CHAPTER 13
Noah
I hold my breath as the stench of smoke intensifies. Hot water and a handful of shampoo will fix that.
At least Gracie seems more agreeable now than she was earlier. It must have been the shower and food. That always makes me feel better.
Or maybe she’s finally accepted that I’m not the asshole she thinks I am. I could be stressing myself out about the money for no reason. She’s homeless and, I’m assuming, broke. This money is going to solve her problems. She can rent a decent apartment, get her mom into a rehab program that might actually help her to stay clean.
Hell, I may get to see another one of those genuine, unrestrained smiles across that pretty face of hers.
I’m thinking about that when the shower curtain flies open. I turn to find Gracie standing there, the gym bag held open within her shaking hands.
That pretty face is brimming with shock and rage.
“Is this what you came to give me?” she hisses, her voice barely audible above the stream of water.
Shit. “I’ll explain everything.” Of course she snooped. She doesn’t have a trusting bone in her body. And here I thought I hid the bag well, but clearly I’m not smart enough for her. I should have handed her the entire pizza box and sent her back into her room. And I definitely should have locked the bathroom door. Generally if a girl is barging in while I’m in the shower, it’s not to yell at me.
“I don’t want a dime of this fucking money!” Her teeth are clenched and I can see the muscles working in her jaw. At least she’s not waving her knife this time.
My hands fall from where they were rubbing shampoo through my hair to a surrendering position. “Just . . . let me explain before you make any decisions.”
“You lied to me!”
What? “How did I lie? I didn’t tell you anything!”
She whips the bag to the floor and then folds her arms over her chest, her voice turning snippy. “Fine. Explain.”
“Can I have a minute?” I’m far past the point of trying to hide myself, so all I can do is stand there like a fool.
The rage in her eyes dims the moment they drop from my face. Even with her caramel complexion, I see the flush of color. It’s as if she’s only now realizing that I’m naked. Grabbing a towel from the rack above the toilet, she throws it at me. “Hurry up,” she snaps, spinning on her heels and marching out, leaving the gym bag where it landed.
“Dammit,” I mutter under my breath, my forehead falling hard against the tile.
She’s never going to believe me now.
“There’s a lot left.” I hold out the box, my feeble attempt at a peace offering as I pass through the adjoining doorway. At least she left the door to her room open.
“I’m good, thanks.” Gracie is perched on the edge of her bed, her fingers nimbly weaving her hair into a braid. It’s twice as long wet as it is dry.
At least she isn’t glaring at me like I pulled the trigger on her father anymore. She won’t even look at me, her focus locked on the wall across from her.
I tear off two slices for myself and then toss the box on the dresser. After more than a week with no appetite, I suddenly can’t seem to fill this nagging hunger. Maybe my body is finally saying enough is enough. That, and I’ve been offered a distraction from my own problems in the form of Gracie’s.
I grab a beer, along with a second one because I noticed the can on her nightstand. I still don’t know how old she is but given what she’s been through, telling her she’s too young to have a few drinks would be stupid on my part.
Setting it on her end table, I opt to take the chair directly across from her instead of sitting on her bed.
The gym bag full of cash makes a thudding sound as I drop it to the floor by my feet.
Then I wait quietly for her to say something, because the hell if I know how to approach this, and she’s impossible to read.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” she finally offers, her eyes flickering to me, skittering over my body before snapping back to the wall. Color crawls up her neck. “I have a hard time keeping my temper in check.”
“It’s okay.”
“I don’t think things through; I jump to conclusions and then I act.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I was angry with you and I just . . . I wasn’t trying to . . .” She’s stumbling over her words.
I didn’t expect this reaction, and it’s all I can do to press my lips together to hide my smile. I’ll gladly let her barge into my shower and scream at me if it means I get this softer, docile version afterward. “Yeah, I’ve noticed the anger issues.”
Awkward silence hangs in the room once again, broken momentarily by the crack of my beer can.
I guess it’s my turn. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to tell you about that.” I gesture toward the bag. “I found it last night with a note, asking that I give it to you. Here, see for yourself.” I fish the sheet of paper out from my pocket and hand it to her to read.
She sets her jaw but, after a long pause, I get a small nod of acceptance. “I knew about your mother already,” she admits quietly, taking a sip of her own beer as her penetrating eyes land heavily on me. “That she died. And how she died.”
Her words stir a sharp pang in my chest. “How?” I ask, clearing my voice against the sudden gruffness that comes whenever the topic lands on my mother’s suicide.
“On the news.”
“But you live in Tucson.” Why the hell would my mother’s death get coverage here?
“My mom has an unhealthy obsession with Texas. Especially anything to do with the Austin Police Department.” She stretches out on her bed with her back against the headboard and her long, shapely legs crossed at the ankles. She looks like she’s getting settled in for a long night of talking. “She says someone there framed my dad. She’ll swear up and down that he would never sell drugs.”
Exactly what my mother alluded to.
Dina must know something. But would she have told Gracie?
I do my best to feign ignorance, and hope that Gracie can’t sense the tension coursing through my limbs. “It would be hard to accept that about someone you loved and trusted.” I hesitate. “Why does she think that he was framed?”
“Because she’s a crazy, cracked-out woman? I don’t know.” Gracie snaps off the tab on her beer can and tosses it haphazardly toward the trash can in the corner. “But it’s ruined her life. And mine.”
Either Gracie’s an A-list actress or Dina hasn’t told her anything. “Do you believe he did it?”
“I didn’t. And then I did.” Her gaze shifts to the bag of money, her throat bobbing with a hard swallow. “And now you’ve shown up here with that, and no explanation. So, I’m thinking that he’s guilty of something.” She seems to consider her next words for a long moment. “My mom talks about Jackie a lot.”
“Oh yeah?” I take a big sip of my beer and then coolly ask, “What does she say?” I can already tell I’m not going to like it.
Gracie picks at a piece of thread on the bedcover. “That she was part of my father’s setup.”
“We are bad, bad people.”
I push my mother’s voice out of my head. “Does she have proof?”
Gracie’s head shake brings me an odd sense of relief.
“Why did you leave Texas?”
“The neighborhood turned on us. That’s what she told me, anyway; I don’t remember, but she said people watched our every move, glared when we walked by. Neighbors who’d had us over for dinner before wouldn’t even say hello. Some yelled at her. I remember that happening once or twice.” Her face tightens with a cute little frown. “I didn’t understand why they’d be so mean to us because my dad had an accident at work. That’s what my mom told me happened: that he had an ‘accident’ and he wouldn’t be coming home again.
“Then one night, someone threw a brick through the window. So she packed us up and we left for Arizona.” The sadness in Gracie’s voice has quickly changed to bitterness.
I guess having a neighborhood turn on you might make you up and move. Maybe overnight. Maybe. But according to Canning, Dina never came back, never even asked to see the police report. Why?
“Why accuse my mother of being a part of it?” Is she simply a heartbroken widow turned junkie? Or is there more to this part of the story? There must be, because why else did my mother have Abe’s gun holster hidden under our floorboards?
What does Dina know?
Gracie responds with a shrug, but there’s nothing nonchalant about it. She’s still suspicious, still calculating in her gaze as she studies me. “My dad and your mom were best friends and partners for years. Even after your mother got promoted. But then my dad died, and she cut us off. She stopped answering my mom’s phone calls.”
“She wouldn’t do that.”
“Why would my mother lie?” Gracie’s piercing eyes settle on me. “It seems odd, doesn’t it? They were partners and friends for years, and then she just turned her back on us. For fourteen years. And now you show up with this.” She gestures to the bag. “Why?”
Why, indeed? I focus on the beer in my hand as I try to recall those first few weeks, those months, after Abe died. We went to the funeral, that I remember. Dina simply stood there, a husk of a woman, her eyes puffy but no tears shed—as if she’d already drained herself of the ability. Tucked in next to her, a sullen little Gracie, her gaze wide as her eyes roved the crowd of faces around her.
We left soon after. I don’t remember attending a reception. All I remember is Silas and my mother sitting in the backyard, my uncle speaking quietly while repeatedly topping up the glass in my mother’s hand. My mother . . . all she did was stare into the depths of the pool and empty her glass over and over again.
She went back to work a few days later. And that’s when I started staying home alone. She said I was old enough, that there was no need for me to go to Dina and Abe’s after school anymore. At the time, I was more thankful than anything. I figured she was doing it so I wouldn’t have to walk through Abe’s front door every day and remember that he was dead.
But if what Gracie is saying is true . . .
If my mother believed Abe was such a good man, why would she cut Dina and her little girl off like that?
I don’t have an answer for Gracie—or myself—so I divert. “We didn’t exactly have it easy after he died, either. My mom started drinking and my parents divorced. I moved to Seattle to live with my dad.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard Seattle is rough. Was your trailer park like the Hollow?” She doesn’t hide her scorn.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” I’m an ass.
She shrugs. “You didn’t have anything to do with it.”
And yet I can’t help but feel responsibility here.
She pauses. “What do you think? You’re older than me. You must remember him, right? Do you think my dad was guilty?”
“He was a good man.”
“I need her to know.”
My mother’s words are a constant thrum. Why can’t I bring myself to give voice to them? “I don’t know.” I chug half the can of beer so I can gather my thoughts. Based on what George and Silas said, the case is firmly closed, the evidence irrefutable. Would knowing what my mother mumbled—drunk, and moments before she decided to take her own life—help Gracie and Dina? I’m not sure I believe her, and it doesn’t feel right to repeat it. It could hurt them more. It would definitely hurt the memory of my mom.
Let sleeping dogs lie.
How many times will I have to tell myself that before this guilt lifts from my chest?
The weight of that green-eyed gaze on me is suffocating. I need off this topic. “The Hollow. Sounds like a horror movie.”
It’s delayed, but Gracie’s face finally cracks with a smirk. “Even the cops call it that. Suits it, doesn’t it?”
Of all the places to run to . . . “How’d you end up there, anyway?”
“That’s where my mom grew up.”
“No shit.”
Gracie reaches for the fresh can of beer I left on her nightstand and cracks it open. “It wasn’t bad when she was a kid. But then the owner sold it to people who don’t give a rat’s ass about anything but getting their monthly fees. It all went to hell after that.”
“So Dina moved from Tucson to Austin . . . and back to Tucson.” Trailer-park girl to stylish Texan wife, to heroin junkie. I’m struggling to reconcile my memories of Abe’s Dina with the Dina I carried out of a burning trailer earlier today.
“To the same trailer.” Tension tightens her jaw. “The one she burned to the ground making her cheese melt sandwiches.”
“At least you don’t have to go back to that life. You can start over somewhere new. Somewhere with good people.”
“My mom’s a heroin addict, Noah. ‘Good people’ don’t want her kind around.”
“Then get her the help she needs. You can do that now.”
She nods slowly. “Why?”
“Why get her the help?”
“No. Why did Jackie want me to have all that money?”
Good question. “I don’t know why, or where it came from. She asked me to bring it to you, and so I did.”
“After she died.” Gracie’s lips purse. “ ‘Don’t ask questions. You don’t want the answers.’ That’s what the note said, right?”
“If it can help you, take it.” I’m not going to sit here and brainstorm all the terrible ways that APD could have fucked Abe over fourteen years ago, because they could include my mother. I need to get through this conversation, wave goodbye to Gracie and her big bag of money, and move on.
She turns her focus to the ceiling, her deep inhale drawing my attention to the way her black tank top stretches across her chest, hugging her curves. I quickly drop my gaze.
Definitely not a little girl anymore. And if she weren’t who she is, if she were some girl I spotted at the gym or the bar . . . a hundred bucks says I wouldn’t be able to keep my eyes off her for a hot second. But she is Abe’s daughter, and that reality is a cold shower for those thoughts.
“How did Jackie know where to find me?”
I shrug.
“It wouldn’t be that hard,” she answers for herself.
“Not if this address is listed in your mom’s records.” The bigger question for me is, was Mom keeping tabs on Abe’s family all these years? Watching Dina’s downward spiral? Or had she tracked them down recently? Did she foresee the situation Gracie would find herself in today? Probably.
It makes sense, though, that she would want to give the money to Gracie and not Dina. You can’t give a bag of cash to an addict.
So yeah, Mom definitely knew how far they’d fallen.
Had I not been there, I hate to think what might have happened. Gracie would be curled up in a ball in that hospital waiting area. She’d have nowhere to live.
Then again, had Gracie not found me on her doorstep, she might have walked through that door sooner, might have turned off the toaster oven before it had a chance to catch flame.
Either way, Dina would have overdosed on heroin.
I nudge the gym bag with my foot, pushing it toward her a few inches. “This money couldn’t have come at a better time then.”
“How much is in there?”
Ten thousand. Twenty. What’s an amount that sounds reasonable? What could I tell her to make it easier to accept this, at least until I’m long gone? I could lie and tell her I didn’t count it, but who in their right mind would have driven across two states without counting it?
“Ninety-eight thousand.”
“Holy shit,” she whispers, a gasp slipping through her lips before she covers her mouth with her hand. At least ten heartbeats pass before her face twists with skepticism. “Why didn’t you keep it?”
“Because my mom asked me to give it to you.”
She rolls her eyes. “That wouldn’t stop most people.”
“Some people, no.” I could have kept it. I could have given it away to charity, anonymously. I could have taken it to the police.
I’m not going to say that all those scenarios didn’t run through my mind on the drive here, as I wondered if I was doing the right thing. But, somewhere along that dark, open highway, I came to accept a simple truth. “She didn’t write me a letter. She didn’t give me an explanation, or an apology. She knew she was going to kill herself and she didn’t want to tell me why.” I swallow against that prickly lump in my throat. “The only thing she did do was leave that pile of money and that note. So I figure it must have been important to her that you get this.”
More important than telling her son she was sorry.
I glance Gracie’s way to find her watching me intently, sympathy in her gaze. Maybe she doesn’t hate me, after all.
“What would you do if a stranger showed up at your doorstep with a bag of money for you and no explanation besides ‘don’t ask’? Would you take it?”
“If I were in your situation, with no home and a mother who’s one injection away from never waking up, I’d take that money and never look back.”
Her face pinches. “Even if it’s here because of something immoral? Hell, illegal?”
She has way too heavy of a conscience for a piss-poor girl with no place to live. But I like that about her. It means that despite growing up with a junkie mom and the ghost of a corrupt cop father, somewhere along the way she picked up a sense of integrity.
This is one of those times, though, when you have to take what’s in front of you and not ask questions. She’s smart enough to see that. Maybe all she needs is permission. “What do you think would happen to this money if I gave it to the police?” Besides stir up questions I don’t want to answer. “They’d use it for their department. Buy a new SUV, maybe office equipment. They’d have no issues spending it on their overhead. So why shouldn’t you use it? You deserve a chance to start over.”
It’s a long while before her head bobs in an almost imperceptible nod. She’s going to take the money. She’s not stupid.
“Are you going to be okay?”
She brushes my concern away with an unconvincing, “Yeah. Of course.”
“Listen, I’m gonna grab a few hours of sleep before I have to drive home tomorrow.” I haul my weary body out of the chair, tossing my napkins and cans in the trash can beside the small desk. I’m ready for today to be over.
I make it all the way to the adjoining door, my palm on the handle. Almost home free.
And then Gracie asks the one thing I hoped she wouldn’t.
“Did your mom ever talk to you about what happened to my dad?”
My shoulders sag. I don’t owe her anything, and yet I hate lying to her about this.
“She said something, didn’t she?”
Take the money and run, Gracie. Forget about the past.
The bed creaks behind me. I’m half-expecting to feel the sharp edge of her blade poking into my flesh, but instead cool fingers settle on my forearm in a gentle way I didn’t think her capable of. “What did she tell you about my dad?”
Another long pause and then her touch slips away. “He was guilty, wasn’t he?” Her voice cracks and when I gather the nerve to turn around and face her, she’s blinking away tears. “It doesn’t matter. I already knew he was. This doesn’t change anything.”
I can’t handle the sight of any girl crying. But for some reason, it’s worse with Gracie. Before I can stop myself, I reach for a tear slipping down her cheek, brushing it away with the pad of my thumb.
She turns away with the slightest flinch, and I let my hand drop. I’ve noticed that about her—she recoils anytime anyone goes near her. The only time she didn’t was when she was brandishing her knife against that piece-of-shit Sims guy.
“You’re right, it doesn’t. Take the money and move on with your life.”
“It’s just . . .” Her jaw tightens. “My mother never did drugs before; she didn’t even drink. What he did? That’s what turned her into this. He ruined our lives, and she will swear that he’s innocent, right to her last breath, and I can’t stand—” Those full lips press into a tight line. “I hate him so much for it.”
Dammit. I can’t let her believe this. “She didn’t say that he was guilty, Gracie.”
She peers up at me from behind a thick fringe of lashes, the eight-inch-or-so height difference forcing her head back to meet my eyes. “What did she say?”
“Not much, after he died. And then near the end, she was drinking a lot.” I sigh. “But she said that your dad was a good man.”
“Right. Who was also a drug dealer?” A skeptical frown furrows her brow.
“That’s all I know.” I start for my side of the suite, hoping she’s not going to follow. She doesn’t move a muscle, a dazed look filling her face. “The money is yours, Gracie. A decorated police officer and chief of the Austin Police Department, and an old friend of the family, left it for you, to help you through a hard time, and that’s all you need to know.” That sounds like something Silas would tell me to say. “I’m going to shut this door. Knock if you need anything.” I’ve already seen what this girl is capable of when she’s angry. I don’t want to wake up to a blade against my nuts after she’s been stewing in bed for three hours and decides that what I’ve told her isn’t good enough.
My body sinks with relief the moment the latch clicks. Hoping that she doesn’t knock, that she doesn’t want a rehash of the night my mom died in hopes of finding clues. Reasons for the money, and for my mother’s words.
I peel my clothes off and slide under the cool, crisp covers, waiting for that feeling of relief and accomplishment to hit me. I’ve done what my mother asked of me. Gracie has her money, and I’ve told her that Abe was a good man. She’s going to be okay.
And yet a suffocating weight still bears down on my chest.