Текст книги "Where They Found Her"

Автор книги: Kimberly McCreight

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

At the top of the hill, Steve nodded briskly in my direction before turning to Deckler. He was better-looking up close, the lines of his strong face offset enough to make his square features interesting instead of odd. Nothing like Justin’s fine bone structure, of course. Justin was the kind of man women openly ogled. Steve was the kind they counted on for a rescue.

“There a problem, Officer Deckler?”

“This is Molly Sanderson.” Deckler sounded pleased to be ratting me out. “She’s a writer. Someone from your department told her to come here.”

“I’m with the Ridgedale Reader.” I reached out a hand and smiled at Steve, hoping we could breeze past the whole issue of who had called me. “I don’t want to take up your time. I’d just like to confirm some facts.” I motioned toward the tarp. “You found a body?”

Steve shook my hand slowly, eyes boring into me. “The Reader, huh? Are you new? I know that other fella. Robert, is it?”

“Richard,” I said, feeling stupidly satisfied that he’d gotten Richard’s name wrong.

“Someone from my department called you?”

“I don’t know the details. My boss told me to come down here. Actually, I’m just pinch-hitting. My usual beat is arts.” Little lost girl seemed as good a way to play it as any, especially when it didn’t feel that far from the truth. And from the way Steve’s face immediately softened, I could tell it had been the right call. “I really do apologize for intruding. You have a job to do, I understand that. But if you wouldn’t mind helping me do mine, then I can get right out of your way.”

Steve stared at me for what felt like an inordinately long time. I had to strain not to look away. “Because you’re here and you’re local, I’ll tell you what I can,” he said at last, crossing his arms. “Shoot.”

It took me a beat too long to realize that he was waiting for an actual question. “Have you identified the victim?” I asked, hustling to maintain my composure as my heart beat harder.

But I could do this. I’d practiced the whole ride over. And being a reporter wasn’t that different from being a lawyer. Not that, as a policy analyst, I had done a lot of interrogating. I hadn’t really questioned anyone since mock trial in law school.

“No,” Steve said, shaking his head as he turned to look at the water.

Okay, not as wordy a response as I had hoped. But that was okay, I had other questions. “Any leads on who it might be?”

“No.”

“Male or female?”

“Female.”

I felt a little thrill: an actual answer. A female victim. It wasn’t much, but it was something. I was getting worried I’d have absolutely nothing when I went back to Erik. “Approximate age?”

“I wouldn’t want to guess.” Steve’s eyes were back on mine but softer now. Sad, almost. “We’ll need confirmation from the medical examiner.”

I could feel Deckler staring at the two of us. Judging, was what it felt like. You’re not falling for his macho crap, are you?

“Two more questions,” Steve said. “Then you’re going to need to clear the scene so we can get our job done.”

“Did she die of natural causes?”

“Unclear,” he said.

“Unclear?” I couldn’t let him get away with that. “No indication?”

“Nothing I’m going to comment on without an official ME report.”

Just then the radio on Steve’s hip buzzed to life. “They’re going to need a smaller bag down here,” a crackly voice said. “You know, baby-size. Adult ones won’t work. ME wants us to go pick one up.”

Steve snapped the radio off his waist, his jaw tightening. His eyes were locked on the creek as he brought the radio to his mouth. “Then send someone,” he answered through clenched teeth. “Now.” He switched the radio off entirely before sliding it back into his belt.

He hadn’t looked back at me. And I was glad, because the air felt thin as I wrapped my arms around myself. A baby? A dead baby? I was afraid I might be sick, right there on the chief of police’s tall rubber boots.

I thought about Ella. How hot and alive she’d been, wriggling against me when they’d laid her on my chest that first time. How surprised I’d been that my body had actually worked, that she’d made it out in one pink wailing piece. I thought, too, of the next time, when my body hadn’t worked the way it was supposed to. When I’d gone to the doctor for my routine thirty-six-week checkup and she couldn’t find a heartbeat. And the trauma of the agonizing labor and delivery that had followed, for a baby everyone already knew was dead. Everyone, that is, except me. I alone held out hope that my second daughter would gasp and cough her way to life once she was free of me.

She did not. There had been only that awful clinical silence afterward, metal against metal, rubber gloves snatched off. And how she’d felt in my arms. Like she’d been emptied out and restuffed with wet tissue and sand.

No. I should not be letting myself do this—think of it, of her. I would not. I closed my eyes and shook my head. I was not in that delivery room. That was almost two years ago. Right now I was there on the side of that creek with a job to do. And I needed to do it. As if my life depended on it.

“It’s a baby,” I managed. It was a statement, not a question.

Steve was staring in silence down the hill, his face an unreadable mask. “Listen, I understand,” he said with genuine, unexpected kindness. When he turned to look at me, his face was so sincere that I thought I might burst into tears and throw myself against his huge chest. “You’re just trying to do your job.”

“I am doing my job,” I said, trying to remind myself. “That’s exactly right.”

But all I wanted to do was go back to my car and pretend this whole thing had never happened. That Erik had never called me, that I’d never taken the job at the Ridgedale Reader. That we’d never moved to town. I wanted to return home, crawl into bed, and pull the covers up over my head. I might have, too, if I hadn’t known that this time there was no way I’d ever climb back out.

“I’ve got a deal for you,” Steve said. “You run some kind of basic alert right now online—body found, details pending. Hell, I don’t even care if you say it was on university property.”

“Hey, I don’t think that’s a good—” Deckler fell silent when Steve shot him a look.

“You’re here as a courtesy, remember?” Steve said.

Deckler pressed his lips together like a huge toddler trying not to scream. I was surprised he didn’t stomp one big black-sneakered foot.

Steve went on, “You’ll still have a big jump on the story. But I’ve got to ask that you keep that last detail confidential.” As though the victim being an infant were a “detail” at all, like eye color or hair length. “It could compromise the investigation if you make it public now. And I’d like a chance to get our sea legs here before the word gets out. Not long, just a few hours. You do that, and I’ll give you an exclusive interview.”

“Okay,” I heard myself say.

Steve checked his watch. “How about you meet me back at the station at ten a.m.?”

I wanted to say “No, thanks” or “Never mind.” But that baby out there wasn’t my baby. My baby was safe and sound at school. And she needed me to keep it the hell together. She needed me to keep on moving on. Something about turning away from this story—of all stories—felt perilous. As if, unbeknownst to me, I’d be letting go of the one thing holding my head above water.

“Sure,” I somehow managed. “Sounds good. I’ll see you then.”

But already I regretted every word.

Sandy

Sandy wasn’t asleep. But she wished she was, lying there on the stumpy living room love seat, eyes closed, especially when there was a knock on the front door. It wasn’t a regular “hey, anybody there” knock, either. It was one seriously pissed-off bang, bang, bang.

Sandy had learned to tell the difference without asking who was doing the knocking. Motherfuckers looking for money would never leave once they knew you were home. Instead, they’d sit on your place all day and night, making a shitload of noise. That was their whole job: to make your neighbors hate you. Like that could make someone without money suddenly come up with some.

“Open the door, Jenna!” came a man’s voice outside.

Sandy rolled over to face the front door. But she didn’t get up. She wasn’t scared he would kick it in or anything. They never went that far. He could have, though, no problem. Their front door was basically bullshit cardboard. Ridgedale Commons was the cheapest, shittiest place in all of Ridgedale, tucked way the hell in a corner of town, in the only two blocks of nasty for miles around. When they’d moved in eight months earlier, the apartment hadn’t looked half bad, especially compared to some of the places they’d lived. But as it turned out, the okay part of Ridgedale Commons was paper-ass thin. The place fell to shit overnight.

“Come on, Jenna!” came the voice again, closer this time, sounding like his sweaty face—their faces were always sweaty—was pressed against the door. “I know you’re in there.”

Now, that right there? Total load of shit. There was no fucking way he, whoever he was, could know that. Sandy didn’t even know that. She never knew for sure when she woke up whether Jenna would be home. Most of the time she was, but Sandy had learned a long time ago to sleep through whatever noises came in the middle of the night. She lifted her eyes toward Jenna’s bedroom door. Shut, which must mean Jenna was home but not alone. Otherwise, she’d be sprawled out naked on top of her covers with her door open wide. She got lonely when she couldn’t see Sandy out there on the couch.

If it had been up to Jenna, she probably would have left the door open even when she had company. But the men she brought home sure as hell wanted privacy. And thank God, because there were lots of things Sandy wanted to see in this world—the sun setting over the Pacific, the Grand Canyon, the Great Barrier Reef—but Jenna going at it with some liquored-up scumbag wasn’t one of them. She’d already seen enough of that to last a lifetime.

Sandy pushed herself up off the couch, wincing. Her arm had scabbed over, now it looked even more disgusting and hurt like a son of a bitch whenever she flexed it hard. Her knee was a crazy shade of purple, too. Hard to forget something when your fucking body kept sending you news flashes. But she would eventually. She’d have to. And Sandy was good at forgetting things. She’d had lots of practice.

Sandy pulled her sleeve down over the huge scab, then grabbed a cigarette out of the pack Jenna had left on the coffee table. Sandy wasn’t a huge smoker. Wasn’t even sure she liked it. But there were times that called for a cigarette. Like now. She put a Parliament in her lips and lit it with the jewel-encrusted I Love Tampa lighter Jenna must have swiped off of somebody.

Sandy took a drag, glancing down at her see-through tank and low-rise sweatpants, the thorned stem of a rose tattoo wrapped around her arm, the flower tucked safely behind her shoulder blade. She twisted her long straight black hair into a knot at the back of her neck, then exhaled a long stream of smoke. There were worse things than this asshole being able to see through her shirt. A free peek might be her best chance to get rid of him. Ever since Sandy had gotten tits, they’d been the main thing she had going for her.

“Hold on!” she shouted so he wouldn’t yell again. “I’m coming.”

This asshole making noise was the kind of thing that Mrs. Wilson, their eighty-year-old neighbor, would get all bent out of shape about. Mrs. Wilson was a complaint-making machine—everything and everyone—like it was her fucking profession. But she hated Jenna and Sandy extra. Her face puckered every time Sandy ran into her, like she’d sucked on a rotten lemon. Mrs. Wilson wanted them out of the building, that was the bottom line. If they gave her an actual reason, she might just get her way.

Sandy took the three short steps to the door, then put her hand on the knob. She took one last drag before swinging open the door and exhaling into the air. “Jesus, take it easy,” she said, calm and cool, chin tilted up as the last of the smoke escaped her lips. “I’m here, okay?”

The sun was barely up, the sky a suck-ass gray. It was earlier than Sandy had thought. Chance for this mess to pass and for the rest of the day not to be a total shit-show. Maybe. Sandy lowered her eyes to the man outside her door. He was skinny and short and weaselly, with some gross strands of hair combed over the top of his head. Disgusting. Guys like him always were.

“You’re Jenna Mendelson?” He squinted skeptically at his clipboard.

“Who’s asking?” Sandy took another drag and leaned against the door. No need to give up the full-frontal view of the ladies just yet. They might come in handy later.

“Well, Ms. Mendelson, you’re three months behind on your rent.” He ripped a notice off the top of his pad like a parking ticket and handed it to her.

Three months? That shouldn’t be. They shouldn’t be a single month late. But with the tutoring and everything lately, Sandy hadn’t had time to get the money order herself, like she usually did. Who knew what the hell Jenna had done with the cash—drunk it, smoked it, given it away. Sandy could be so fucking stupid sometimes. Why the hell had she taken Jenna’s word for it? She should have made sure the money had ended up where it was supposed to go.

Then again, considering everything, maybe it was a good time for them to be getting the hell out of Ridgedale. Not that Jenna would be easy to convince. About a year ago, she’d mentioned running into some guy from Ridgedale she “used to know” on the street in Philly. Then she’d acted like it was all a big coincidence that they’d ended up back there. But Sandy wasn’t an idiot. Biggest surprise was how long it had taken once they’d moved to town for Jenna to tell Sandy the whole ugly story. Sandy would have sworn she knew every last one of Jenna’s awful secrets, but there had been more. And knowing what had happened to Jenna in Ridgedale all those years ago didn’t change how messed up she was. But it changed the way Sandy saw her. Made ditching Jenna—even now when she probably should have—a total fucking impossibility.

“We’re not late,” Sandy said. She’d been down this road before. Even if this guy was right, denial might buy them some time. “We’re totally paid up.”

“You got proof you’ve paid?” the greasy guy asked.

Sandy curled her body around the door so he could get a good view of her see-through top. She pulled her upper arms together as she leaned forward a little, pressing her tits together. “You could say that I had proof,” she said, rolling her eyes up his pant leg. “Just for a couple days, give us some time, you know?”

The guy looked Sandy up and down, his eyes lingering on her breasts. Then he snorted and shook his head like Sandy was a disgusting piece of shit. “You’ve got twenty-four hours, miss,” he said. “After that, the place’ll get locked up. If I was you”—he looked at her boobs one last time—“I’d get packing.”

Sandy took the wrinkled yellow ticket out of the asshole’s hand, then watched him strut his stubby legs down the walkway and disappear. Notice of Pending Eviction, it read across the top. Goddamn, Jenna. Yeah, it was time to go, but did it have to be with a fucking gun to their heads? Thank God Sandy kept an emergency stash—a thousand dollars she’d saved up, in a box behind the couch. It wasn’t enough for three months’ rent, but it would hold them over for a few days someplace new. Somewhere far the fuck away from this place and all its bad goddamn memories.

Sandy stormed back toward Jenna’s bedroom, the eviction notice crumpled in her fist. “Jenna!” she screamed at the door so loud it burned her throat. “Wake the fuck up!”

When there was no answer, Sandy kicked the door. It flew open, Sandy bracing herself for the sight of some naked, hairy ass diving for cover. But there was nothing. And no one. Jenna wasn’t there. And from the looks of it, she hadn’t been all night.

“Fuck,” Sandy said quietly, her anger tightening into a ball at the bottom of her stomach. Where the hell was Jenna? Sandy went over to check her phone for a text, something like Going to crash here. See you in the morning. But there was nothing. Not a goddamn thing.

So much for that civics and econ homework Sandy was supposed to finish for Rhea and the algebra quiz she had to study for. Not that she should have been surprised. Going for her GED had been a stupid goddamn long shot. It was the kind of thing that other people did. But then Sandy had let herself get sucked in by Rhea. Found herself thinking: Why not me? Jenna, that’s why fucking not. What a joke.

Where the hell are you? Sandy texted Jenna.

“Listen, Sandy, no one’s perfect,” Rhea had said at the end of that first meeting they’d had back in October, almost six months earlier. The sweet way she’d been smiling at Sandy had made her throat tighten up. “And anyone who pretends they’re perfect is a liar.”

It had taken a lot for Sandy to drag her ass into Ridgedale High School to the Community Outreach Tutoring Office. She hadn’t been in a school since the spring before, when she’d finished up her sophomore year at that hellhole in northeast Philly. She hadn’t even considered starting at Ridgedale High School when they’d moved there in September. Food, rent, coffee, all of it was a lot more expensive in Ridgedale. Sandy would have to work more to carry her own weight.

But then goddamn Rhea had come into Winchester’s Pub for lunch when Sandy was working. And she had that nice smile and those kind eyes, and she’d asked Sandy all these questions. Caught off guard, Sandy hadn’t had her usual lies at the ready. And so, by the time Rhea was paying the bill, she’d talked Sandy into coming down to Ridgedale High School to check out her Outreach Tutoring. “You might even be able to get your GED before you would have graduated,” she said.

Sandy didn’t tell Jenna about the tutoring. She wouldn’t have tried to talk Sandy out of it; even Jenna would have known that would be fucked up. She probably would have cheered Sandy on. Told her to go for it, rah, rah, rah.

But then Jenna would have come up with all sorts of reasons for Sandy not to do the work: “Come to the movies with me, Sandy”; “Snuggle on the couch with me, Sandy”; “Share a beer with me.” Jenna couldn’t help herself. She just couldn’t bear the thought of being left behind.

It hardly seemed to matter that Sandy hadn’t told Jenna. When she was sure Rhea had been talking shit anyway. That she wouldn’t remember Sandy when she finally showed up.

But then she totally did.

“I’m so glad you made it!” Rhea said, jumping out of her chair and grabbing Sandy into a hug.

By the second time they met, Rhea had a plan set up for Sandy. “I took a look at your old transcripts. With the courses you’ve taken and your excellent grades, I bet, with a little review, you could get your GED by the end of this year. That would be like graduating a whole year ahead of schedule.” Rhea blinked her big blue eyes at Sandy. She was so pretty and healthy-looking. It made Sandy want to take a shower. “All you need is someone to supervise your progress and practice tests, which I’m obviously happy to do. And I’ll arrange for a student tutor for the math and science.”

“A student tutor?” Sandy felt sick. She couldn’t deal with some rich asshole from Ridgedale looking down on her.

“Come on.” Rhea laughed. “It won’t be that bad. I get it, but it’s not like you have to be best friends. You just have to let someone help you. Can you do that?”

“I’ll try,” Sandy said. She sounded like an ungrateful asshole, but she didn’t want to lie. Especially to someone who was being so nice to her. “When do we start?”

“Right now!” Rhea said. “I’m going to go grab the books you’ll need and the syllabus. Once we’ve got you going on all of that, we can talk about the GED honors program and college. I think you’re the perfect candidate.”

Sandy had played out this moment in her head a million times, imagining somebody like Rhea swooping in and rescuing her from the shit-show that was her life. But she hadn’t counted on just how good it would feel. Don’t believe her. Don’t believe her. Don’t believe her. But it was too late.

“College?” Sandy asked, feeling this dumb mix of nerves and delight.

Rhea winked and grinned as she stood. “Yes, college. They’ve revamped the GED. These days it can be about getting somewhere, not just making up for what you lost.”

Rhea had barely stepped out the door when the first text from Jenna came through: Where are you? Come home now! I have SUCH a good story to tell you. U won’t fucking believe it.

Be home in ½ hour, Sandy texted back.

Hurry. And bring Cheetos! xoxoxoxo

Fucking Jenna. Worst part was that Sandy felt guilty not being there. And that was sick. Sandy knew that. But its being sick didn’t make it any less true.

When Rhea returned to the office, she dumped a stack of books and photocopies on the table in front of Sandy. “Okay, I’ve got a great tutor for you.” Rhea handed Sandy a printout. Hannah Carlson, it said beneath an address, phone number, and email. “Hannah is such a sweetheart. Quirky, too, in a way not so many girls around here are. She’s this amazing pianist, and she’s on the math team. She’s also a terrific writer. She even took English classes over at the university last spring as a junior.”

Which meant she was a senior now. At least she was a year older than Sandy. Being tutored by someone younger would have been way too much.

“Sounds awesome,” Sandy said flatly.

“Oh, I’m sorry. That was stupid,” Rhea said. “Who would want Little Ms. Perfect teaching them anything?” She stuck out her tongue and pretended to gag. Then she leaned forward conspiratorially. “I’ll let you in on a secret. Hannah’s mom is a total b-i-t-c-h. With a capital B. So, you know, Hannah’s got her own cross to bear.”

“Cool.” Sandy nodded, looking down at the girl’s name. But she knew what this Hannah’s mother being a “bitch” meant on the scale of actual problems: fucking nothing.

“Listen, I know this isn’t easy. But don’t give up before we’ve even gotten started,” Rhea said, reading Sandy’s mind. Her voice was different now, more serious. She put her hands on the pile of coursework. “These are your assignments. When we meet next week, I expect all of them to be finished. And you can do it. I have absolutely no doubt.”

Sandy tried and failed to lift the heavy stack with a few fingers. “That makes one of us.”

Rhea put her hand over Sandy’s, squeezing it until she looked up. Rhea’s eyes were glassy, her smile sort of sad but also weirdly hopeful. “I think you and I both know this is it, Sandy. This is your chance.” Rhea made two fists in the air. “You’re going to have to grab onto it with both hands.”

When they were done, Sandy rushed out the side door of the school, praying she’d make it away before she started to cry. At least it was the middle of the school day, the parking lot dead quiet, the lawns all empty. Even the fancy track that looped around the perfectly green and neatly trimmed football field didn’t have a soul on it. The only sound was Sandy’s breathing when her phone chirped with another text: WHERE R THE CHEETOS!!! I’m DIIIIEEEING HERE. Come home. Judge Judy is ripping into this chick with a hair salon. You should see her roots!

Sandy slid her phone into her back pocket, then dropped herself against the cool brick of the school building so hard it scratched her back. “Fuck, ouch,” she said out loud. Then she rested her head against her hands, rocking it back and forth. Why did her life feel the most fucked whenever she was trying to make it better?

“Want one?” someone asked.

When Sandy looked up, there was a kid about her age with messy blond hair, some freckles across his nose, and perfect teeth. He wasn’t Sandy’s type—too pretty. But he was cute, there was no getting around it. He knew it, too, which, annoyingly, made him cuter.

He was holding a cigarette out toward Sandy, a lit one in his other hand. “You look like you could use one.”

Sandy looked around before she reached over and took it. What could they do, kick her out? Technically, she wasn’t even in school. She leaned forward and lit it on the Zippo he’d flipped open, the kerosene bringing back unwanted memories of one of Jenna’s old boyfriends. Sandy took a deep drag and felt her body steady on the exhale.

“I’m Aidan,” the kid had said. She could feel him staring at the side of her face. Boys like him were always drawn to her: the slutty bad-news girl. The one who pissed off their moms. Sometimes that was fine. And sometimes it was annoying as shit. “I’m new here.”

Sandy took another drag. She should go, get away from this kid. Get home to Jenna. Sandy knew that. So why hadn’t she moved off the wall? “Cool,” she said.

The kid had smiled, a troublemaker’s gleam in his eye as he stepped closer to her. Close enough for Sandy to smell his shampoo or his cologne—something spicy and clean. Expensive. “You going to tell me your name?” he’d asked.

“Not yet,” Sandy had said, pushing herself up. Because she needed to get home before Jenna’s texts took their usual dark turn. And Sandy had known better than to want this kid, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t leave him wanting more. “But thanks for the cigarette.”

Now Sandy looked around Jenna’s empty bedroom, then went back out to the living room. She thought about texting Jenna a WTF about the rent. But Jenna would never come home if she thought she was in trouble. Helloo??? Sandy texted her instead. A second later, the phone vibrated in her hand. “About fucking time,” she muttered.

But the text wasn’t from Jenna. It was from Hannah. For the three hundredth fucking time. Sandy wondered if Hannah ever pulled this stalker shit with guys, because it must get her ass blocked immediately. Sandy would have blocked Hannah, too, if she could have. It was too much of a risk, though. Who would Hannah text instead? And what would she tell them when she did?

Are you okay? Hannah’s text read, like pretty much all of the other ones in the past week and a half.

Yeah. I’m good. You don’t have to keep asking.

I’m just worried about you.

Nothing Sandy wrote back would make a difference. They’d been up and down this road a bunch of times. No matter what Sandy said, Hannah would send another text in a couple hours, asking the exact same thing. And it would go on and on and on until—what? Because there had to be an end to a thing like this. But as much as Sandy wanted Hannah’s texts to stop, she was afraid of what it would mean once they did.

???? Sandy wrote to Jenna again, ignoring Hannah. If Jenna was passed out somewhere, sleeping it off, there was a chance that the noise from another text might wake her ????????? Hello???

Sandy looked around the filthy apartment. Their best option would be to walk out the door. Leave all their shit behind like the garbage it was. Except if they didn’t have the money for rent, they sure as hell wouldn’t have the money for new just-as-shitty shit. Wherever they went, they’d have to find new jobs, and that could take time.

That would be Jenna’s best argument for staying in Ridgedale—and she would try to keep them there, for sure—that they both already had decent jobs. That wouldn’t be why she really wanted to stay, but it was a much better story than the truth.

Where are you? Sandy typed to Jenna one last time.

She waited a minute more. Still nothing. Then she tried to call. An actual phone call was the official “911 I need you to save my ass now.” Jenna’s phone rang four times before going to voicemail. It was on, at least. That was something. And there was Jenna’s smoky drawl on the greeting, the one she meant to be sexy. And it was. “I’m not here. You know what to do. Bye-bye.”

“Where the hell are you? I’ve sent a million texts,” Sandy said, trying to sound more worried than pissed off. “I need to talk to you. It’s kind of– No, it is. It’s an emergency. Call me back as soon as you can. Okay, Mom?”

The word “mom” felt swollen in Sandy’s mouth and made of something hard. Her lips had to stretch to fit around it. It had been so long since she’d called Jenna that, longer still since it had meant anything. It was a shot in the dark, a grab at something totally out of reach. But there had to be a chance it would land. That it would settle inside Jenna and wake up some long-dead thing. That it would make her pick up the goddamn phone.

But what if it didn’t? Sandy shook her head, tried to push away the thought. In her world, what-ifs were never fucking helpful. She had to focus. She had to get her stash of money and get the hell out of there and try to find Jenna. That was the only option. Because as much as she might like to pretend she’d leave town without her, Sandy couldn’t. She’d never leave Jenna behind.

Sandy knelt on the couch and reached around the back, sliding her hand into the gap where she kept the thin box. She stretched farther when she didn’t feel it. Her heart sped up as she kept rooting around. It had been a few days since she’d checked, but it had to be back there. Where else would it be?

Finally, Sandy’s nails scratched against the cardboard. The box had gotten wedged farther away, that was all. But as soon as she yanked it out and reached in she could tell something was wrong. The envelope inside was too thin. Sandy’s hands were trembling as she pulled out a short stack of one-dollar bills. She fanned them out: twenty-six in all.

Nine hundred and seventy-four dollars less than there was supposed to be.