by K. A. Tucker
Doing my best to smooth it down with my fingers, I finally give up, throw on the clothes I bought yesterday, and then open the adjoining door.
Noah has his back to me, giving me a brief opportunity to admire the way his soft gray T-shirt clings around his muscular arms and shoulders and his dark jeans sit low on his hips. He’s busy stuffing his toiletries bag into his backpack. “How’d you sleep?”
“Fine.” When he glances over at me, I notice the circles under his eyes.
“Better than you, from the looks of it.”
He chuckles. “Yeah. I need at least a week to catch up on all the sleep I’ve missed lately.” He swallows hard.
I mentally kick myself. His mother just shot herself and here he is, helping me deal with my shit. “I’m sorry about your mom.” Regardless of what my mom believes Jackie did, Noah had no hand in it.
He offers me a sad smile and nods, but it doesn’t mask the flash of pain in his eyes.
“Hey, you should find a safe place to keep that money, like the bank.”
“Right.” But not my bank account. There’d be red flags waving above my head the moment I passed ninety-eight thousand dollars over the counter.
“Checkout here is at eleven, but they’ll take cash payment, if you want to stay a few more nights. You know, until you find a place to live. I’ll let them keep my credit card on file so they don’t give you any hassle.”
Another check in the “nice guy” column.
“I could rack up your bill with room service.”
“They don’t have room service here.”
I struggle to keep my expression smooth. “Fine, then. Porn.”
A deep dimple forms in his cheek. He reaches down to fasten his belt, flashing his taut belly. “I’m sure they have that. But I just drove twelve hours to give you almost a hundred grand that I could have kept for myself. Something tells me you’d feel a bit guilty.”
He’s right, I would.
His forearm cords under the weight of his backpack. With his free hand, he scribbles something on the hotel notepad and tears the sheet off. He holds it out to me. “Here. You should have my number.”
“Why?”
He sighs. “I don’t know why, Gracie. Why not?”
I bite back the urge to correct my name. I don’t mind it so much, coming from him. And he’s right—he could have kept that money. Instead, he drove across two states, saved my mother, tried to save my home, and gave me a place to stay, all in addition to handing over enough money to fix our problems. And what have I done besides wave a knife at him, accuse him of being a heroin dealer, scream at him while he was naked and vulnerable, and generally act like a royal bitch?
Despite all that, I don’t want him to leave. It’s been nice, not being alone to deal with everything.
Setting the paper on the dresser, he peers at the door. “I really should . . .”
He really should get the hell away from me and Tucson, is what he’s thinking.
“Yeah. I have to head over to the hospital.”
His features soften. “Do you need a ride?”
“No, I’m going to sort out this room first.”
“And then what?”
“I don’t know. I’ll figure it out. I always do.”
“Okay.” He slides on a pair of aviator-style sunglasses. I feel his friendly blue eyes studying me from behind the mirrored lenses, and I instinctively cross my arms over my chest, though I doubt Noah’s into ogling poor, homeless girls with drug addict moms.
“So, I guess this is it?” Are we supposed to hug?
His face tenses. “Take care of yourself. You’ve got the money to find your mom a good rehab center. Make her go.”
I chuckle half-heartedly. “It’s not that easy.”
“I know, but right now, you still have a chance. You have to take it before it’s gone. Don’t make the same mistake I did.”
I quietly watch his back as he takes smooth, measured strides all the way to the door, my stomach churning the entire time.
His hand rests on the handle for two . . . three . . . four seconds.
“You know what?” He tosses his bag to the floor. “I’m not ready to drive another twelve hours just yet.”
An unexpected sigh of relief escapes my lips.
“How about I stick around. I can help you get things sorted.” His hands are in the air in a sign of surrender, as I’m opening my mouth to argue that I don’t need help. “I know you can handle yourself fine, but . . .”
“But what?”
He slides his sunglasses off and I see his earnest gaze. “I’m not in any rush to get back home.”
I press my lips together, hoping he can’t sense my sudden and pathetic giddiness. “How long are you going to stay?”
He shrugs. “A few days? Until you’re settled somewhere new.”
So basically, I’m going to spend the weekend with Jackie Marshall’s son. “My mother can’t know you’re here. You’ll remind her of my dad.”
He frowns. “How is that not a good thing?”
“She’s weak.”
“She’s been through a lot.”
“Strong people don’t pick up and run because of a brick through their window. They don’t start taking heavy drugs and leaving their child to fend for herself. She’s a weak person. She can’t handle facing the past like that.” God knows what it would do to her mental state, as fragile as it already is.
His full lips twist in thought. “Then don’t introduce me as Noah right away. Tell her my name is—”
“She’d take one look at those blue eyes of yours and know exactly who you are. I mean—” I cut myself off as heat touches my cheeks. I’ve basically just admitted to him that I’ve been admiring his eyes.
His jaw tightens and he stares at me with intensity. “She was like a second mother to me. I’d like to talk to her again.”
He doesn’t get it.
“Dina Wilkes is dead. This Dina . . . she can’t handle it.”
He slides a palm through his hair, sending it into disarray. “Fine. I’ll wait outside the hospital for you.” His gaze skitters over me briefly. “Let me talk to the front desk while you get ready and then we can grab breakfast on our way over.” He waits for my nod and then heads out the door, leaving me to wonder why he’s staying.
Because, as nice as Noah is, my gut says there’s something he’s not telling me.
* * *
“I didn’t mean to take so much. I don’t know why I keep doing this.” A tear trickles down her cheek.
“Because you’re a heroin addict, Mom.” We’re long past sugarcoating reality. All the same, it hurts to watch her flinch as I say it bluntly. Not as much as it hurts to see her lying in a hospital bed, her hair stringy and matted with bits of dried vomit. The nurse gave her a sponge bath but until she’s strong enough to use the shower, she’s stuck like this.
There are other things, though, that won’t be fixed with a simple shower. She used to have a nice, creamy complexion. Now, her cheeks are sunken in, and her skin tone is sallow and marked with splotches. That pretty smile she flashed in pictures is now distorted by swollen gums from lack of care. It’s only a matter of time before her teeth begin to rot. And the track marks along her arm . . . will those ever go away?
So, no. I won’t sugarcoat this for her.
“That was the last time. I swear. I’m done with this.” She squeezes her eyes shut as if she’s in pain. She probably is. It’s been about twenty-four hours since her last hit and, while the meds will help abate the withdrawal symptoms, they won’t stop them entirely. The nausea is especially hard on her.
The first time she was in here, I stayed with her as much as I was allowed, through the cold sweats, the vomiting, the emotional whirlwind. I thought living through that would have been enough for her to never touch drugs again.
Clearly, I was wrong.
“I should go. You need to rest.”
She gives me a weak smile. “You go home an
d take care of things there. I’ll be out of here in a few days and then that’s it. I’ll stay clean; I’ll get a job. We’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.”
I wasn’t going to say a word—detoxing is hard enough—but the unintentional lies spewing from her mouth make my rage flare. I can’t bite my tongue fast enough. “We don’t have a home, Mom. You burned it down.”
“What? What are you talking about?” She grapples with her memory, her brow furrowing.
“You put one of your cheese sandwiches in the toaster oven to cook and then decided to take a hit.”
“I don’t remember . . .”
“Of course you don’t.” How many neurons has she fried in her brain by continually poisoning it? What can she even remember about anything?
“I wouldn’t do that.”
And yet you did. “The trailer went up fast. We tried to put it out with the fire extinguisher.”
“And I was inside?” My words finally seem to be sinking in.
“I got home from work in time to get you out.” There’s no way I’m telling her who carried her out.
“How bad is it?”
“I’m guessing everything’s gone.”
It’s a long, slow moment of dull shock as I stand there, quietly watching her try to process that truth. And then her eyes widen with panic and her hands fly to her throat. “Everything?” She whispers, the words strangled, her face going even more pale. “What about the closet?”
“I don’t know,” I say slowly. Shit. I completely forgot about the closet—about the few things she managed to whisk away with us when we ran from Austin. A handmade quilt from my great-grandmother, my first pair of tiny, pink cowboy boots, the menu from dinner the first night my parents went out, a shoe box brimming with photos.
Back when she wasn’t a full-fledged junkie, she used to drift off each night with a picture of my dad resting on her pillow.
Suddenly, Mom’s fumbling with her sheets to push them off. She struggles to climb out of bed.
“What are you doing?”
“I need to go. I need to see if—”
“Mom!” I pin her down by her forearms. “You’re in detox. You can’t leave!”
“I need to get the box!”
“I’ll go.”
Her head’s shaking back and forth furtively as she writhes against my grip. “No, you can’t. You don’t know . . .”
“You need to stay here. Look at you! You can barely stand!”
Tears well in her eyes. “It’s all I have left.”
“I’ll leave now and go straight over to the Hollow. If it survived the fire, I’ll bring it back. Just tell me which box it is.”
“The only one that matters!” My mother’s brow furrows deeply with distress. She wrings her trembling hands, fumbling with her bare finger where her wedding ring should be. She traded the simple gold band for a few Oxy pills years ago. She was high when she made that swap, and hysterical when she sobered up and realized her terrible mistake.
That ended up being a turning point for her. For the worse.
“It was in the closet?”
“Yes! I mean, no. I mean . . .” She hesitates, as if she doesn’t want to tell me. “The floor, there’s a hole in it. Pull the carpet up and you’ll find it. Bring it to me. Just . . . bring it.”
My suspicion flares. “If you think I’m going to bring you drugs—”
“It’s not drugs! It’s not. It’s . . . paperwork. You know—your birth certificate, stuff like that.” She swallows hard. “Everything that’s important to me. Promise me you’ll bring it to me and you won’t open it?”
It’s got to be more than paperwork. “Okay. If it survived the fire, I’ll bring it.”
“It’s a metal box. It was your father’s. It’s all I have to . . .” Her breathing is ragged. She’s exhausted herself.
“Okay. I’m going now.”
“You’ll come back after? You’ll bring the box with you?”
“Sure.”
She curls up into a ball and runs her palm against her cheeks to wipe away her tears. I still remember glimmers of the old her—the real her, I’d like to think—when she lived by the “smile, even when you’re crying inside” motto. She has her hospital room to herself for the moment, at least.
“Get some sleep.”
“Okay.” A long pause. “Where did you stay last night, anyway?”
I was wondering if she’d even ask. “At a friend’s. I’ll be fine.” I have a bag full of money to help solve the housing problem, if I can bring myself to ignore my conscience and use it. A bag of money from a woman who she believes helped frame my father.
I don’t know what’s true. The money alone could paint a convincing story where Dad’s hands are as dirty as they say. But then there’s what Jackie Marshall told Noah. That my dad was a good man.
I lay in bed last night, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation for the money. A reason why Jackie Marshall would send her son. And tell him to not ask questions.
What did she even know about us? Did she know that Mom has had one foot in her grave for years now? That this money would change our lives?
Why would she care to help now? Why this secret parting gift after her death?
So many questions that lead down so many dark paths.
I’m beginning to think Jackie said more to Noah. Something he doesn’t want to tell me.
My mother’s voice cuts into my suspicion-laced thoughts. “This place is horrible, Grace. I hate it here.”
“You have nowhere else to go. So focus on getting better.”
Her despondent gaze drifts over the dull green wall across from her. “That manager. What’s his name . . .” Her face furrows as she struggles with her thoughts. “The manager at the Hollow.”
“Manny?”
“Yes. He’ll have a unit available to rent. They let people move in the same day. You know them. They don’t care.” Her eyes are shutting, the lids heavy. “Go see him.”
“Why? You think we’re going back to the Hollow?”
“Just until I can get a job. You believe me, right? That this is it? This is the last time? I promise it is, Grace.”
That promise was broken before she uttered the words. I grit my teeth to keep from snapping at her. It’s like I’ve hit repeat. We’ve been here before. It’ll be the same old pattern, slightly varied by a unit number. She’s looking for an easy, quiet hole to crawl into. Going back to the Hollow would be a death sentence for her at this point. If Noah hadn’t shown up when he did, we’d have no other choice.
But he did show up, and we do have a choice.
I push down my bubbling anger. “Here—I picked up a toothbrush and comb, and pair of pajamas for you.” I set the plastic bag down on her bed for her. “I should go, before whatever’s left is gone. You know how it is.” There are plenty of scavengers, looking to clean up on someone else’s tragedy.
She winces. “Can you ask the nurse to give me another dose? It’s been hours since I had one. They’ve forgotten about me.”
“Sure.” I study her frail, emaciated body for another long moment, and then I leave her room, checking my phone for messages from Noah. None. He and the bag of cash are sitting in the parking lot. Now I understand why he was so attached to it. It’s unnerving, having that much money on us, waiting for some scumbag like Sims to take it away.
I head for the nurses’ desk. “Hi, I’m Dina Richards’s daughter. She’s in Room 538 and she asked for more Subutex.”
The nurse scans her records with a frown. “We just gave her a dose. She’ll have to wait.”
They forgot about her, my ass. “How long?”
“Three hours.” She gives me a sympathetic smile, which I return in kind, because the nurses are the ones who will be dealing with Mom’s tantrums until then.
She watches me linger for a moment before asking, “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Mom won’t stay clean a week outside these walls
without serious help. I need to make a decision. One that will change both our lives. Noah’s words from last night echo in my mind, as the pain of regret I saw in his eyes twists my stomach.
If I don’t take this chance—if I wait any longer—it’ll be too late.
But first, I need to find out what’s in that box that has my mom so unnerved.
CHAPTER 15
Officer Abraham Wilkes
April 20, 2003
“Have you seen her?”
“You don’t need her when you can have me, brown sugar.” The woman laughs—a practiced sound—as she reaches for my chest, her long, painted fingernails dragging along the cotton of my T-shirt. The color of those claws matches the red lipstick on her lips—and accidently, on her teeth. I’m guessing she’s around twenty, though her pale skin is weathered enough, and her eyes are hard enough, to suggest a decade older. Years of working the streets have been as kind to her as one could expect.
I take a step back, and hold the picture steady in front of me. “This girl. Have you seen her?”
She shrugs, her gaze never touching the photograph.
With a sigh, I pull a twenty-dollar bill out of my pocket, for motivation. I’ve made three trips to a bank machine these last four days with all the “motivating” I’ve been doing around Austin’s dive motels and on the streets.
So far, no luck.
The prostitute snatches the bill right out of my hand and lazily scans the picture. “She’s a pretty little thing. And young.”
“And she has a family who misses her. Have you seen her?”
“Nah, she don’t look familiar. How long she been gone?”
“About a year.”
The woman shakes her head and tsks. “Wouldn’t bother if I was you. That girl’s already lost.” She steps away, her attention shifting to a passerby, looking for her next target. It’s Easter Sunday; business might be slow for hookers today, but I’m no expert.
“If you do see her, could you please give this to her?” I hand the woman my business card.
The prostitute’s face hardens. “You a cop? ’Cause I ain’t done nothin’ wrong. This here is entrapment! You bribed me with that money and—”