“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—”
“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?”