“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 extra?ar!” 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.”