“I’m sorry.” Milo wipes rain out of his eyes. “But I told you it was stupid. I told you—”
Behind him, an unsteady figure moves out of an alley. It only takes a few seconds for me to recognize her. I point and, slowly, Milo turns. We both stare at Sam.
Sam’s eyes are cloudy and faded. They widen as we near and I know this is a mistake. I recognize her. She doesn’t recognize me. “Who’s there?”
Milo motions me forward with one hand and an eye roll. I bump my chin into the air and brush past him, making sure my shoulder catches his arm.
“Samantha Stewart?”
Sam’s mouth twitches like her name has a taste.
“I wanted to ask you a few questions.”
“Wiiiccckkkeettt Taatte.” She draws my name out. “The drug dealer’s daughter . . . Sia Tate’s daughter.”
I stop. I don’t like the way she says my mom’s name. “Yes, that’s right. I wanted to ask you a few questions about my mom.”
I wait and Sam doesn’t say anything. I can’t tell if that’s a Yes, go on or a Hell no so I plunge ahead.
“I know that my mom was an informant. I know she was scared.”
“Your mama was scared of a lotta things.”
“Like what?” The rain starts to come down harder, leaking under my jacket.
“Your daddy . . . your daddy’s friends . . . how you would look at her.” Sam’s smile is slow and secret and I can’t tell if it’s for me or the bottle she sees in my hand. “She hated how you would look at her.”
“I hated how she looked sometimes.” I sound defensive. I am defensive. Gritting my teeth, I put myself between Sam and Milo and tell myself it’s so he can’t see her nasty smile.
I know it’s because there are tears in my eyes.
“She loved you.” Sam’s attention drifts up and away, following something no one else can see. “She didn’t understand you, but she loved you. She was in awe.”
I don’t want to hear it. It doesn’t matter.
“What—” My voice cracks and I clear my throat. “What do you mean my mom was afraid of my dad’s friends?”
“They were a problem. He was a problem. Always following her, pressing up on her.”
Something cold coils in my stomach. “Which friend?”
“The big one. She was so afraid of the big one.”
I wince—can’t help it—and I have to force myself to ask even though I know the answer. “Do you remember the big one’s name?”
“Joe. His name was Joe.”
“He scared her enough to commit suicide?”
Sam shakes her head hard. “Not suicide.”
“She jumped off a building, Sam. That’s called suicide.”
“You seen the tape?” Her eyes fix on the bottle and I draw it away, watching how she watches it.
“What tape?”
“The security tape. I haven’t seen it either, but I was told all about it. Those policemen never figured out who else was up there, but she wasn’t alone.” Sam runs her tongue over her cracked lips. “Sia didn’t jump. She was pushed.”
32
Pushed? Dimly, I’m aware of Milo coming closer and I pray he won’t touch me. I feel like I’m breathing through a straw, like my skin may split. Pushed!
“Who told you about the tape?” I manage.
Samantha shakes her head, eyes still fixed on the bottle in my hand. I want to throw it at her.
“Do you remember anything else?” I ask.
“Maybe if you come again later, I’ll remember more.”
I bet. And if I bring more booze, I bet you’ll remember a ton more.
Whether or not any of this is true is the real question.
“Thanks for your help, Sam.” I put the bottle on the ground between us and leave, making my way back to the car with Milo trailing behind me. He pops the locks on the ancient Ford and we pile in.
Pushed.
“It doesn’t make any sense.” I paw wet hair out of my eyes, tuck it behind my ears. “If you’re going to kill someone, you don’t drag them up flight after flight of stairs and throw them out a window.”
“You do if you need it to look like a suicide.”
I cut my eyes to Milo. I don’t get it. He’s not being an ass. He sounds . . . thoughtful.
I yank my gaze forward. “If you’re going to kill someone, you make sure it takes. Gun. Knife. Strangling. You don’t want witnesses. You don’t want any chance that the person survives.”
“True. Ideally, that’s exactly what you do.” Milo stretches out his legs, settling into the driver’s seat like he’s settling into the idea. “What if you need to eliminate someone without risking repercussions?”
“Like with the cops?” I ask. Like with my dad?
Milo turns, realizes I’m staring at him. We both wrench our eyes away.
“Yeah, like the cops.” This time, his tone has shifted. Milo agrees so easily I know he doesn’t agree at all. He’s thinking of my dad too. Or someone like him.
Amazing how I remember so much about my dad and I don’t remember her loving me. . . . I want to. Desperately. What kind of sick joke is it that I can remember the things I want to forget, but this? This memory that Sam has and I don’t? It’s a memory I want to keep and I’ve lost it.