I push my mother’s voice out of my head. “Does she have proof?”
Gracie’s head shake brings me an odd sense of relief.
“Why did you leave Texas?”
“The neighborhood turned on us. That’s what she told me, anyway; I don’t remember, but she said people watched our every move, glared when we walked by. Neighbors who’d had us over for dinner before wouldn’t even say hello. Some yelled at her. I remember that happening once or twice.” Her face tightens with a cute little frown. “I didn’t understand why they’d be so mean to us because my dad had an accident at work. That’s what my mom told me happened: that he had an ‘accident’ and he wouldn’t be coming home again.
“Then one night, someone threw a brick through the window. So she packed us up and we left for Arizona.” The sadness in Gracie’s voice has quickly changed to bitterness.
I guess having a neighborhood turn on you might make you up and move. Maybe overnight. Maybe. But according to Canning, Dina never came back, never even asked to see the police report. Why?
“Why accuse my mother of being a part of it?” Is she simply a heartbroken widow turned junkie? Or is there more to this part of the story? There must be, because why else did my mother have Abe’s gun holster hidden under our floorboards?
What does Dina know?
Gracie responds with a shrug, but there’s nothing nonchalant about it. She’s still suspicious, still calculating in her gaze as she studies me. “My dad and your mom were best friends and partners for years. Even after your mother got promoted. But then my dad died, and she cut us off. She stopped answering my mom’s phone calls.”
“She wouldn’t do that.”
“Why would my mother lie?” Gracie’s piercing eyes settle on me. “It seems odd, doesn’t it? They were partners and friends for years, and then she just turned her back on us. For fourteen years. And now you show up with this.” She gestures to the bag. “Why?”
Why, indeed? I focus on the beer in my hand as I try to recall those first few weeks, those months, after Abe died. We went to the funeral, that I remember. Dina simply stood there, a husk of a woman, her eyes puffy but no tears shed—as if she’d already drained herself of the ability. Tucked in next to her, a sullen little Gracie, her gaze wide as her eyes roved the crowd of faces around her.
We left soon after. I don’t remember attending a reception. All I remember is Silas and my mother sitting in the backyard, my uncle speaking quietly while repeatedly topping up the glass in my mother’s hand. My mother . . . all she did was stare into the depths of the pool and empty her glass over and over again.
She went back to work a few days later. And that’s when I started staying home alone. She said I was old enough, that there was no need for me to go to Dina and Abe’s after school anymore. At the time, I was more thankful than anything. I figured she was doing it so I wouldn’t have to walk through Abe’s front door every day and remember that he was dead.
But if what Gracie is saying is true . . .
If my mother believed Abe was such a good man, why would she cut Dina and her little girl off like that?
I don’t have an answer for Gracie—or myself—so I divert. “We didn’t exactly have it easy after he died, either. My mom started drinking and my parents divorced. I moved to Seattle to live with my dad.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard Seattle is rough. Was your trailer park like the Hollow?” She doesn’t hide her scorn.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” I’m an ass.
She shrugs. “You didn’t have anything to do with it.”
And yet I can’t help but feel responsibility here.
She pauses. “What do you think? You’re older than me. You must remember him, right? Do you think my dad was guilty?”
“He was a good man.”
“I need her to know.”
My mother’s words are a constant thrum. Why can’t I bring myself to give voice to them? “I don’t know.” I chug half the can of beer so I can gather my thoughts. Based on what George and Silas said, the case is firmly closed, the evidence irrefutable. Would knowing what my mother mumbled—drunk, and moments before she decided to take her own life—help Gracie and Dina? I’m not sure I believe her, and it doesn’t feel right to repeat it. It could hurt them more. It would definitely hurt the memory of my mom.
Let sleeping dogs lie.
How many times will I have to tell myself that before this guilt lifts from my chest?
The weight of that green-eyed gaze on me is suffocating. I need off this topic. “The Hollow. Sounds like a horror movie.”
It’s delayed, but Gracie’s face finally cracks with a smirk. “Even the cops call it that. Suits it, doesn’t it?”
Of all the places to run to . . . “How’d you end up there, anyway?”
“That’s where my mom grew up.”
“No shit.”
Gracie reaches for the fresh can of beer I left on her nightstand and cracks it open. “It wasn’t bad when she was a kid. But then the owner sold it to people who don’t give a rat’s ass about anything but getting their monthly fees. It all went to hell after that.”
“So Dina moved from Tucson to Austin . . . and back to Tucson.” Trailer-park girl to stylish Texan wife, to heroin junkie. I’m struggling to reconcile my memories of Abe’s Dina with the Dina I carried out of a burning trailer earlier today.
“To the same trailer.” Tension tightens her jaw. “The one she burned to the ground making her cheese melt sandwiches.”
“At least you don’t have to go back to that life. You can start over somewhere new. Somewhere with good people.”
“My mom’s a heroin addict, Noah. ‘Good people’ don’t want her kind around.”
“Then get her the help she needs. You can do that now.”
She nods slowly. “Why?”
“Why get her the help?”
“No. Why did Jackie want me to have all that money?”
Good question. “I don’t know why, or where it came from. She asked me to bring it to you, and so I did.”
“After she died.” Gracie’s lips purse. “ ‘Don’t ask questions. You don’t want the answers.’ That’s what the note said, right?”
“If it can help you, take it.” I’m not going to sit here and brainstorm all the terrible ways that APD could have fucked Abe over fourteen years ago, because they could include my mother. I need to get through this conversation, wave goodbye to Gracie and her big bag of money, and move on.
She turns her focus to the ceiling, her deep inhale drawing my attention to the way her black tank top stretches across her chest, hugging her curves. I quickly drop my gaze.
Definitely not a little girl anymore. And if she weren’t who she is, if she were some girl I spotted at the gym or the bar . . . a hundred bucks says I wouldn’t be able to keep my eyes off her for a hot second. But she is Abe’s daughter, and that reality is a cold shower for those thoughts.
“How did Jackie know where to find me?”
I shrug.
“It wouldn’t be that hard,” she answers for herself.
“Not if this address is listed in your mom’s records.” The bigger question for me is, was Mom keeping tabs on Abe’s family all these years? Watching Dina’s downward spiral? Or had she tracked them down recently? Did she foresee the situation Gracie would find herself in today? Probably.
It makes sense, though, that she would want to give the money to Gracie and not Dina. You can’t give a bag of cash to an addict.
So yeah, Mom definitely knew how far they’d fallen.
Had I not been there, I hate to think what might have happened. Gracie would be curled up in a ball in that hospital waiting area.
She’d have nowhere to live.
Then again, had Gracie not found me on her doorstep, she might have walked through that door sooner, might have turned off the toaster oven before it had a chance to catch flame.
Either way, Dina would have overdosed on heroin.
I nudge the gym bag with my foot, pushing it toward her a few inches. “This money couldn’t have come at a better time then.”
“How much is in there?”
Ten thousand. Twenty. What’s an amount that sounds reasonable? What could I tell her to make it easier to accept this, at least until I’m long gone? I could lie and tell her I didn’t count it, but who in their right mind would have driven across two states without counting it?
“Ninety-eight thousand.”
“Holy shit,” she whispers, a gasp slipping through her lips before she covers her mouth with her hand. At least ten heartbeats pass before her face twists with skepticism. “Why didn’t you keep it?”
“Because my mom asked me to give it to you.”
She rolls her eyes. “That wouldn’t stop most people.”
“Some people, no.” I could have kept it. I could have given it away to charity, anonymously. I could have taken it to the police.
I’m not going to say that all those scenarios didn’t run through my mind on the drive here, as I wondered if I was doing the right thing. But, somewhere along that dark, open highway, I came to accept a simple truth. “She didn’t write me a letter. She didn’t give me an explanation, or an apology. She knew she was going to kill herself and she didn’t want to tell me why.” I swallow against that prickly lump in my throat. “The only thing she did do was leave that pile of money and that note. So I figure it must have been important to her that you get this.”
More important than telling her son she was sorry.
I glance Gracie’s way to find her watching me intently, sympathy in her gaze. Maybe she doesn’t hate me, after all.
“What would you do if a stranger showed up at your doorstep with a bag of money for you and no explanation besides ‘don’t ask’? Would you take it?”
“If I were in your situation, with no home and a mother who’s one injection away from never waking up, I’d take that money and never look back.”
Her face pinches. “Even if it’s here because of something immoral? Hell, illegal?”
She has way too heavy of a conscience for a piss-poor girl with no place to live. But I like that about her. It means that despite growing up with a junkie mom and the ghost of a corrupt cop father, somewhere along the way she picked up a sense of integrity.
This is one of those times, though, when you have to take what’s in front of you and not ask questions. She’s smart enough to see that. Maybe all she needs is permission. “What do you think would happen to this money if I gave it to the police?” Besides stir up questions I don’t want to answer. “They’d use it for their department. Buy a new SUV, maybe office equipment. They’d have no issues spending it on their overhead. So why shouldn’t you use it? You deserve a chance to start over.”
It’s a long while before her head bobs in an almost imperceptible nod. She’s going to take the money. She’s not stupid.
“Are you going to be okay?”
She brushes my concern away with an unconvincing, “Yeah. Of course.”
“Listen, I’m gonna grab a few hours of sleep before I have to drive home tomorrow.” I haul my weary body out of the chair, tossing my napkins and cans in the trash can beside the small desk. I’m ready for today to be over.
I make it all the way to the adjoining door, my palm on the handle. Almost home free.
And then Gracie asks the one thing I hoped she wouldn’t.
“Did your mom ever talk to you about what happened to my dad?”
My shoulders sag. I don’t owe her anything, and yet I hate lying to her about this.
“She said something, didn’t she?”
Take the money and run, Gracie. Forget about the past.
The bed creaks behind me. I’m half-expecting to feel the sharp edge of her blade poking into my flesh, but instead cool fingers settle on my forearm in a gentle way I didn’t think her capable of. “What did she tell you about my dad?”
Another long pause and then her touch slips away. “He was guilty, wasn’t he?” Her voice cracks and when I gather the nerve to turn around and face her, she’s blinking away tears. “It doesn’t matter. I already knew he was. This doesn’t change anything.”
I can’t handle the sight of any girl crying. But for some reason, it’s worse with Gracie. Before I can stop myself, I reach for a tear slipping down her cheek, brushing it away with the pad of my thumb.
She turns away with the slightest flinch, and I let my hand drop. I’ve noticed that about her—she recoils anytime anyone goes near her. The only time she didn’t was when she was brandishing her knife against that piece-of-shit Sims guy.
“You’re right, it doesn’t. Take the money and move on with your life.”
“It’s just . . .” Her jaw tightens. “My mother never did drugs before; she didn’t even drink. What he did? That’s what turned her into this. He ruined our lives, and she will swear that he’s innocent, right to her last breath, and I can’t stand—” Those full lips press into a tight line. “I hate him so much for it.”
Dammit. I can’t let her believe this. “She didn’t say that he was guilty, Gracie.”
She peers up at me from behind a thick fringe of lashes, the eight-inch-or-so height difference forcing her head back to meet my eyes. “What did she say?”
“Not much, after he died. And then near the end, she was drinking a lot.” I sigh. “But she said that your dad was a good man.”
“Right. Who was also a drug dealer?” A skeptical frown furrows her brow.
“That’s all I know.” I start for my side of the suite, hoping she’s not going to follow. She doesn’t move a muscle, a dazed look filling her face. “The money is yours, Gracie. A decorated police officer and chief of the Austin Police Department, and an old friend of the family, left it for you, to help you through a hard time, and that’s all you need to know.” That sounds like something Silas would tell me to say. “I’m going to shut this door. Knock if you need anything.” I’ve already seen what this girl is capable of when she’s angry. I don’t want to wake up to a blade against my nuts after she’s been stewing in bed for three hours and decides that what I’ve told her isn’t good enough.
My body sinks with relief the moment the latch clicks. Hoping that she doesn’t knock, that she doesn’t want a rehash of the night my mom died in hopes of finding clues. Reasons for the money, and for my mother’s words.
I peel my clothes off and slide under the cool, crisp covers, waiting for that feeling of relief and accomplishment to hit me. I’ve done what my mother asked of me. Gracie has her money, and I’ve told her that Abe was a good man. She’s going to be okay.
And yet a suffocating weight still bears down on my chest.
CHAPTER 14
Grace
I’m woken from a dead sleep by my phone.
“Uh-huh?” My greeting comes out more like a sigh.
“Grace Richards?” a woman asks, low voices buzzing in the background.
“Yeah?”
“Dr. Coppa wanted me to let you know that a bed became available in our rehab facility this morning, so we’ve moved your mother. She’s doing well, and she’d like to see you. Visiting hours will begin shortly.”
I doubt everyone gets personal calls like this from the hospital, but I also doubt everyone has a doctor bending over time and time again for them. I’m aware that I have Dr. Coppa’s full pity. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll be there . . .” I glance at the clock to see that it’s already ten thirty a.m. “. . . soon.”
It’s a good thing I called in sick for this morning’s shift. Dealing with gas station customers is the last thing I can face right now, as I try to pull my life back together and make sense of Noah’s surprise
visit.
The low hum of a TV sportscaster’s voice carries through the wall between his room and mine. He’s probably packing up, eager to get on the road for that long drive back to Austin.
Thoughts of him getting dressed make me groan into my pillow. I’m mortified about barging in on him in the shower last night. Granted, he should have locked the door, but that’s no excuse. And then he stood there, not swearing or yelling at me to get the hell out. Instead, trying to calm me down.
My cheeks flush at that awkward moment, firmly emblazoned in my memory.
It’s not like Noah’s the first naked guy I’ve ever seen. I had boyfriends in high school. Plus, living in the Hollow, where drunken disorderliness goes hand in hand with public indecency, I’ve come across more than one asshole who gets a kick out of a midday stroll in the flesh. It’s always the sweaty ones, too, with their bellies permanently swollen from hard liquor and tufts of hair growing in places where tufts of hair shouldn’t be growing.
And then, there’s the time I finished my English exam an hour early and came home to find my mom on her knees in front of some scrawny guy, his pants pooling around his ankles, a ziplock bag of Oxy pills dangling from his fingers like bait.
I’ve seen my fair share of naked men, but none of them have looked anything like Noah. Every inch of him is sculpted in golden muscle, and the tan line that sits low around his hips proves that he has no qualms about showing off that broad chest.
And to top it all off, he was covered in soap suds, water dripping from every—
A soft knock comes from our adjoining door, startling my thoughts. I drag myself out of bed and do a quick mirror check to confirm that my hair is a wild mess. My mom always told me how lucky I am to have inherited her silky, soft texture and Dad’s curls. I wonder when I’ll agree with her on that, because most days it seems more of a nightmare than anything resembling luck. Going to bed with it damp does awful things, but the hotel’s hair dryer didn’t have a diffuser, no surprise. So I was forced to braid it and cross my fingers.
By the halo of frizz around my face, I’m thinking that wasn’t the best move either.