Nice Girls(30)

“That’s amazing,” I said. Mrs. Jackson nodded, not looking at me.

“Demetrius was a miracle. He changed her life for the better,” said Mrs. Jackson. Her voice was hoarse. She cleared her throat. “When DeMaria got pregnant, it seemed like the end of the world for us. She was moody, upset all the time. Picking nasty fights. She complained that her life was worth shit . . . not worth living.

“But the day after DeMaria gave birth, I knew something had happened to her. She was glowing in the hospital, all calm with Demetrius in her arms. I knew she’d be more responsible as a mother.”

“I guess having a baby forces you to grow up,” I said. Demetrius was falling asleep in his grandmother’s arms.

“I guess it does,” said Mrs. Jackson, sounding doubtful. “But DeMaria’s change was drastic. She was like a different person. One day she was pregnant and suicidal, and the next? Like a saint. All calm. Even when her dumb ex-boyfriend came around, DeMaria ignored him. She had goals now, you know?”

“Is her ex still in the picture?”

Mrs. Jackson shook her head, scoffing.

“Her ex is a dumbass. Charles was arrested in a drug bust right after Demetrius was born. Caught dealing marijuana. That was when things ended. But the dumbass was still in prison when DeMaria disappeared,” added Mrs. Jackson. “Otherwise, he would’ve been my first suspect.”

I nodded. The angry ex seemed obvious—someone bitter over being rejected by his girlfriend and stressed over the responsibilities of a new child. But if the ex was locked away, then he couldn’t have killed her.

Mrs. Jackson moved Demetrius off her lap, cradling him in her arms. She sat in the middle of the sofa, the orange light glowing softly to her right. Over her head, the painting showed a landscape of trees, all soft gray and brown, the sky a gentle white. There was no grass in the painting, only dark brown earth. It was a ghostly image, faint and surreal. Mrs. Jackson sat poised beneath it, as if she, too, were part of the painting. I realized that if Mrs. Jackson had never moved, she could have disappeared into the background. I wouldn’t have noticed.

Our eyes met. I turned back to my notebook, skimming through my list of questions.

“You probably heard DeMaria was a hood rat,” said Mrs. Jackson suddenly. “A troublemaker with a criminal record, right? Like she deserved it?”

I swallowed, unsure of what to say.

“DeMaria had a DWI. She was driving home drunk from some boy’s party. That was two years ago. But this all started in high school,” said Mrs. Jackson, staring at the ground. “I don’t know what happened to her. She was a sweet kid. Very, very shy. And then high school . . . I didn’t recognize her. One second, she’d be angry; the next, just so sad. Couldn’t get out of bed sometimes. These weren’t normal feelings, either. Everything was so extreme with her. Almost life or death.

“She was acting out, skipping school, sneaking out. She stopped trying anymore in class. But I thought she was with the wrong crowd, you know? The kids who smoke weed all day and think they’re destined to be some famous rapper or entertainer. Half of them are delusional. The rest are desperate.”

“That sounds . . . rough.”

“Yeah. But there was one incident in her junior year.” Mrs. Jackson’s voice was growing faint, almost a whisper now. “Apparently, she’d been getting bullied by another girl. She never did anything about it. Until lunch that day. I don’t know what happened, but DeMaria slapped her.”

“What?”

“Just one slap,” she murmured. “The administration stepped in immediately. She was suspended for two weeks.”

I stiffened, the blood draining out of my face. I could picture the scene without much effort: the anger seething in her hand as she swung, the relief that she’d finally done it.

“Violence is not appropriate on a girl,” murmured Mrs. Jackson, “but DeMaria was boiling.”

I remembered the flash of red hair and my hands digging into Carly’s scalp.

“Was DeMaria ever in a gang?” I croaked.

Mrs. Jackson frowned.

“My daughter was no gangbanger, if that’s what you’re implying. She had a rough streak, and she was stupid when she was young. But DeMaria was a good mother.”

“I—I know that, Leticia, I was just—”

“And it’s not bad enough that some monster takes my daughter and chops her up like some . . . meat.” Mrs. Jackson practically spat out the word. “Then it’s the news and the police. They didn’t give a shit about DeMaria for three months. She was just some hood rat on the run to them. Now they find her body parts, and they still don’t care. Just call her names.”

“I’m sorry, Leticia,” I said softly.

“I tried putting up signs for DeMaria, but almost no stores would let me. I kept calling the police. Every. Single. Damn. Day. And they stopped taking my calls. I tried telling the news about DeMaria, and they said thank you and never aired it. The only thing I could do was pray. And even that felt useless.” Mrs. Jackson shook her head, her gaze on the floor. “I just wanted something for her. But nothing happened. And when that Olivia girl disappeared . . . I knew it was over for DeMaria.”

Mrs. Jackson’s shoulders were shaking. She sniffed, bending her head over the baby in her arms, her face hidden. I realized that she was crying.