Look For Me (Detective D.D. Warren #9)(73)

“I know.”

“Do you want to live happily ever after?”

“I’m not sure I know what that is.”

“Husband? Kids?”

“I can’t imagine ever trusting a man that much. I can’t imagine small life-forms depending on me that much.”

Sarah nodded thoughtfully. “Survivor’s guilt?” she asked me.

“Probably.”

“You saved that college student. You’re working on saving me. And now Roxy. Will that make a difference?”

I had to smile. “Sarah, I never want to trivialize what you went through, but in the end, you had one really bad night—”

“Whereas you had four hundred and seventy-two really bad days?”

“Something like that. Do you like our group?” I asked her.

“Yes.”

“Does it help?”

“Definitely.”

“Then I’m happy this is what I do. It’s enough. For now.”

“Really? Then what’s with your left hand?”

I tucked it against my side reflexively, as if steeling for a blow. “Just a sparring injury—”

“Don’t lie. Don’t tell me the truth if you’re not ready to tell me the truth, but don’t lie. You’re all I’ve got, Flora. You lie to me . . .”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Like you said. Four hundred and seventy-two really bad days. I get that.”

I stared down at my left hand. The white bandage spotted red. And I felt ashamed. Genuinely ashamed. But not enough to talk.

After more than a year with Jacob, maybe I simply didn’t have that much shame left.

“Crash here?” Sarah was asking. “I don’t feel like being alone tonight.”

“Sure,” I said, willing myself not to pick at the bandage anymore.

Sarah closed up her computer. We’d done this drill before, especially in the beginning when her nightmares had been at their worst. She got out the extra blankets and pillow. We took turns brushing our teeth in the tiny bathroom. Pajamas for her, oversized T-shirt for me. I crashed on the sofa. Sarah tucked in to her single bed.

In the dark, I could feel the bandage on my left hand again. And just beneath the surface, a wooden splinter, embedded deep.

So much time in the beginning. Alone in a coffin-sized box. Where I stabbed my fingers into the crudely bored air holes, and played with the slivers in my fingertips simply to have something to do.

Pain then, sharp and grounding.

Pain now, exquisite and familiar.

The ways I have healed. The ways I’m still broken.

I wondered where Roxy Baez was right now. Was she sleeping, collapsed from an exhausting day? Or even now plotting her next steps?

But when I finally fell asleep, I didn’t dream of Roxy. As I still did too often, I dreamed of Jacob Ness. He was smiling as he closed his clawlike fingers around my shoulders. Then reached down and slowly lifted up my bandaged hand.

Gotcha, he said. You and me will be together till the bitter end.

And we both knew he was right.





Chapter 27


Name: Roxanna Baez

Grade: 11

Teacher: Mrs. Chula

Category: Personal Narrative

What Is the Perfect Family? Part V

Where is this perfect family? How can you find them? Can you please help me turn mine into one? Especially after the state has torn us apart?

My sister cries. All night long. I hold her, I try to comfort her, but then I cry, too. Nine months after arriving at Mother Del’s, I don’t know how much longer we can make it. So many days of stress, so many nights of terror. I’m the big sister. I’m supposed to be strong and capable. Take care of your little sister. How many years of my life have I heard that? Then, take care of your baby brother.

I’ve tried, I’ve tried, I’ve tried.

Now Manny is gone and Lola is clearly dying. Not on the outside but on the inside. She has become a shadow person, going through the motions, till the end of the day when she drags herself upstairs to the babies. She cradles them in her bony arms. And cries even more.

The community theater had been her refuge. But after the night with the whiskey bottle, Roberto and Anya started showing up. Turns out, Anya always wanted to be a star. And Roberto is her number one fan. You will give her this role, he instructs us. You will teach her these lines. You will do exactly what I say. Or else.

I spent the entire night in the ER holding my eight-year-old sister’s hand as they pumped her stomach and treated her for alcohol poisoning. While counting the bruises on her arms and staring at the gaunt outline of her ribs.

I’d told myself we were doing all right. I’d told myself we’re fighting the good fight.

I’d been living a lie.

Now, no matter where we go, what we do, Roberto is there. Bigger, stronger, with that smirking grin on his face. You will do exactly what I say.

So I do. For Lola’s sake.

Will it always hurt like this? Will there never be a time when we feel loved and safe and secure? When we can laugh like other kids? Giggle over stupid things, goof around in the halls?

I go to school as an outsider. Spying on every kid I meet. Is that what a real eleven-year-old looks like? Maybe if I could dress that way, or have those friends, or stand up straight when I walk down the halls . . . But I don’t have any of those things. I can’t do any of those things. I’m only me, with one backpack, two changes of clothes, and a gaping hole in my chest.