My Sweet Girl

by Amanda Jayatissa

  We shuffled out of the kitchen and into the living room.

  “Tell them to go away,” she hissed in my ear. “They know you’re upset with her. Tell them to fuck off.”

  The doorstep was quiet. Maybe they’d already gone. I felt like I was going to faint.

  “Paloma?”

  Appy had crossed over from the front door and rapped on the kitchen window, peering directly at us. It took all three of us by surprise. This was my chance. I stamped down hard on Paloma’s foot, driving my shoulder into her neck. It was clumsy, but it bought me the few seconds I needed.

  “Appy!” I screamed. “Call the police.”

  I pushed my way to the front door, screaming in agony from the burns on my palms as I tried to undo the lock.

  That was when I felt the knife, hot and red, swipe at my side. It was a heavy throb. More like a punch than a cut. I turned around, leaning back against the door, and kicked her chest, my fingers searching for the doorknob. I heard the knife fall with a clatter. I found the brass handle just as she reached for me again, my forward motion as I swung open the door throwing her off balance.

  Served that bitch right.

  I didn’t wait to see if she recovered. I turned around and tried to flee. “Help!” I screamed. Everything was swimming around me. I could feel my pulse where she had stabbed me.

  She yanked my shoulder back as I collapsed onto the porch, forcing myself to roll down the stairs. But she was on top of me without missing a beat.

  Her punches and scratches rained down on me. I couldn’t breathe. I could barely see. I tried rolling onto my side but she grabbed a fistful of my hair.

  Anger pumped through me, almost dulling the pain. I couldn’t let her get the better of me now. I reached up and bit her shoulder, as hard as I could.

  “You bitch,” she snarled as my fist finally connected with her jaw. White-hot pain zapped up my arm, but I felt a snap and used that moment to roll on top of her, anchoring my knees on either side of her body.

  It was the first time I really saw her. Her face contorted now in pain and anger. The life that might have been mine.

  “You never should have come here,” I spat. “You should have spoken to me. I would have helped.”

  “Yeah, right. So you could screw me over a second time?”

  My fingers found their way around her neck. The pain from my burns was blinding, the throb in my side wouldn’t recede, but I was determined to hold on.

  “I never screwed you over. It was supposed to be me, all along.”

  “What the fuck do you mean?” Her voice was softer. My thumbs were pressing down hard on her windpipe. I could feel her pulse as well as mine. Black spots danced in front of me.

  But I still needed her to know. Eighteen damn years and the selfish bitch still didn’t get it.

  “The book, Paloma,” I spat as I struggled to stay conscious. I could feel something warm ooze down my side. “Wuthering Heights was my book. You took it from me and never gave it a second thought. It was always about you. Always so entitled. If anyone was meant to be adopted that day, it was me.”

  Her eyes widened a little. I couldn’t tell if it was because she was finally learning the truth or that she was about to pass out. Probably both.

  I was panting now, but I kept on going.

  “Tell me, did it even cross your mind that the book belonged to me? That it should have been me instead of you? That you just went ahead and took something that wasn’t yours?”

  Her face was starting to go slack.

  “I didn’t want to hurt you, Paloma. I didn’t. I was just doing the same thing you were. I was just trying to make things better for myself. How could I have not? You would have done the same. You almost did. It wasn’t my fault you got attacked.”

  I could do it. I could end everything right here. All the guilt and the suffering and lying.

  Each breath I took felt like a new stab in my side.

  “Paloma!” Gavin was running towards me with a baseball bat.

  “Paloma, hang on!”

  Finally, some backup. It was over now. I was safe. It was all over.

  I could hear the sirens in the distance. I guess Gavin or Appy had called the cops. The cool Bay Area breeze fanned at my face. The sky was inky blue and bright with stars. The prettiest sky I had ever seen, even though it was all dimming around me.

  Everything felt like it was moving in slow motion. I could see Gavin run up my drive. At least, I thought it was him. It was all a blur.

  He raised the bat high above his head.

  “I’m here, Paloma. It’s over now.”

  The last thing I heard was a crack.

  51

  SAN FRANCISCO, CA

  Six months later

  THE GIRL SITTING ACROSS from me on the BART gave me a once-over before she sat down. It was a quick, summarizing glance. Not one I’m unused to. Just a brief measure of my level of attractiveness, likelihood of mugging her, of stinking up the place with body odor. But there I was, the model minority—well dressed, clean, attractive enough not to be a visual pollutant, but not so attractive that I would be a threat to the date she was no doubt meeting, in a blouse cut so low that she was just one ill-fated jolt away from nip-slip territory.

  She gave me a little smile. No need to find another seat this evening. Sure, everyone’s nice enough when you’re hitting all the right checkboxes.

  I ran a hand through my now chin-length hair. The change in style did nothing to stop the frizz from coming on strong as the rain spat down outside. I’d spent a good twenty minutes trying to iron it into submission. What a waste of time and energy. Still, it was a nice reminder that things were different now. I think it was one of those bougie designers who once said that a woman who changes her hair changes her life. And nothing has characterized my life more than constant, evolving change.

  I had three more stops to go and it was hard to keep myself from fidgeting. I pulled out my phone and read the email I sent for the millionth time. The reason I was coming out to the city in the first place.

  Dear Sam,

  I’m sorry I’ve been quiet. I’ve read your emails. I got your messages. I understand that you’re angry, and upset, and I can’t say I blame you. I’m sorry for so many things that I know an email would probably never make up for. But we’ve both had to make do with so much already, so here goes—

  I’m sure by now you’ve gathered the truth about what happened, or some version of it anyways. It turns out that our past always has a way of catching up to us, or we catch up to our past, I guess. Either way, it’s been a rough few months.

  That’s why I thought it would be best for me to stay away from you, at least for a little while. I needed time to, well, to wrap my head around everything, as cheesy as that sounds. To come to terms with who I really am. To be honest with myself and carve out some semblance of the life I’ve always wanted. A life without lies. Without masks.

  But I do have one last thing to take care of, and that’s how I left things with you.

  I was right—an email will never cut it. You know I’m terrible with words and I think you deserve to hear an apology from me directly. Could we meet? Maybe we could start over? Heights on Friday, at 7:30?

  x Paloma

  His reply came minutes later—a clipped Sure, see you then. He was wounded, and rightfully so. It’s not every day that the woman you’re seeing accuses you of being a murderer and then refuses to speak to you for six months.

  But he’ll be there. That was who he was. He’d never stand up someone he loved. And I know he did—why else would he not give up? Calling, emailing, going by the house and speaking to the neighbors, even though I was long gone by then.

  The city ebbed and flowed as I made my way out of the station. It was damp and perhaps a little dirtier than usual tonight, but I loved it anyways. I was fin
ally free to float along as I liked. To swim away to my new life, leaving my past behind me, just a black dot on the horizon.

  I was so lost in my own world that I almost bumped into a white man holding hands with a brown woman. I froze for a second, my heart jackhammering in my chest while I fought off the instinct to duck into a dark corner. But I had nothing to be worried about, of course. Of course it wasn’t Gavin and Appy. The woman smiled politely at me and stepped aside, making way for me to get around her. I exhaled as I passed through. I’d done a really good job of avoiding them since the attack, and I’d hate to ruin my streak. I still wake up in a panic every night, with dreams that he killed me instead of her. I know that he’d pretty much saved my life. That they both did, in their own way, even though she was too hopped up on antidepressants and edibles to function half the time. Understandable, I suppose, when you’re drowning in grief. I’ve never lost a child, of course, but I know a little bit about being overwhelmed by the unfairness of it all. To look for different ways of escape.

  I never thought I’d say it, but thank god for Mr. Williams, who took care of everything I didn’t want to deal with—which included the police, the finances, and all the space I needed from the couple across the street. Everything except convincing an overzealous Sri Lankan boy to leave me alone, not that he didn’t politely try. But even he finally shrugged and told me that I should think about making my peace with Sam. That Sam said he would report me missing or something ridiculous like that if I didn’t return his calls.

  A homeless woman sat on the sidewalk wearing an oversized green jacket, her hood pulled all the way over her forehead. I stopped to drop some change in the bowl she had set down by a cardboard sign—god is a woman, and she’s definitely menopausal. I hear you, sister.

  She grabbed my ankle as I started to move away.

  “I know,” she sneered.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I know what you did,” she said, baring her yellow teeth. Bits of spittle flew at me.

  “Get off me,” I barked, pulling my foot away.

  “Excuse me, miss, is this woman troubling you?” A clean-cut Boy Scout type stepped in, ready to save me. But I didn’t need saving. Not anymore.

  “I’m fine.” My tone was rough as I pushed past them both and kept walking. I made sure to kick over her bowl of change as I left. I was never a sweet girl.

  I took a deep breath as I climbed the stairs to the bar. I wanted Sam to be there, seated, when I arrived. If he was seated, then he was committed. He couldn’t leave as easily. Every little bit helps.

  The air was chilly up on the rooftop, and it was early enough that the place wasn’t too busy yet. I spotted Sam right away, at a corner table, away from the bar.

  He was staring at his phone, scrolling the way you do when you don’t really care what’s going on but still want something to do. Killing time, I guess.

  His lips pressed together tightly, and his shoulders were pulled in like he still held on to every molecule of tension from the last months. The police must have really grilled him, because his many, many emails to me explained everything in unnecessary detail. That he never said he worked at the Curry Palace, that the Taj Masala was just across the street and the uniforms looked similar enough for anyone to just assume. That he never, ever claimed that Arun was a friend from work, just a friend. That he never lied. That he never had a reason to. His desperation to be believed grew stronger with each message, even though I knew beyond a doubt that he was innocent.

  But still, he was here, wasn’t he? Angry or not, he had showed. Not trying as hard with his outfit as when he was here the last time, though he did have product in his hair and his sneakers were so white they were practically glowing. He looked thinner than I remembered, and he’d grown a short, neatly clipped beard. I didn’t hate it.

  I tried not to let that distract me. I couldn’t afford to get distracted now.

  He looked up as I approached his table, smiling, though it melted away into disappointed confusion when he locked eyes with me.

  “Sorry, for a second there I thought you were someone else.”

  I didn’t let his deflation affect me.

  “I usually have that effect on people.” I smiled just the right amount. Enough to be amiable but not wide enough to be overly friendly. The balance had to be just right. There was too much riding on this. “I guess I just have one of those faces. This seat taken?”

  His smile this time around was polite, and didn’t really reach his eyes. The smile of someone who still didn’t know he was my very last loose end.

  “Actually, yes. I’m waiting for someone.”

  He instinctively checked his watch while I stuck my hand in my purse just long enough to make sure the knife was still there. Good. You should have left it alone, Sam. You shouldn’t have kept poking, asking to see me, threatening to go to the police.

  “Looks like they’re running late,” I laughed, helping myself to the stool across from him. He had been waiting for at least an hour, after all. Even he wouldn’t wait forever. “I’ll make you a deal. If your date doesn’t show up in the next ten minutes, why don’t we get out of here and go for a walk?”

  He hesitated a moment. I could feel my heart beat harder in my chest. Could hear it in my ears.

  But then he gave me a little smile and shrugged.

  “Sure, why not?”

  I smiled back.

  “Whatever will be, will be.”

  Acknowledgments

  When you are a sappy, gushy softie who expends a considerable amount of energy in order to appear composed, writing acknowledgments is a dangerously slippery slope. I’ve reached for the box of tissues far too many times since starting this, but here we are, my dream has come true, and I am so very grateful. Words on a page will never be enough, but here goes . . .

  To my wonderful, amazing agent/therapist/reassurer/idea-sound-board/friend, Melissa Danaczko. Thank you for always having my back, and working with me to make this story what it is today. It would take a book far longer than this one to realistically convey how lucky I am to have you in my life.

  To my brilliant, inimitable editor, Jen Monroe. I knew from the moment we spoke that you got me and the story I was trying to tell. Your enthusiasm and excitement have made such a difference to (typically anxious) me. I absolutely love working with you and can’t wait to write more dark, twisty stories with you in the years to come.

  To Jessica Mangicaro and Elisha Katz for being so proactive, delightful, and so very good at navigating a terrain which I am absolutely petrified of—marketing. To Loren Jaggers and Stephanie Felty, who handled publicity. To the fantastic production and copyediting team, Jennifer Myers and Angelina Krahn, I am indebted and awed by your attention to detail. To Candice Coote for all your hard work. To Tawanna Sullivan for handling my sub rights.

  To Emily Osborne for my absolutely stunning cover that I can’t stop staring at.

  To everyone else at Berkley who has done such an amazing job of getting this book on the shelf. I am so privileged to have such a wonderful team.

  To my terrific UK & Commonwealth editor, Eve Hall, and the wonderful team at Hodder and Stoughton, especially Sorcha Rose. I am so glad my book found its home across the pond with you!

  To everyone at Stuart Krichevsky Literary Agency, and especially to Hannah Schwartz, who helped me navigate the tricky waters of international agreements and (my worst nightmare) taxes.

  To Hannah Vaughn, my film agent, whose love for the book early on really bolstered my confidence in this story.

  To Janet Reid, aka the Query Shark, who calmed me down, helped my revise my query, and continues to inspire a multitude of writers through her blog.

  To Tory Hunter for being an early reader of my book and whose positivity and helpful feedback gave me the confidence to finally start pursuing representation for my writing.

&nb
sp; A huge thanks to DvPit and its organiser, Beth Phelan, for giving writers from minority backgrounds a platform to connect with agents. The work you do is truly life changing—I should know.

  Any writer will tell you that stringing words together comes with mountains of self-doubt. I don’t know how I could have ever gotten by without the constant stream of support from my cheerleaders.

  To my 2021 Berkley Debut Group—fondly known as the Berkletes. The road to publishing might be bumpy, but we’ve held one another’s hands through the good times and the bad. Meeting you talented, inspirational writers has been my favorite part of this journey.

  To Sisters in Crime, and especially my chapter, the Guppies. To Karin Fitz Sanford, who swapped manuscripts with me and gave me such fantastic feedback. And to the phenomenal Hank Phillippi Ryan, whose support and encouragement means the world to me.

  To Crime Writers of Color, with a huge shout-out to Kellye Garrett.

  To the Sri Lankan writers and creatives who have always supported and encouraged me—Yudhanjaya Wijeratne, Navin Weeraratne, Thilani Samarasinghe, Thushanthi Ponweera, and of course, the multitalented Sandun Seneviratne.

  To the strong, amazing women I am proud to call my friends. Who always go out to bat for me, who are always excited for me, who always keep it real—Hanni, Mondi, Tashi-wawa, Raai, and Mariya.

  To my incredible, supportive family— To Amma & Thaththa, who have always been more excited for my successes than I am. To Malli and Ashi Nangi, for their unwavering love. To Aunty Shehani, and of course, to Thaththi, who told me stories on the way to school every single day.

  To Granna, who taught me, through her own example, what it meant to be fearless and independent. Who encouraged me to unapologetically chase my dreams.

  To my huskies, Hector and Harley, who never let me write in peace but fill our lives with so much love.

  To my little brother, Gavin (who can finally leave me alone now that he has a character named after him), for his fierce, unquestionable support, even when I’m being a demanding princess.