Keep Her Safe(23)

Just before she disappears inside, she glances back, her long blonde hair flitting about with the sudden turn. Her face is filled with sheer hopelessness.

And I swear, she looks right at me.

It’s a sucker punch to the chest.

I let my eyes wander to the picture of Noah I keep tucked in my visor. That boy is sweeter than honey and smart as a whip. So generous, too. How he turned out the way he did is a mystery to me. It’s not on account of his father, that’s for damn sure. Blair is as tight as a wet boot and as exciting as a mashed-potato sandwich. Why I didn’t listen to my mama when she tried talking me out of marrying him . . .

Abe. That’s the reason Noah is who he is.

Good ol’ Abraham Wilkes. You can hang your hat on that man. He’s taught Noah to be the fine young man that he’s becoming.

The tightness in my chest grows as I flip the visor up, hiding my boy’s smiling face, his inquisitive eyes.

Would Noah understand why I did what I did tonight, if he ever found out?

Probably not. Most people wouldn’t.

I’m guessing Abe never will.

With a heavy sigh, I climb out of my car and walk toward the room, flicking my spent cigarette to the pavement.





CHAPTER 8


Noah

Tucson, Arizona

“In one mile you will arrive at your destination.”

“Good job for getting me here, Sally.” I let the last drops of my coffee hit my tongue and then I chuck the empty Styrofoam cup to the passenger-side floor, where it joins the others. The caffeine stopped doing the trick around El Paso, and I had to pull over in a Waffle House parking lot to crash for a few hours. I guess the lack of sleep over the past week finally caught up with me.

Now it’s pure adrenaline that’s keeping me going. As if having ninety-eight grand in cash sitting in a gym bag on my backseat isn’t enough to stress me out, I’m about to hand it all to a girl who is basically a stranger, without any explanation, because I don’t have an explanation to give.

Will Gracie Wilkes even remember Mom or me? Doubt it. The papers didn’t say how old she was when Abe died, just that she was young. I’m guessing five or six? The only thing I remember from when I was five was the day I shat my pants at recess.

Add fourteen years and that would make her nineteen, maybe twenty. What will this Gracie do when a strange guy shows up at her home and hands her a pile of money? How many questions will she have for me?

“In two hundred and fifty feet, you will have arrived at your destination,” Sally chirps.

I’m on the outskirts of Tucson. A vast expanse of sand and tall, leggy cacti stretches out to my left, all the way to the mountain range in the distance. It’s a lot greener here than I imagined, and yet plenty different from Texas or Seattle, or anywhere else I’ve been.

A sign ahead of me on the right sways in the light breeze—a metal plaque hanging haphazardly by one chain, rust eating away at the edges. Sleepy Hollow Trailer Park. Named after the street it’s on, obviously.

So Gracie Wilkes lives in a trailer park.

The only trailer park I’ve ever been to was the one on Lake Chelan—outside Seattle—that my friend and his family went to every summer. We’d stay for two weeks, playing tennis and swimming, making out with girls by the bonfire after the parents went to bed.

“You have arrived at your destination.”

I guess not all trailer parks are created equal.

I turn into the main entrance. Rows of mobile units line either side of the lane. They’re all a little different in color and size, but equally dented, stained, and surrounded by junk. Some have chain-link fences to give the illusion of having a yard, but those “yards” are filled with old furniture, scraps of metal, and corroded cars. One even has a toilet sitting outside the front step.

It’s close to two p.m. and empty of people, and yet I feel plenty of eyes on me as I roll through in my black Jeep Grand Cherokee—fresh off the lot only three months ago—at five miles per hour, searching in vain for unit 212. It’s a game, because nothing is consistent. Some doors display their number in brass, others are scribbled in black marker on pieces of wood and hung on fences. Another has a cardboard sign taped to the streetlight.

These people are dirt poor; there’s no two ways about it. That means Abe’s daughter is dirt poor. I guess that answers one question for me—this girl is going to take the money and run without a second glance at me.

But how did they end up here? Dina must not be alive.

If she is . . .

The Dina Wilkes I remember wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this, let alone let her daughter live here.

A woman as old as Moses sits in a ratty chair on her front porch, watching me intently. I lower my window, and a waft of hot, dry air and dust invades my cool air-conditioned interior. “Afternoon, ma’am. Can you please tell me where 212 is?”

Her eyes narrow. “Vete a la chingada.”

Spanish. Shit. My Spanish sucks.

“Uh . . . Lo siento . . . Número 212?”

“Come mierda!” Leaning over, she spits on the ground next to her.

Yeah . . . it doesn’t sound like she’s going to help me. I give the truck a little bit of gas and keep rolling forward. A small white sign with the number 212 neatly written hangs from the fence post ahead of me. I glance back at the old lady—Gracie’s next-door neighbor, I now realize—to find her glaring at me. I wonder if she’s suspicious of everyone who comes through here, or just the corn-fed Texas boy with the nice ride.