Keep Her Safe(25)

“Whoa.” He holds up his hands, his gaze shifting between me and the blade. “I don’t know what you think—”

“Come near my mother again and I will gut you like a fish,” I hiss, holding the knife inches away from his stomach for impact. “Get the hell off my steps!”

“Okay . . . I’m going. Can you give me room to get by?” he says slowly, calmly.

I take a few steps back, and he edges past me, his key ring dangling from his finger. Ready to fill this park with dust clouds as he speeds away in his fancy ride.

Wait a minute . . . “Why am I letting you go?” I step forward, waving the knife in front of his face, forcing the guy back until he’s pressed against his hood. “I should call the cops on you.”

Panic flickers in his bright blue eyes. “You don’t want to do that.”

“Actually I do. That’s one less dealer to help my mother get high. They’ll love you in prison.” I pull my phone from the back of my shorts. “I hope your mommy’s ready to send you tubs of Vaseline in your care package.”

“I’m not a drug dealer!” he exclaims, irritation flaring in his voice. If I didn’t know better, I’d believe him. But only Mom’s dealers come to our door these days. There was a time when child protective services would make random stops, but that ended when I turned eighteen and they could officially not give a damn about me.

“What do you think, Sims?” If anyone can sniff out another dealer, it’d be him.

“He told me he was a friend.” Sims steps forward until he’s inches away from the guy, taking on a menacing stance.

“I’ve never seen this guy before in my life.” I’d remember. Six-foot-two-ish, square jaw, sandy brown hair in that perfectly messy style. He also has that “I’ve got money” vibe, even in a faded black T-shirt and dark blue jeans. Not what I’d expect my mother’s heroin dealer to look like. And honestly, not the kind of guy I’d expect to come sniffing around a strung-out, haggard thirty-nine-year-old woman. If he were looking for blow jobs as payment, I’m guessing he’d have no issues getting it from the pretty blonde cokeheads on campus.

“Look, I don’t want trouble.” He’s doing his best to ignore Sims, who’s shifting his weight from foot to foot, ready to pounce. “I was coming to drop something off. No one answered the door, so I was going to leave and come back later.” I detect a slight accent, though I can’t place it.

“What d’you wanna give her?” Sims’s gaze drops to the guy’s pockets, looking for this “thing.”

The bastard will just as easily steal it as give it to me. This is the point where my drug-dealing neighbor is no longer useful to me here. In fact, he’s making me angrier. “Go back to your pen, Sims. I’m sure someone’ll be coming around for a dime bag soon enough.”

Taking two steps, Sims turns that menacing gaze toward me, his nostrils flaring. “You know, you’re awful mouthy for a little girl needing help.”

“Do I look like I need help?” I wave the blade at him. “You think I’m stupid? You’re not here to help me. You’re looking for an opportunity. And what’re you gonna do to me, anyway, huh?”

“You’ve always been a bitch,” Sims mumbles, taking a step closer to me, puffing out his lanky chest.

The guy adjusts his stance, looking ready to grab Sims and throw him to the ground.

“Relax, Rich Boy, Sims here is all talk. Plus he’s on probation and if he lays a hand on me, he’s going straight to jail for a long time. Isn’t that right?” I need to stop egging Sims on. I’m banking on him being smart enough to walk away, but I already know he’s an idiot.

Before I can find out how big an idiot, Vilma’s shouting pulls all our attention away. “iLa casa se está quemando!” I look to where she’s pointing, to the smoke curling from the kitchen window.

Oh hell. Mom’s finally gone and done it.

Shoving Sims out of the way, I snap my blade closed and toss it into my purse with one hand while I fumble with my keys using the other. “Mom!” I unlock the door and throw it open, bracing myself. A plume of dark smoke rolls out above me and sails upward.

The kitchen is on fire. No surprise, the toaster oven is the source, angry flames spouting from it, igniting the threadbare curtains that dangle by the window. They go up in a rush, doubling the size of the fire as the flames reach for the cupboards and the walls.

I dive for the fire extinguisher, my heart pounding in my ears. “How do I even use this thing!” I shriek, panicked.

A strong hand yanks it from my grip. The guy I just held at knifepoint pulls the pin and aims the nozzle toward the toaster oven. White foam shoots out toward the flames. He seems to know what he’s doing and I don’t have time to wonder why the hell he’s helping. I turn my focus on Mom, sprawled out on the couch, one arm and one leg dangling off the edge.

As still as the dead.

I dive for her, shoving the coffee table out of the way to make room. Trying to ignore the chaos behind me, I press my ear against her mouth to check for breathing.

I feel nothing.

My feet pound against the floor as I run to my room, for the hollowed-out book where I hid the doses of Narcan and next to it, the breathing mask. The last time she OD’d, the doctor set me up with a course and sent me home with this stuff for when I needed it next.