She’s right to be suspicious.
Should I tell Gracie about Mantis?
And why did Dina have this hidden under the trailer?
And how did my mother end up with this money?
Gracie’s gaze drifts over the parking lot, watching a woman and a small child head toward the hospital, a bouquet of pink carnations in the woman’s grip. “I’ve always wondered if there was something my mother wasn’t telling me.”
Exactly what I’m wondering, too.
I notice a crinkled, worn picture in the box that looks like it’s been passed through a hundred sets of hands. It’s of a young, fresh-faced Dina, posing in front of the typical blue backdrop of a school picture. “You two have the same eyes,” I note absently.
“Oh, right, and then there’s that,” Gracie scoffs. “Do you see that heart-half charm on her necklace?”
“Yeah?”
“She told me that my dad gave that to her.”
“So?”
“She didn’t meet my dad until she was seventeen.”
“And she can’t be more than twelve or thirteen here,” I say, catching on.
“Exactly.” Gracie shakes her head “Why lie about a stupid necklace?”
“Maybe she got mixed up?”
“Maybe.” She doesn’t sound at all convinced.
“I find the best way to get information is to . . .” I flip the picture over to check the back, and my voice drifts as I see the name scrawled across the top right corner in blue ink.
Betsy, 2002.
“Is to . . .?” Gracie prompts.
“Ask questions,” I mutter absently, struggling to make sense of the pieces. My mother said the name Betsy that night. Why is it written on a picture of Dina? Does Dina have another name? What was it my mom said when I asked her who Betsy was? Something about her biggest regret, or— “What the hell!”
Gracie’s panicked voice grabs my attention, even though my mind is swimming in all these bits of new information. Her gaze is locked on the sidewalk near the hospital entrance, where Dina rushes along in the pair of light blue pajamas that Gracie brought to her earlier, her arms hugging her frail body, casting furtive glances this way and that.
Looking every bit the escapee that she is.
“Stay here.” Gracie, her clothes and face and legs streaked with soot, climbs out of my Cherokee and goes charging toward her mother.
CHAPTER 19
Officer Abraham Wilkes
April 21, 2003
“I’ve noticed you around here these past few days, talkin’ to folks.” The man smooths his calloused hand over the ice-maker, frowning at the dent. The tool belt strapped around his wiry hips tells me he’s some sort of maintenance man for The Lucky Nine.
“Yes, sir. I’m looking for a girl.” With no luck, after five days of searching, before and after shifts, on my days off. Here, and every other motel, and on the streets. I’m beginning to think Jackie was telling the truth and Betsy doesn’t want to be found. “You spend a lot of time around here?”
“Every damn day.” The man shakes his head, muttering about fools as he rubs a motor-grease-coated finger over the vending machine next to the ice-maker, where someone tagged it with black spray paint. “If my mama caught me doing this, she’d tan my hide.”
I grin at him. “Our mamas sound about the same.” His skin is a touch darker than mine. He must be in his early fifties, and on the too-thin side, the jutting bones around his neck peeking out from beneath the loose collar of his wrinkly work shirt. I’d peg him as an uncomplicated, hardworking man. One of those guys who start their day at the same time without need for an alarm, who sit down to the same three simple meals delivered from a can or a frozen-food box, who buy new pants and shoes only when the current ones are beyond repair.
“Maybe we should have the two of them stand guard for the next time those hoodlums decide to bust this open.”
“That a common problem?”
“Almost every week, lately. Vending machine company tells me I’m the one who has to pay for it.”
“Hardly sounds fair.”
“Fair ain’t a word I’d bother using around here. But don’t you worry. I’ll catch them, all right. They wanna be stealing money, let them try and steal it from my pockets. We’ll see how that goes.”
“You be careful. I don’t want to be reading a story about you in the news. It’s best to call the police.”
The man guffaws. “If the police come out this way, it won’t be for vending machine vandals.”
I believe him. I’ve stopped by The Lucky Nine every day. It’s always the same—people darting from car to room to car, their heads down. Not wanting to be seen. Few linger around the poorly lit exterior of the three long rectangular buildings that make up this place. The ones who do, I’d keep a close eye on. I don’t doubt they’re up to no good, and it’s worse than stealing soda and small change. “Tell you what, you give me a call next time something happens and I’ll make sure someone pays a visit out here.” I hand him my business card.
He tips his head to peer at me, his wise brown eyes surveying my jeans and T-shirt. “So, who you lookin’ for?”
I hold up the picture.
He studies it long and hard—more intently than anyone else I’ve shown it to, as if he truly wants to help me—and then nods. “She hasn’t been here in almost a week.”
My heart skips a beat. “You know her?”
“Don’t know her. Seen her. Pretty little thing. She was staying over in A Block.” He nods to the building across from us.
“When did she leave?”
“Like I said, haven’t seen her in a week. Girls come and go around here. A lot. Never know, she might be back around.”
“Would you do me a kindness and call me if you see her again?”
He takes his time, leaning over to pick up his toolbox. “Who’s she to you?”
My stomach clenches with that gnawing guilt I can’t shake. “Someone I should have looked out for a long time ago.”
CHAPTER 20
Grace
“What the hell are you doing out of your room, Mom?”
“Grace! Oh, thank God. I was going to walk home.” She peers at me through wild eyes. Not the same wild eyes I’ve seen countless times before, when every thought, every action, every need is trained on her next high.
This is different.
It’s worse.
“It would take you an hour to walk there, and you look ready to collapse!” She’s hunched over, her arms folded around her chest, her face a deathly shade of pale. “Besides, there’s nothing to go back to, remember?”
She reaches out to seize my wrist. “Did you get the box?”
“Yeah. But—”
“Okay. Good. We need to get out of here.” She begins tugging at my arm. For a woman as frail as she is, she has more strength than I’d expect. Whether it’s adrenaline or fear or plain madness that’s fueling this, I can’t say, but I’m forced to grab hold of her forearm with my free hand to keep her put.
“No. You need to get back to your hospital room. Dr. Coppa is not going to keep helping us if you pull this shit!”
“He came to my room!” she hisses, scanning the parking lot again.
“Of course he did! He’s your doctor!”
“No, not him. Him!”
“Who?”
“This cop. I’ve never seen him before, but . . .” Her face scrunches up with her frantic head shake. “But I know it was him!”
The police? Is that what this is about? Vilma did say that some man—maybe a cop—came by the trailer park. To do what, exactly, I don’t know because I didn’t see any caution tape. “Did he say anything about arresting you?” I ask as calmly as I can.
“Arresting me . . .” A nervous laugh escapes her. “If only.”
“What does that mean?”
“After all these years, they’re still watching.” Drops of sweat trail down the side of her face.
Jesus. “Did you get your dose?” Given how crazy she’s acting, she must be overdue.
“Don’t you patronize me, Grace. I know what I sound like, but there are things you don’t understand.”
Such as what’s in that box?
Again, she casts a furtive look around. “I can’t stay here.”