Before She Disappeared(61)

“This is no place for girls.”

“I can handle Johnson—”

“It’s not my son you should fear.”

The noise turns into a riot of pounding feet and streaming expletives. Heading straight at us.

I want to ask more questions. I want to understand. But Roseline is already shoving me toward the back door.

“If you find my Livia,” Mrs. Samdi hisses, wrenching open the door.

“Wait—”

“Do not bring her home to this.”

Then Roseline Samdi shoves me straight out. I stagger down the steps, arms pinwheeling for balance. I’ve just come to a stop, when I hear male voices, shouting behind me.

“Mom!”

“Stop her!”

“What the fuck, J.J.!”

I don’t spare a moment to look back. I bolt away from the house. I run fast, then faster, not even glancing behind me when I hear the rat-a-tat of footsteps chasing me. Though just for a second, out of the corner of my eye, I spot a shockingly tall, skinny Black man wearing a red tracksuit and loads of gold chains. Retro man, I recognize. The guy from Angelique’s school who’s dressed like a time capsule from 2002.

There’s a look on his face. A warning.

I add a fresh burst of speed just as a gunshot splits the air. Followed by another.

I dodge left, hunching my shoulders to make myself as small a target as possible as I pound down the sidewalk, gasping through my tears. Another left, another right. Keep on trucking. Don’t look back. Don’t ever look back.

Paul, I think wildly. Then the giant hole in my chest gapes open, and I run through that, too. Faster, faster, faster.

Don’t look back don’t look back don’t look back.

I run so fast my tears dry before they can stain my cheeks. I race so hard I’m not even in this city, but somewhere far away where the trees are sinister shadows and the moon is snatching at my hair and I have to squeeze my eyes shut against the sheer terror.

Don’t look back don’t look back don’t look back.

Next thing I know, I’m plowing into the Dunkin’ Donuts, where my new friends are staring at me.

“Call the police, call the police, call the police!” I scream at Charadee.

Which she does, except I don’t remember the rest; I’m crying too hard, my mind a wreck of then and now, what was and what is. What will never be again.

Eventually Lotham bursts through the door. He takes one look at my devastated face and pulls me into his arms.

“Paul,” I sob hysterically against his chest.

He lets me collapse against him, and holds me as I weep.





CHAPTER 20




I sit in a booth at Stoney’s. On the table in front of me: a mug of coffee, a glass of water, and a giant box of Munchkins that Charadee shoved into my hands as I was leaving. The box is open. I’ve managed to eat two, which explains the powdered sugar on my fingers, lips, and cheek. Lotham disappeared long enough to retrieve a damp washcloth. Now, he uses it to wipe gingerly at my snot-and tear-stained face. I don’t make a move to stop him or assist.

My brain has short-circuited. My heart has exploded in my chest. That nothing actually happened to me is the least of my worries.

“Coffee,” Lotham orders.

I lift the mug, take a sip.

“Sugar.”

He provides a chocolate Munchkin. I chew obediently.

“Water.”

I move on to the glass.

“Repeat.”

So, I do. Two, three, four more times. Till my coffee mug is dry and the water gone and a suspicious number of donuts missing as well. Judging by the smear of red jam at the corner of Lotham’s mouth, I’m not the only one using pastries to self-medicate.

“Start at the beginning.”

I try. I’m not really sure what there is to say. I met with Mrs. Samdi. I asked her a variety of questions about her daughter, Livia, most of which she couldn’t answer. Meaning I basically learned what Detective Lotham had surmised the day before—Livia’s family wasn’t exactly the loving sort.

“She ordered you to leave,” he repeats now.

“Someone arrived. At the front. I could hear a commotion. I never saw who, but Mrs. Samdi’s demeanor changed. She shoved me out the back. She said . . .” I draw a shaky breath. “She said the house wasn’t safe for girls. She told me if I found her daughter, not to bring her home.”

“Why isn’t their house safe for girls?”

“I don’t know.”

“The son, J.J.—”

“Johnson.”

Lotham arches a brow.

“You should call him that,” I insist. “Really pisses him off. Apparently, you can’t score any street cred as a Johnson.”

“Definitely not.”

“But she also implied he wouldn’t hurt his sister. Family doesn’t go after family. Someone else, I’m guessing one of Johnson’s acquaintances, bosses, I don’t know. Higher on the criminal food chain.”

“Okay. So Mrs. Samdi shoves you out the rear door. You take off and they—”

“I didn’t see.”

“—give chase. And fire a gun?”

“I heard gunshots. But I didn’t stop to look. Firing at me, firing at someone else, someone else firing at them firing at me. Your guess is as good as mine.”