Look For Me (Detective D.D. Warren #9)(18)

I don’t know what to say anymore. I don’t know what to do.

The lady is staring at me. “This is not your fault,” she says again.

But I don’t believe her, and she knows it.

They drag my mom out of the room. One of the officers is listing off charges. Violation of this, neglect of that. She is cursing and swearing, wearing nothing but a yellow-stained T-shirt. She turns and vomits. The two cops jump back. She sees her moment and races for the door. The only thing between her and freedom is the solid column of her three children, still entwined.

At the last moment, our eyes meet. She stares at me. Wild, crazy. For a moment, I think she sees me. Actually sees me. Because her eyes go sad. Her face looks bleak.

Then she slams into us, knocking us down. She shoves aside the pinch-faced lady, and rushes ahead.

She just gets the door open before the next cop appears on the porch, standing right in front of her. She screams. Trapped, enraged, furious. She vomits again.

On the floor, Manny cries harder and buries his little face against my shoulder. Then the cop has my mom by the arm. He drags her through the pool of vomit, out of the house, off the porch. He takes her away. And my mother, who once read us stories and sang us songs and made us Crazy Tacos, is gone.

The remaining cops are still swearing softly. One has puke on her shoes.

“You need to come with me,” the lady says.

The three of us look up from the floor. But we don’t move.

“I’m sorry. I tried everything.” The woman’s voice catches slightly. “It’s very difficult to find one home that can take three kids,” she says finally. “But I can keep the two of you together.” She looks at me and Lola. “Manny has a different foster family.”

It takes me a moment to understand what she’s saying. When I do, I can feel my heart hiccup in my chest. Then everything goes cold. I don’t, I can’t . . . I hold Manny tighter, even as Lola curls herself up around us.

The woman is holding out her hand. The woman is waiting.

We don’t move. We can’t move.

One of the cops reluctantly steps forward. “Shh,” he says gently. And holds out his arms to take my brother away.

What is the Perfect Family? My name is Roxanna Baez. I’m sixteen years old, and when my teacher first posed this question, said this is what we had to write about, I nearly laughed. There is no such thing, I thought. Why not just have a bunch of high schoolers write about the tooth fairy or Santa Claus?

But lately, I’ve been giving this a lot of thought. I think a perfect family doesn’t just happen. A perfect family has to be made. Mistakes. Regret. Repair. You have to work at it.

This is my family’s story. Please read on.





Chapter 7


I DIDN’T WASTE ANY TIME. After seeing the Amber Alert for Roxanna Baez, I immediately called Sarah and arranged to meet at her apartment. She started pacing the minute she let me in, a wild animal barely in control.

I closed the door behind me. Paused to lock all three locks. Then brought my peace offering to the tiny kitchen table, not saying a word.

Sarah had been the sole survivor of a murder spree nearly two years ago: Drunken roommate brought home a psychopath from the local bar. Psychopath went after all four girls with a hunting knife. Sarah had made it; the other three had not.

The case had garnered nationwide headlines and plenty of attention—including my own. Every snapshot on TV of her pale, shell-shocked face. Every reporter shouting some completely ridiculous, too-personal question while she continued to stare blindly into the camera, a woman still not sure where she was or how she’d made it out alive.

I watched her for a bit, skulking from the shadows. Recon for the wounded. Then . . . I don’t know. She reminded me of me. Of where I’d been, in the beginning. So I’d knocked on her door. Middle of the night. And she’d answered, just as I knew she would, looking like some kind of rabid creature, about to burst out of her own skin.

We talked. I made her promises I had no idea if I or anyone else could keep. Then she cried, though she kept telling me how much she hated tears. And so it began. My project. Identifying other broken souls, trying to teach all of us how to live again. A support group for those who’d been to hell and back, and were still trying to sort out the change in scenery.

Which had just brought me here.

Sarah’s studio apartment looked better. At my suggestion (make your home a place you can feel safe!) she’d painted the walls peach and hung an oversized graphic poster in bright shades of blue, green, and red. The artwork was too busy for my taste, but she claimed it gave her something to focus on in the middle of the night.

Which was the point of our little group, after all: exchanging tricks for chasing the demons away.

“How well did you know her?” I asked now.

I removed two cups of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee from the carrying tray, heavy on the cream and sugar for both, then opened a box of Munchkins. Another tip: There’s no problem a lot of caffeine and too much sugar can’t handle. Though some of the group members preferred hot chocolate to coffee. Whatever.

“I didn’t really know her. Not yet. That’s the whole point!”

Sarah turned. I tossed a jelly Munchkin at her head, applauded silently when she caught it. Her reflexes had improved remarkably in the past few months.

“Start at the beginning,” I advised. Another sip of coffee. Another donut hole.