Keep Her Safe(43)

“Did she say that a cop came by?” I ask. I remember that much from Spanish class.

“She said ‘maybe.’ I guess he wasn’t in uniform?”

“Javier bloqueó la puerta para usted.” She points toward the giant piece of plywood blocking the gaping hole where the front door used to be.

“Tell him gracias.”

“Tell who ‘gracias’?”

“Her son. He put that wood up to try and keep people out.”

I trail her up the stairs with a frown. “Why would people want to come into a burned-out trailer?”

“There’s always something to steal. Wiring . . . copper pipes . . .” Her slender arms strain against the weight of the plywood board.

“Here, let me.”

“I can do it.” She resists my help, refusing to let go even as I tower behind her, grabbing the sides and dragging the plywood to the side, my chest rubbing against her slender back in the process.

“Are you always so stubborn?”

I wait for a snippy comment in return but she ignores me, slipping through the gaping doorway into the mess beyond.

The air reeks of wet soot. Chunks of charred drywall, wood, and insulation litter the floor and gaping holes in the ceiling allow the sun in to cast an unflattering spotlight on the little that’s left—drab brown paneling along the walls, a tacky gold picture frame, bits of a sodden couch. The carpet beneath my feet is matted and damp from all the water used to fight the fire. It reminds me of that dirty stray outside.

“I don’t remember it looking so shitty,” Gracie murmurs. “I guess being in that hotel spoiled me . . . See?” She points out fingerprints around the old tube television. “Someone’s already been in here. Probably hoping to find money or my mom’s drug stash.” She snorts. “Joke’s on them.”

She sifts debris this way and that with her sneaker. “My nan must be rolling in her grave as we speak. She never had much, but this trailer was hers and she kept it clean and tidy.”

“When did she die?”

“Five years ago. Heart attack. Living here wasn’t so bad back then, even though I slept on the couch. Mom wasn’t into the heavy stuff.” She smiles wistfully. “Nan would tiptoe around in the kitchen on the weekend and whip up a batch of pancakes. I’d wake up to the smell of them. And we’d sit around the kitchen table and play card games and dominoes for hours, with game shows in the background. Nan loved her game shows.” Gracie heads for the far corner of the trailer—the one farthest from the kitchen, where the damage isn’t as bad—and leans over to inspect the scattered contents of what I assume are Dina’s purse and wallet.

And I can’t help but admire the shape of Gracie’s thighs in those shorts.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I give my head a shake. “What about your grandfather?”

“My mom’s father wasn’t in their lives. My nan lived with this guy—Brian—for years, but they split up before we moved here.”

She shoves everything into the purse and collects it, tucking it under her arm. “I need to check the bedrooms.”

I follow Grace down the hallway, maneuvering past dangling ceiling tiles and insulation. “Should we be in here?”

“Who’s going to stop us?” She curses softly, brushing at a sooty streak against her new T-shirt.

“No, I mean it’s probably a hazard.”

“You can go outside if you’re afraid.”

I heave a sigh to let her know that I’m annoyed. “What do you need in here, anyway? Doesn’t look like there’s much to save.”

She enters the first bedroom, which is in only marginally better shape than the kitchen and living room. Scraps of paper are strewn all over the floor and burnt cardboard shoe boxes have been cast aside. The thieves have been rooting around in here, too.

Gracie steps over the heaps of trash, heading for the nightstand to collect a square book from the floor. She attempts to flip the cover open, but it falls apart within her grasp. I hear her hiss “dammit” under her breath. “Their wedding album.” She tosses the book to the bed, a look of dismay twisting her features. “And those were all her pictures. They’re all gone. Every last one.”

It takes me a moment to realize that the scraps of paper littering the carpet are photographs. Were photographs.

She moves for the closet. And pauses. “You shouldn’t leave the money alone out there.”

“I can bring it in and—”

“I left a list of rehab centers on your dash. The nurse marked off the best ones. Call them to see which ones are taking people right away.”

I sigh with relief. She’s going to use the money. Good. “So your mom has agreed?”

“Let me worry about that. You call. From outside.”

A dismissal if I’ve ever heard one. “Holler if you need me.”



* * *



“I thought dry heat was supposed to be easier to manage.”

The old woman, Vilma, raises an eyebrow.

“Hot.” I fan myself with the rehab list, beads of sweat beginning to form at the back of my neck. I told Gracie I’d be within earshot, but I’m regretting that now. She’s been in there for a good twenty minutes, banging away at something metal-sounding, and I’m baking under a hot desert sun on these concrete steps.