The Broken Pieces of Us (The Devil's Dust #2.1)

Three Weeks Later

I sit behind the wheel of my black SUV staring at a three-story house. The paint is chipping and worn to the nub. The window at the top of the house broken and is boarded up shitty. Sitting on the front porch is a broken down flannel couch with a lopsided table sitting beside it. I groan, run my hands through my hair, and look at the paper in my hands with the address. It took Doc three weeks to get me anything I could use to find Babs’ niece or sister. The first try cost me five grand for Doc to pay off someone to get into old records. I got a few phone numbers off Babs’ sisters contact list, but they all were disconnected, so that came up empty handed. Last week, Doc came to me and told me she had one last piece of information she could find, Babs’ niece Scarlett’s medical records. It showed several visits of drug overdose; she is a junky. I looked at her information for hours. The folder said she had red hair, green eyes, weighed one hundred and four pounds, and was five feet three inches tall, and she has just turned twenty-one. With that information, I put feelers out for a redheaded young woman hitting up drug dealers or crack houses. I was given several locations, but they all ended up in a dead end.

I look away from the paper in my hand and back at the shitty house. This is the last place in California that Scarlett could be; the last house I was given. I grab my gun, put it in my waistband, and get out of the car. It’s time to see what curse of Hell life has handed me this time.

I walk up the shitty stairs. Every step of my boots, every step I take, the boards creak and moan, warning it may break at any moment. I walk up to the door and stop. What if she isn’t in here? What do I do to try and move forward? The wind blows and a rancid smell crosses my path. It smells toxic, like plastic burning, crack. I run my hands through my hair anxiously as I pull the handle and push the door open.

The soft sound of Johnny Cash singing “Hurt” greets me along with that rancid smell. The smell so strong it makes me cough and my eyes water. I cover my face with the crook of my arm and head in. The lighting is dim and smoky, making it hard to see. Looking over, I see a scratched up table full of spoons, pipes, bongs, and lighters. A couch placed behind it with two naked females and one older male in-between, all passed out. None of the girls are redheads, one a blonde and one with purple hair. I move to the opposite side of the house, looking for Scarlett. I trip, my hands catching my fall on a stair. Looking down at what the hell I tripped on, I see it is someone wearing a beanie and sleeping on the ground wrapped up in a sleeping bag.

“Shit,” I mutter. I look up the stairs, my last place to look. I head up slowly, taking in my surroundings cautiously. I hope she is here, yet by the looks of this place, I pray she isn’t. A door is open just barely at the top of the stairs letting some light shine through. I slowly push it open, finding a guy pulling on some girl’s hair that is colored ink black, fucking her from behind. I pull away from the door and head to the right where another door is open. Peeking through the crack, there are a couple of people sleeping on a stained rug on the floor, and what sounds like a shower running from behind a lit-up door next to a bed. I pull away and run my hands over my face, frustrated. I have come up empty handed again, at the end of the road.

What the fuck would I have done when I found Scarlett is beyond me. I just felt like I needed to find her. I head toward the stairwell, anger overwhelmingly making me grit my teeth. A door right next to the banister catches my eye; it’s closed with just a bit of light glittering beneath it. I grab the door handle, silently praying she is behind this door, and push it open. My eyes widen and my heart stammers against my chest frantically. A pale, thin, redhead is sprawled across a coverless mattress on her back. Wearing nothing but a black ripped up bra and tan panties. Her ribs are sticking out as if she were decaying road kill, her knobby knees slightly lifted from the bed. I walk in and hurry to the side of the mattress, scared to let myself believe I have finally found her. I look the girl over. It has to be her; she looks just like Babs too. This girl’s hair is darker than Babs’, but is still red. She has pale skin and those fucking freckles like Babs. I close my eyes, the pain that she looks like Babs is too much.

“Can I help you?”

I look behind me and find a guy in a tied leopard robe leaning against the door jam. He has dark, long hair and a boney chin with protruding cheek bones. His brows furrowed and calculated as he stares at me with curiosity.

“Nope, think I got it,” I reply curtly, staring back at the fucker with a vengeance.