Keep Her Safe(49)

“Every damn day.” The man shakes his head, muttering about fools as he rubs a motor-grease-coated finger over the vending machine next to the ice-maker, where someone tagged it with black spray paint. “If my mama caught me doing this, she’d tan my hide.”

I grin at him. “Our mamas sound about the same.” His skin is a touch darker than mine. He must be in his early fifties, and on the too-thin side, the jutting bones around his neck peeking out from beneath the loose collar of his wrinkly work shirt. I’d peg him as an uncomplicated, hardworking man. One of those guys who start their day at the same time without need for an alarm, who sit down to the same three simple meals delivered from a can or a frozen-food box, who buy new pants and shoes only when the current ones are beyond repair.

“Maybe we should have the two of them stand guard for the next time those hoodlums decide to bust this open.”

“That a common problem?”

“Almost every week, lately. Vending machine company tells me I’m the one who has to pay for it.”

“Hardly sounds fair.”

“Fair ain’t a word I’d bother using around here. But don’t you worry. I’ll catch them, all right. They wanna be stealing money, let them try and steal it from my pockets. We’ll see how that goes.”

“You be careful. I don’t want to be reading a story about you in the news. It’s best to call the police.”

The man guffaws. “If the police come out this way, it won’t be for vending machine vandals.”

I believe him. I’ve stopped by The Lucky Nine every day. It’s always the same—people darting from car to room to car, their heads down. Not wanting to be seen. Few linger around the poorly lit exterior of the three long rectangular buildings that make up this place. The ones who do, I’d keep a close eye on. I don’t doubt they’re up to no good, and it’s worse than stealing soda and small change. “Tell you what, you give me a call next time something happens and I’ll make sure someone pays a visit out here.” I hand him my business card.

He tips his head to peer at me, his wise brown eyes surveying my jeans and T-shirt. “So, who you lookin’ for?”

I hold up the picture.

He studies it long and hard—more intently than anyone else I’ve shown it to, as if he truly wants to help me—and then nods. “She hasn’t been here in almost a week.”

My heart skips a beat. “You know her?”

“Don’t know her. Seen her. Pretty little thing. She was staying over in A Block.” He nods to the building across from us.

“When did she leave?”

“Like I said, haven’t seen her in a week. Girls come and go around here. A lot. Never know, she might be back around.”

“Would you do me a kindness and call me if you see her again?”

He takes his time, leaning over to pick up his toolbox. “Who’s she to you?”

My stomach clenches with that gnawing guilt I can’t shake. “Someone I should have looked out for a long time ago.”





CHAPTER 20


Grace

“What the hell are you doing out of your room, Mom?”

“Grace! Oh, thank God. I was going to walk home.” She peers at me through wild eyes. Not the same wild eyes I’ve seen countless times before, when every thought, every action, every need is trained on her next high.

This is different.

It’s worse.

“It would take you an hour to walk there, and you look ready to collapse!” She’s hunched over, her arms folded around her chest, her face a deathly shade of pale. “Besides, there’s nothing to go back to, remember?”

She reaches out to seize my wrist. “Did you get the box?”

“Yeah. But—”

“Okay. Good. We need to get out of here.” She begins tugging at my arm. For a woman as frail as she is, she has more strength than I’d expect. Whether it’s adrenaline or fear or plain madness that’s fueling this, I can’t say, but I’m forced to grab hold of her forearm with my free hand to keep her put.

“No. You need to get back to your hospital room. Dr. Coppa is not going to keep helping us if you pull this shit!”

“He came to my room!” she hisses, scanning the parking lot again.

“Of course he did! He’s your doctor!”

“No, not him. Him!”

“Who?”

“This cop. I’ve never seen him before, but . . .” Her face scrunches up with her frantic head shake. “But I know it was him!”

The police? Is that what this is about? Vilma did say that some man—maybe a cop—came by the trailer park. To do what, exactly, I don’t know because I didn’t see any caution tape. “Did he say anything about arresting you?” I ask as calmly as I can.

“Arresting me . . .” A nervous laugh escapes her. “If only.”

“What does that mean?”

“After all these years, they’re still watching.” Drops of sweat trail down the side of her face.

Jesus. “Did you get your dose?” Given how crazy she’s acting, she must be overdue.

“Don’t you patronize me, Grace. I know what I sound like, but there are things you don’t understand.”