He chuckles. “Okay. Call me when you’re back in town. I’ll be tied up in court and interviewing for a secretary all week but Judy will be home, ready to welcome you with open arms.”
“God, you’re still interviewing? You need to just pick someone already!” Silas fired his last secretary months ago, and has been struggling to survive on his own since.
“I’m too damn picky,” he admits reluctantly.
“Yes, sir. You are.”
“And Noah? You’re doing the right thing, by helping them move on. It’s what your mother wanted.”
“See you soon.”
The Animal Control van rolls along the sandy lane, keeping pace with the man who walks alongside it. He’s carrying a long pole with a noose-like rope hanging from the end in one hand.
“We got a call about a rabid dog wandering through here?” he hollers to Vilma.
She shrugs.
“Perro?”
She retorts with something in Spanish that I have no hope in hell of understanding, but by her sharp tone, it isn’t pleasant.
Shaking his head, the guy dismisses her and keeps walking toward me. “Seen a rabid dog? It’s beige and scruffy, fifteen pounds. One eye.” Somehow he keeps the toothpick that hangs from the corner of his mouth in place as he talks.
“Rabid dog?”
He smirks. “You know . . . a dog with rabies.”
Dickhead. “I saw him. He’s not rabid, though.” Diseased, likely.
His gaze roves over the various trailers, his disgust plain as day. “Yeah well, I’m tired of coming to this dump every time that woman calls us. We’re catching this asshole today, and my report is gonna say he tried to bite me, and neither him or me are ever comin’ back here again.” He pats the dart gun that hangs from his hip for impact. “Which way did he go?”
I don’t know who keeps calling Animal Control, but I’m suddenly rooting for Gracie’s one-eyed dog. I point down the laneway, in the opposite direction. “He was bookin’ it, so y’all probably won’t catch up to him.”
“Oh, we’ll get him.” He nods toward the trailer. “What happened here?”
“It burned down.”
“How?”
I smile wide. “You know . . . a fire.”
Spearing me with a glare, he and the white van set off down the road, his eyes scanning the shadows, grumbling under his breath.
“Se metió en una pelea con el gato de la señora Hubbard de Nuevo,” Vilma calls out.
All I caught from that is “cat” and a woman named “Hubbard.”
She nods toward the upturned wheelbarrow, where I can make out Cyclops’s front paws peeking out beneath it. “You take,” Vilma hisses, pointing to my SUV. “You take.”
“What?” A bark of laughter escapes me.
She waves toward the wheelbarrow urgently. “You take!”
“I can’t. No puedo. We’re staying in a motel.” I saw a guest leaving her room with a Maltese on a leash, so it must be a pet-friendly place, but Cyclops doesn’t exactly fit in the “pet” category. And what the hell am I going to do with a rat-carrying one-eyed dog? In the backseat of my nice, new SUV no less?
“Gracie’s perro!”
“He’s no one’s perro.”
She snorts. “Idiota. iSi note llevas el perro ahorra ella nunca te perdonará!”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t know what you’re saying.” Except for the idiota part. I’m clear on that.
She struggles to climb out of her chair and down the steps, looking ready to topple over as she hobbles to her fence. “Ellos lo matarán!” She makes a throat-cutting gesture and then hisses, “Ese perro es todo lo que tiene.” Her wrinkled old hands press against her chest. “Gracie love.”
I groan. Maybe I should go and warn Gracie. I check the path. The guy has stopped to talk to a gray-haired woman four doors down, out watering a planter. With a shaky hand, she points back my way. She’s probably telling him that Cyclops was just here, gnawing on a bone beside my truck.
If it’s not one thing with Gracie, it’s another. I feel like I’ve been in danger every turn since meeting her. Granted, a fire and a knife to my stomach are a hell of a lot more serious than a fifteen-pound dog, but acknowledging that doesn’t settle my nerves.
“Okay, okay.” I head over to the back and pop open my tailgate. As soon as the guy’s not looking, I whisper halfheartedly, “Come on, get in!” and cross my fingers that the dog stays put and I can say I tried.
Cyclops darts out from his hiding spot and leaps in without trouble. Awesome.
“Stay back here,” I order, shutting the gate.
I look over in time to see Vilma’s smile of satisfaction. She wanders back to her chair to resume her watch.
CHAPTER 17
Grace
I ignore the voices outside, focusing on the melted tip of the screwdriver as I bring down the hammer for what feels like the hundredth time.
The flimsy lock remains intact. “Dammit!” I toss the tools to the side and simply glare at the small, gunmetal-gray box I found beneath sodden, charred memories and a layer of old carpet, next to a baby milk snake. Exactly where my mom said it would be hiding. It’s about eight inches long by four inches wide, and secured by a small padlock.
I’ve never seen it before.
And there is no way in hell I’m going to hand this over to her without finding out what’s in it first.
Luckily, my grandma’s old metal tools withstood the fire, though the plastic handles are distorted. That’s okay; I can grip the hammer well enough. Brushing the springs of hair off my forehead, I line up the flat metal end and swing, this time putting real force behind it.
The lock falls to the floor with a dull thud.
Satisfaction fills me as I pry open the box with my sooty hands, my stomach tight with anticipation.
CHAPTER 18
Noah
“Come on.” I tap the steering wheel with my fingers at a furious tempo, my gaze darting between the trailer, the laneway, and my rearview mirror. Cyclops has made himself comfortable in my backseat, his tail thumping rhythmically, dozens of dirty footprints all over the leather. The smell of his hot, rank breath and filthy fur makes my nose crinkle.
Toothpick Guy smacks the side of the Animal Control van and begins marching back toward us, his free hand hovering over his dart gun, hard determination splayed all over his face.
“What trouble are you gonna get me into now, Gracie?” I murmur under my breath, cranking my engine and tapping the horn with my fist in warning, hoping she hears it. Does this guy have jurisdiction over an attempted dog rescue?
To my relief, Gracie appears in the doorway then, a box tucked under her arm. She’s covered in soot. It streaks her arms, her shirt, and her cheeks.
She’s beautiful.
I pull up closer and she climbs into the passenger side. Cyclops barks excitedly, as if announcing, “Hey, I’m here!” She eyes him, and then me, but doesn’t say a word, her stony face revealing nothing. This girl would be a proficient poker player.
I do a quick three-point turn and speed away, leaving nothing but a dust cloud for that nut job to shoot. “Some lady called Animal Control.”
“Mrs. Hubbard. Cyclops keeps trying to kill her cat.” She pauses. “Why’d you take him?”
“Your neighbor insisted. She was worried you’d be upset if they got him.”
Gracie lets out a derisive snort. “That cat pees on Vilma’s tomato plants. She just wants Cyclops to live another day so he’ll finally do away with it.”
“So, should I leave him here to—”
“No.” The answer comes quick enough to tell me that Vilma was right, and it’s not just about saving the tomato plants. But Gracie won’t admit to caring.
A metal box sits on her lap, covered in soot. “What’s that?”
“A box.”
I roll my eyes. She’s about as delightful as that Animal Control guy. “What’s in it?”
“Did you call tho
se rehabs?” She smoothly diverts.
“Desert Oaks can take her in tomorrow, but you need to call them to confirm.”
She points to the street ahead. “Turn here. We’re going back to the hospital.”
I make a sharp right, sending Cyclops tumbling against the backseat. I grimace, picturing the scratched leather from his nails.
Just like the fresh, silvery gouges along the side of that box, where a lock might have hung.
Now I know what that metal-clanking sound was.
Silence lingers the few minutes it takes to reach St. Bart’s, Gracie’s mind elsewhere, deep in thought.
Finally, I try again. “So . . . anything important in there?”
“Important enough to hide under the trailer and never tell me about it,” she mutters. After a pause, she asks, “Are you sure your mother didn’t tell you where that money came from?”
“You saw the note she left me.” I frown. “Why? What did you find?”
“The truth, maybe? And things I can’t make sense of.”
The truth.
The truth about what? Abe? My mom?
About what my mom might have done to Abe?
There’s an odd note in Gracie’s voice. She seems too calm for a girl who has a hard time controlling her anger, which makes me believe this isn’t about my mother specifically.
Still, my heart begins pounding hard against my chest wall. “Maybe if you told me, we could make sense of it together.”
“Doubt it.”
“You know, I work for the District Attorney’s office. I spend a lot of time trying to make sense of things for cases. I’m pretty good at it.”
“And humble.”
I pull into the hospital parking lot. “It’s worth a shot. Come on, Gracie. Let’s see it.”
I assume she’s going to blow me off with another snide remark, but finally she flips open the latch. The hinge creaks as the lid falls back. “She made me promise not to open this. But she’s a drug addict. I can’t trust her.”
“You thought there were drugs in there?”
“Or something else she’d want to hide from me.” She swallows hard. “She doesn’t get to keep secrets. Not if she’s going to get better.”
“That’s probably the right call.” I offer her what I hope is an understanding smile, as I wonder how different my mother was from Dina, in her last days. It was a different drug, a different coping mechanism, but in the end . . . what if she hadn’t been clinging so tightly to her own secrets? Would she have had a chance? “So, what’d you find?”
“Birth certificates. My dad’s death certificate. A few pictures and a copy of a newspaper clipping. Nothing earth-shattering, as far as I can tell.”
I ease into a parking spot. “Show me.”
She searches her shirt for a clean spot, only to rub her sooty hands on it. Carefully, she collects the various papers and hands them to me, our fingertips grazing in the process. It’s impossible for me not to be hyperaware of her.
There’s a photograph of the three of them. Abe’s arms are full—Gracie in one, her eyes round like saucers, while his other one wraps around Dina’s waist, pulling her in tight to him. Gracie and Dina are wearing matching blue dresses and cowboy boots, and wide grins.
“You were cute back then.”
“I still am.”
“You still are,” I agree with a smile. “This is at the Houston Rodeo.” The sea of people holding corn dogs and beers behind them confirms it.
Gracie studies the picture with an unreadable gaze. A stray curl falls across her face, and I fight the urge to shift it off her forehead. “I don’t remember.”
“Of course you don’t. Look how small you were.”
She turns to me, her eyes filled with sadness. “No, I mean I don’t remember him. I’ve heard a life’s worth of memories about him from my mom. I remember him existing, but I can’t see him, or hear him.” Her brow furrows deeply. “I can’t remember a single conversation we had.”
As painful as facing the reality of my mom’s death is, at least I have twenty-five years of memories, both good and bad, to keep me going. Hell, I could recall a dozen things about Abe with the snap of my fingers. And that Gracie can’t say the same is a damn travesty.
“He had this booming laugh,” I say, studying the picture. Abe looks exactly how I remember him—tall and broad-chested, his arms ripped from working out, his wide, white smile taking up half his face, the gap between his front teeth only adding to his charm. “He’d laugh and people would stop and stare, but then their faces couldn’t help but crack. He could make the most miserable person smile, just by laughing.”
I feel her heavy gaze on me as I shuffle through the pictures.
I struggle to keep my face calm as I take in the photograph of Abe in shorts and a T-shirt, crouching on a driveway with his arm around me. I’m young—six or seven, young enough to be wearing Velcro-strapped running shoes. And I’m leaning into him, holding up my first basketball trophy with both hands, a proud grin on my lips. That trophy still sits on my shelf in my room. I smile as I recall the day I accidentally knocked it with my elbow and broke it. Abe was over at the time, and he saw me trudging down the stairs, carrying the pieces, on my way to chuck it in the trash. He took it from me and fixed it, and then made me promise never to throw it out. He said that it was my first trophy and no matter how old I was, it would always be the most special.
“That’s you, isn’t it?” Gracie asks softly.
I nod. My hair is a lot darker now than it was back then, but there’s no mistaking my blue eyes. “Your dad loved basketball. He was my coach for years.”
“My mom said he tried to teach me, but all I wanted to do was ride him like a bull. He was going to enter me into some weird sheep-riding competition at the rodeo.”
“Mutton Bustin’.” I chuckle. “Holy shit, I remember you doing that.” A frizzy-haired, wide-eyed Gracie climbing onto Abe’s back, giggling madly as he crawled around an all fours and she held on tight.
She nods at the pictures. “You must have spent a lot of time with him.”
Hours, every week. For years.
I swallow the lump and keep flipping.
There’s a picture of Abe and six guys standing side by side on a basketball court, their hair matted with sweat. When I see the face of the man on Abe’s right—the one with a sloped forehead and deep-set eyes, whose arm hangs lazily over Abe’s shoulder—a chill of recognition runs down my spine.
It’s Dwayne Mantis.
I don’t recognize the others, but maybe I’ve met them; men change so much with age. Mantis hasn’t, though. Even with less hair and an extra twenty or so pounds, he’s impossible to mistake. That gleam in his eyes is just as menacing. The only thing that softens his look is the fact that he’s standing next to Abe, whose smile stretches across his face.
So, Abe and Dwayne Mantis were friends. Or, at least, they knew each other. They obviously played on a team together. “It’s probably the police league basketball team.”
“That would make sense.” She hands me a photocopy of an article, torn from a newspaper. It’s from April 23, 2003. “That’s the same guy, isn’t it?” She points out Mantis in the picture of four cops standing proud over a pile of small white parcels.
“Looks like it.” The picture is grainy, but there’s no mistaking that forehead. I quickly scan the bylines. It’s a major drug bust by Austin’s notorious drug squad at an Austin motel called The Lucky Nine.
The pieces begin clicking together.
These must be the “hounds” that George Canning was raving about.
Dwayne Mantis was one of his hounds.
Mantis, who now heads the Internal Affairs department of the APD, a department that was recently investigated for falsifying evidence to clear police officers, according to Silas.
Mantis, who is likely being investigated by the feds.
Someone marked up the original article, circling the line listing the drugs seized—thr
ee kilos of cocaine, marijuana, and meth—along with four guns. And below it, added notes in tidy scrawl.
Harvey Maxwell.
I frown. That’s Maxwell, the ADA I work with. Why did someone write his name down on here?
Below his name is a more concerning note.
$98K.
“Holy shit,” slips out.
“Don’t tell me that’s a coincidence, Noah. You just brought me a bag of ninety-eight thousand dollars. A hundred? I’d believe that was a coincidence. Not ninety-eight thousand dollars.” She jabs the article with her finger, where the date of the bust is clearly printed. “Not when this was ten days before my dad died, at the same motel where he died.”
She’s right to be suspicious.
Should I tell Gracie about Mantis?
And why did Dina have this hidden under the trailer?
And how did my mother end up with this money?
Gracie’s gaze drifts over the parking lot, watching a woman and a small child head toward the hospital, a bouquet of pink carnations in the woman’s grip. “I’ve always wondered if there was something my mother wasn’t telling me.”
Exactly what I’m wondering, too.
I notice a crinkled, worn picture in the box that looks like it’s been passed through a hundred sets of hands. It’s of a young, fresh-faced Dina, posing in front of the typical blue backdrop of a school picture. “You two have the same eyes,” I note absently.
“Oh, right, and then there’s that,” Gracie scoffs. “Do you see that heart-half charm on her necklace?”
“Yeah?”
“She told me that my dad gave that to her.”
“So?”
“She didn’t meet my dad until she was seventeen.”
“And she can’t be more than twelve or thirteen here,” I say, catching on.
“Exactly.” Gracie shakes her head “Why lie about a stupid necklace?”
“Maybe she got mixed up?”
“Maybe.” She doesn’t sound at all convinced.
“I find the best way to get information is to . . .” I flip the picture over to check the back, and my voice drifts as I see the name scrawled across the top right corner in blue ink.