by K. A. Tucker
“Thank you for your time, ma’am.” I give her what I hope is an assuring smile. I’d win my twenty bucks back if I bet that she’s going to toss that card into the trash the second I turn around.
I head for my car, exhausted, wanting desperately to be with my Gracie. I can imagine her, sitting up in bed, her innocent gaze locked on her doorway, Where the Wild Things Are resting on her lap. Eagerly waiting for me to come home so I can read to her using my gruff voice.
But I can’t give up now.
Not when I’m so close to finding Betsy.
CHAPTER 16
Noah
I should have left.
I should leave now.
I should drop off Gracie, grab my shit at the motel, and go.
I keep telling myself that, even as the brakes on my SUV come to a squeaky stop in front of the charred remains of Gracie’s home. From the outside, it actually doesn’t look too bad, but I already know the inside is a different story.
That mangy one-eyed dog from yesterday scurries out from beneath a trailer and runs to Gracie as she climbs out, wagging its tail with excitement. Its matted fur is even dirtier than yesterday—if that’s possible.
“You’ve been in my house, haven’t you,” she scolds. “Here. This should keep you busy for a while.” Reaching into her purse, she retrieves the strip of beef jerky she grabbed at the gas station on the way here and tosses it to him. He catches it midair, and then hunkers down to begin chewing.
Eyeing me with that same shifty gaze.
“He’s yours?”
“Cyclops isn’t anyone’s. I just feed him sometimes.” When she looks up to see the wariness on my face, she snorts. “What?”
“Nothing.”
She folds her arms over her chest, taking on a haughty stance. “What’s wrong? Is he not the right pedigree for you? Not pretty enough? Let me guess: you had a golden retriever named Cooper growing up.”
His name was Jake, actually. But I’m not going to admit that because I’d only be proving whatever point she’s making about me. Instead I lift the sleeve of my T-shirt to show her the silver scars on the ball of my shoulder. “I was attacked by a stray at a playground when I was four. Needed fifteen stitches to close up the bite marks and rabies shots, just in case. So I’m not exactly comfortable around them.”
Gracie presses her lips together, that self-righteousness in her gaze softening. “Cyclops has never bitten anyone.”
“That you know of. And he had a rat in his mouth yesterday. Rats carry disease.”
“So do squirrels and mice. He eats those, too. And lizards. Once, a snake, but only the head. He didn’t much care for it.”
I don’t know a single girl whose face wouldn’t pale a few shades at this conversation, but it doesn’t seem to faze her. Meanwhile, my stomach is churning.
“I’m sure he’d love a big house with a yard and two bowls of food set down for him every day, but that’s not the hand that was dealt to him. He does what he needs to survive. You don’t need to look at him like that. Just because one stray bit you doesn’t mean every one will.” As if to make a point, she reaches down to pet him, her eyes locked on me. Daring me to sneer.
I get the feeling this has nothing to do with accepting a mangy dog.
“iEl perro te va a extrañar!” The old woman who called the ambulance breaks our silent showdown, setting her watering can on a step and settling into that ratty chair.
“What’d she say?”
“No idea,” Gracie mutters, offering a wave.
The woman shakes her head with frustration. “He miss!” She gestures toward the dog.
“Sí, sí. That’s because I’m the only one who feeds him.” Gracie taps her lips with her fingertips.
The woman’s attention shifts to me. “Quién es?”
“A friend.”
She makes a clucking sound and then, almost begrudgingly, nods.
I return the gesture in kind. “Better reception than yesterday.”
“She thought you were a drug dealer yesterday.”
“I see that. Now.”
“¿Tu mamá?” the woman asks.
“She’s good. She’ll be in rehab for a while.”
“Rehabilitación?”
Gracie nods. “Gracias for calling 9-1-1.”
She waves a hand at the burned-down trailer, then over her shoulder toward hers. “Mi casa casi se incendió.”
“That would have been bad,” Gracie agrees. When she sees the questioning look on my face, she explains, “I think she said she was worried the fire would spread to her home.”
“And that’s the only reason she called for help?” What kind of people are these? I noticed that everyone stood around and watched yesterday, never offering assistance.
Gracie lowers her voice, though I doubt the woman understands much. “Vilma seems cold, but it’s all an act. You can’t be soft around here. I mean, look who her other neighbor is.” She nods toward the trailer on the far side. “Sims would sell his own sister if it earned him twenty bucks.”
“Funny, I thought you two were best friends.”
She rolls her eyes. “Sims is everything that’s wrong with this world. You think he would have helped me carry my mother out yesterday? Hell no. He was running in the opposite direction at the first sign of smoke. If you hadn’t been here . . .” She lets her words drift and then her jaw tenses.
She hasn’t said a word about what happened yesterday, or last night. She’s barely said a word about the money. She hasn’t given me details about her visit with her mother. I drove her to the hospital and waited in the parking lot. When she came out twenty minutes later, she simply ordered me to drive here. No explanation.
“I’m glad I was there. And I’m glad your neighbor was keeping an eye on things.”
Gracie smirks. “She doesn’t like my mother, but she’s always liked me.”
“Must be because you’re so damn sweet.” It slips out before I can help it.
Gracie throws a glare my way, but when she turns her attention back to the trailer, a ghost of a smile touches her lips. There’s a sense of humor in there. I’ve seen glimpses, buried beneath that prickly exterior. A necessity when living in a place like this, it seems.
“Un hombre vino y me preguntó.” Vilma shrugs. “Pensé que era la policía.”
“Did she say that a cop came by?” I ask. I remember that much from Spanish class.
“She said ‘maybe.’ I guess he wasn’t in uniform?”
“Javier bloqueó la puerta para usted.” She points toward the giant piece of plywood blocking the gaping hole where the front door used to be.
“Tell him gracias.”
“Tell who ‘gracias’?”
“Her son. He put that wood up to try and keep people out.”
I trail her up the stairs with a frown. “Why would people want to come into a burned-out trailer?”
“There’s always something to steal. Wiring . . . copper pipes . . .” Her slender arms strain against the weight of the plywood board.
“Here, let me.”
“I can do it.” She resists my help, refusing to let go even as I tower behind her, grabbing the sides and dragging the plywood to the side, my chest rubbing against her slender back in the process.
“Are you always so stubborn?”
I wait for a snippy comment in return but she ignores me, slipping through the gaping doorway into the mess beyond.
The air reeks of wet soot. Chunks of charred drywall, wood, and insulation litter the floor and gaping holes in the ceiling allow the sun in to cast an unflattering spotlight on the little that’s left—drab brown paneling along the walls, a tacky gold picture frame, bits of a sodden couch. The carpet beneath my feet is matted and damp from all the water used to fight the fire. It reminds me of that dirty stray outside.
“I don’t remember it looking so shitty,” Gracie murmurs. “I guess being in that hotel spoiled me . . . See?” She points out fingerprints around the
old tube television. “Someone’s already been in here. Probably hoping to find money or my mom’s drug stash.” She snorts. “Joke’s on them.”
She sifts debris this way and that with her sneaker. “My nan must be rolling in her grave as we speak. She never had much, but this trailer was hers and she kept it clean and tidy.”
“When did she die?”
“Five years ago. Heart attack. Living here wasn’t so bad back then, even though I slept on the couch. Mom wasn’t into the heavy stuff.” She smiles wistfully. “Nan would tiptoe around in the kitchen on the weekend and whip up a batch of pancakes. I’d wake up to the smell of them. And we’d sit around the kitchen table and play card games and dominoes for hours, with game shows in the background. Nan loved her game shows.” Gracie heads for the far corner of the trailer—the one farthest from the kitchen, where the damage isn’t as bad—and leans over to inspect the scattered contents of what I assume are Dina’s purse and wallet.
And I can’t help but admire the shape of Gracie’s thighs in those shorts.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I give my head a shake. “What about your grandfather?”
“My mom’s father wasn’t in their lives. My nan lived with this guy—Brian—for years, but they split up before we moved here.”
She shoves everything into the purse and collects it, tucking it under her arm. “I need to check the bedrooms.”
I follow Grace down the hallway, maneuvering past dangling ceiling tiles and insulation. “Should we be in here?”
“Who’s going to stop us?” She curses softly, brushing at a sooty streak against her new T-shirt.
“No, I mean it’s probably a hazard.”
“You can go outside if you’re afraid.”
I heave a sigh to let her know that I’m annoyed. “What do you need in here, anyway? Doesn’t look like there’s much to save.”
She enters the first bedroom, which is in only marginally better shape than the kitchen and living room. Scraps of paper are strewn all over the floor and burnt cardboard shoe boxes have been cast aside. The thieves have been rooting around in here, too.
Gracie steps over the heaps of trash, heading for the nightstand to collect a square book from the floor. She attempts to flip the cover open, but it falls apart within her grasp. I hear her hiss “dammit” under her breath. “Their wedding album.” She tosses the book to the bed, a look of dismay twisting her features. “And those were all her pictures. They’re all gone. Every last one.”
It takes me a moment to realize that the scraps of paper littering the carpet are photographs. Were photographs.
She moves for the closet. And pauses. “You shouldn’t leave the money alone out there.”
“I can bring it in and—”
“I left a list of rehab centers on your dash. The nurse marked off the best ones. Call them to see which ones are taking people right away.”
I sigh with relief. She’s going to use the money. Good. “So your mom has agreed?”
“Let me worry about that. You call. From outside.”
A dismissal if I’ve ever heard one. “Holler if you need me.”
* * *
“I thought dry heat was supposed to be easier to manage.”
The old woman, Vilma, raises an eyebrow.
“Hot.” I fan myself with the rehab list, beads of sweat beginning to form at the back of my neck. I told Gracie I’d be within earshot, but I’m regretting that now. She’s been in there for a good twenty minutes, banging away at something metal-sounding, and I’m baking under a hot desert sun on these concrete steps.
I get nothing but a hard stare in return as Vilma rocks herself back and forth in her chair, her left foot doing all the work. So, I go back to reading up on Desert Oaks. It’s the only rehab center marked that has an immediate opening. They can take Dina as early as tomorrow.
I told them we’d take the spot.
With a sigh of accomplishment, I slide my phone into my pocket and look up.
The old woman is still staring at me.
So is the dog.
“Fuck,” I mutter, averting my gaze. Any minute now, tumbleweeds are going to roll by and the twang of a harmonica will carry through the corridor of trailers, like an old western face-off. This place is desolate. Black squiggles of graffiti, boarded-up windows, dented trash bins, rusted chain-link fences that half hang from their frames, keeping nothing and no one out. Occasionally, someone will pass by on their bike or on foot, their somber expressions and suspicious eyes reminding me that I don’t belong here.
At least that Sims guy is nowhere to be seen.
My phone rings and Silas’s name shows up on the screen. I answer it without thinking, happy for the distraction. “Hey.”
“Judy’s got your room ready.”
Shit. I’m supposed to be moving there today. “Would y’all mind terribly if I bring my things over during the week?”
“I suppose not. When?”
“I’m not exactly sure.”
“What’s going on, Noah? Have you changed your mind? Because she spent hours—”
“No, I haven’t, I swear. I’m just out of town right now.”
There’s a pause, and I can picture Silas’s frown. “You never said anything about going away this weekend. Where are you?”
“Arizona. It was last-minute.”
“Oh? Friends out there?”
“Yeah, I guess. Sort of.” I was hoping to be back home before anyone noticed I was gone. “I’ll fill you in when I see you.”
I hear the heavy creak of his office chair. “Oh, this sounds like something I’d rather hear now.”
There’s that tone of his, the one that says he knows I’m hiding something. He always knows.
I sigh. “I came to meet Abe’s daughter.”
Silence hangs. “Why would you do that?”
This is Silas, I remind myself. I can trust him.
Except Mom obviously didn’t want Silas knowing about this money either. She didn’t want her law-abiding, straight-laced big brother knowing what she was involved in.
“Noah!”
Fuck me. “Mom left money, with a note and Gracie’s address, asking me to bring it to her.”
“Money.”
“Yes, sir. Money.”
There’s another long pause. “How much are we talking about here?”
I hesitate. “Enough to raise eyebrows.”
“You should have talked to me about this first.”
“Why? So you could talk me out of coming here? She asked me to do it, Silas.” I peel myself off the steps and wander away from the trailer, glancing over my shoulder to make sure Gracie isn’t standing there. “And they need it. You should see how they’re living.” I quietly tell him about the fire and Dina overdosing.
“Good lord,” he mutters. “How is the girl handling this?”
“Better than you’d expect. She’s tough.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“Nothing. Just that Mom left it for her.”
“But you didn’t say anything about what Jackie said that night, did you?”
“No.” At least, not all of it.
“That’s for the best, Noah.”
Silas is still in denial. I wish I could be, too. “But why leave the money for Gracie and Dina then, if she didn’t have something to feel guilty about?”
“I imagine she felt sorry for how their lives turned out.”
“Then why not include it as part of the will?” It’s like she didn’t want a record of it anywhere.
“Hmm . . .” I can almost see his brow furrowing as he considers that. “It would have taken months to get to her. It sounds like Dina didn’t have that much time. Had your mother taken any trips to Arizona lately?”
“I don’t know.” We could go days without actually seeing each other, communicating only through texts. She could easily have hopped in her BMW and driven the twelve hours.
“I tried to make it
right. But I couldn’t face her. After all this time, I couldn’t face what I’d done to her.”
What if she was talking about coming here and seeing Dina?
“From what I remember, Abe’s wife didn’t take too kindly to Jackie or anyone from the APD after his death. Maybe Jackie thought she would have refused it. I don’t know, Noah. But leaving money for her old partner’s family isn’t evidence of anything except your mother’s generous heart.”
And maybe a guilty conscience.
Silas’s excuse doesn’t explain the gun holster I also found. But that news is for another time, not over the phone, two states away.
Cyclops’s head suddenly jolts up. A low growl rumbles from his chest, and then he’s charging toward me. I freeze, ready to punt him at the first sign of teeth. But he scampers past me, hiding beneath an overturned wheelbarrow, as a white van rounds the corner, the words Animal Control painted across the side.
“Smart little bastard.”
“Excuse me?” The shock in Silas’s voice has me chuckling.
“Not you. This stray dog.”
“Stray dog?”
“With one eye. Damn ugly thing.”
“Remember that one that bit you?”
I roll my eyes. “Vaguely.” The shift in conversation seems to have defused the tension.
Silas sighs. “So, no idea when you’ll be back?”
“We’re likely putting Dina in rehab tomorrow. I don’t want to leave Gracie alone to do it.” And I got the feeling earlier, when I told her I’d stay, that she was relieved. Though, she’s impossible to read.
“And Gracie? Where will she stay?”
“I got her a room in a motel.”
“I hope it’s nicer than that trailer park.”
“Yeah, it’s decent enough.” Anything’s better than this place. “It’s called Cactus Inn or something like that. Everything around here is named after a cactus or a desert. Anyway, she has enough money to get herself an apartment.”
“Good. How’d she turn out? I remember thinking she’d grow up to be a real looker.”
“You weren’t wrong.” Even scowling, Gracie turns heads.
“Hmm . . .” The sound is laced with insinuation.
“It’s not like that.” Frankly, I’m not sure if she even likes me as a human being.