She patted Rosie on top of her head. “And now . . . I can’t believe it. The whole family. Murdered. Gone. Just like that. I can’t believe it.”
“I heard from Mike Davis,” I said, my way of thanking her for reaching out to him on my behalf.
“How is he doing with everything? I tried to ask, but he’s not much of a communicator.”
“Yeah, I got that.”
“The more I consider it, the more I think Roxy probably was his best friend.” She stared at me expectantly.
I shrugged. “It was my first time meeting him. I’d say he’s worried about her. Bouncy. Definitely bouncy. But maybe he’s always like that.”
Tricia smiled faintly. “I think it’s safe to assume he falls somewhere on the spectrum. But he’s a good kid. And Roxy . . . they seem to get each other. Which is what you need to survive high school. At least one person looking out for you.”
“What about Anya Seton?” I asked.
“The senior? Aspiring actress, star of most of the school plays?”
“That’s the one.”
“I know her, but I wouldn’t say well.”
“She knows Mike Davis. They’re in the same foster home.”
Tricia stilled, didn’t say anything. Student–guidance counselor confidentiality? I wondered.
“You ever see them together?” I asked. “Mike and Anya?”
“No. Never. Don’t hang in the same circles at all.”
“What about Roxy and Anya?”
Now the guidance counselor arched a brow. “Definitely not. Last year, when Roxy first showed up at the high school, she and Anya had some kind of altercation. I didn’t see it. But words were exchanged, one pushed the other. Something along the lines of Anya telling Roxy to leave her boyfriend alone.”
“Roxy and Roberto?” I asked in surprise.
“Only in Anya’s head,” Tricia assured me. “Anya and Roberto had been an item for years. She was known to be possessive of him.”
“She must’ve been upset when he shot himself.”
“She missed school for over a week. I finally had to pay a visit—”
“To Mother Del’s?” I asked.
Again the hesitation. “I spoke with Anya. We worked out a plan for her return.”
“She thinks Lola and Roxy had something to do with Roberto’s death,” I said bluntly. “Their girl gang killed him, then covered it up to look like a suicide. Some conspiracy theory like that.”
Tricia thinned her lips. “Anya is very dramatic,” she said at last.
“You think Roberto took his own life?”
“I think it’s sad anytime a young person dies. I think grief can make it tempting to blame someone else for the loss.”
“Because if Roberto had really shot himself, that would mean Anya’s love wasn’t powerful enough to save him?”
“There’s that. But also . . . if this gang had something to do with Roberto’s death . . . Let’s just say these aren’t girls who’d feel a need to hide their work.”
I got what she was saying. “They would want the credit. Use his murder as an example—this is what happens when you mess with one of ours.”
Tricia nodded. “Sad, but true.”
“Justified or not, Anya still hates Roxy and Lola and blames them for Roberto’s death. Maybe enough to seek revenge?”
The high school counselor shrugged. “Anya Seton is a very passionate teenager, with a flair for theatrics. Catfights, yes. Whisper campaigns, definitely. But to walk into a home and shoot an entire family in cold blood?” She shook her head. “I don’t know if this makes any sense, but I don’t think that would’ve been dramatic enough for her. Especially given that she didn’t get to take a bow at the end.”
“She would’ve torn up the place.”
“She would’ve used red spray paint to scrawl murderer, liar, whore across the front of the house. That would be more her speed.”
“Did Roxy and Anya cross paths often in school?”
“No. After the first incident, and then, of course, all the buzz involving the photos—”
“Photos?”
Tricia looked at me, took a deep breath. “I guess this will all come out again,” she said.
“I’m sure it will,” I told her.
“In the spring, there was some rumor that Roberto had photos of Lola or Roxy. Indecent photos. One was leaked on a school loop, a silhouette of a nude female, but without enough detail to make age or identification possible. Roberto was given as the source by another student. Principal Archer called him into his office, but Roberto denied it all and turned over his phone. No photos were found.”
“And then?” I asked.
“And then Roberto shot himself. A few weeks later. He was . . . an angry young man, prone to dark moods. When the staff heard the news, we were sad but not terribly surprised. We offered grief counseling for the students. But other than Anya . . . Roberto didn’t have any close friends.”
“So an angry, moody, and lonely teen,” I summarized, all of which lent credibility to the theory that his suicide had been just that—a suicide. “When did Lola join the gang?” I asked.
“I didn’t know that she had,” the guidance counselor said carefully. “It was just a rumor I heard. Given I work in the high school, I was more concerned by talk that the same gang was now interested in Roxy.”
“Las Niñas Diablas,” I provided.
She shrugged. “Maybe. They’re careful in school. Again, we have a zero-tolerance policy.”
“Who’s the leader?”
She shook her head.
I gave her a look. “Who’s the alleged leader?”
Deep sigh. “You might want to try Carmen Rodriguez. She’s currently a junior. Except that she looks like she’s going on twenty-five. From what I’ve heard, she’s very smart. Not interested in her studies, but very bright.”
“And Roxy knows her?”
“They have a couple of classes together.”
“Okay.” I rose to standing.
“You’re still taking the dogs?” she asked.
“Just for the morning. I figure they can use some fresh air.”
She nodded, but seemed to know I wasn’t telling the whole truth. Then again, as a high school counselor, most of her conversations probably only involved half of the story.
“These girls, they’re not like you and me,” she tried again.
I couldn’t help myself. I smiled, picked up the dog leashes. “Honey, there are no girls like me. I’ll be okay. On the other hand, maybe Carmen Rodriguez is who you should worry about.”
• • •
ANOTHER BEAUTIFUL FALL DAY, SUNNY and crisp. Perfect weather to walk a pair of brown-and-white spaniels around the streets.
Brighton wasn’t that big a neighborhood, and Carmen Rodriguez wasn’t that hard to find. Then again, in this day and age of Google stalking, nobody was.
Nine A.M., Sunday morning: People were just beginning to stir. Little kids running around tiny yards and cracked sidewalks. Here and there, families appearing in their Sunday best. We hadn’t gone to church when I was a girl. Life on a farm, there were always chores to be tended, work to be done. After my abduction, the ladies from the Congregational church kept my mom supplied with food for months. Not to mention the volunteers who showed up in spring to help with the planting and again in summer to assist with the harvest because by that time, my mom was too busy appearing on national news shows, begging for my safe return.
The community kept the farm going. Neighbors we’d known only in passing, church members from services we’d never attended. It made a big impact on my mother. She’ll never leave our town now. It was there for her when she needed it the most. I didn’t begrudge her that. If anything, I was jealous of her newfound sense of belonging.
I kept
walking as, slowly but surely, the quality of the buildings deteriorated. More run-down oversized apartment buildings. Sadder and sadder city blocks. Finally, I came to a row of old triple-deckers. Sagging porches. Broken-down stoops. A group of girls sat out front of a particularly sorry-looking three-decker, wearing a collection of cutoff jeans and ripped T-shirts. I consulted my phone. Sure enough, the one sitting on the top step matched the photo of Carmen Rodriguez. Short-cropped black hair that revealed golden skin and dark glittering eyes. Mostly, however, I studied the beauty mark on her left cheek.
No time like the present. Had my scarf as a backup weapon. Had two elderly blind dogs as a distraction. This was as good as it was going to get.
I lifted the latch on the rusted-out gate guarding the front walk and headed up the path.
Carmen Rodriguez was sitting with four other girls. The girls stood, but Carmen remained seated. Stared straight at me.
Hard eyes. Old for a sixteen-year-old girl. She would be gorgeous, I thought, if not for those eyes. But I liked her stare. It made her interesting. She had stories to tell. I wouldn’t mind hearing them. Assuming, of course, that she didn’t gut me first.
“Carmen Rodriguez?” I asked.
“Asking or telling?”
The girl closest to her sniggered. She had black hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, while from both ears dangled silver hoops large enough to double as bracelets. All the girls were beautiful. I remembered what Sarah had said, that part of being in the gang was serving their male counterparts. Apparently, ugly wouldn’t do.
I noticed now that the girl to the left appeared to be holding something fisted at her side—a short blade of some kind would be my guess—while another girl had one arm tucked behind her. Another knife, tucked into the waist of her jeans? Or maybe a .22? I kept my hands in front of me, where everyone could see them.
I might know self-defense, but I was hardly a martial arts expert ready to take on five armed gangbangers. My best weapons right now would be words. Which, interestingly enough, Jacob could also be really good at when he chose. Step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly . . .
“My name is Flora Dane,” I started, then waited a beat. Sometimes people recognized it, sometimes they didn’t.
Carmen frowned, stared at me harder.
“I’m an abduction survivor,” I continued. “Last year, I also helped rescue a Boston College student.”
Bigger frown. Clearly she didn’t recognize my name, nor did she know what to make of me. Police, social workers, teachers, all clearly the enemy. But an abduction survivor . . . Next to her, the girl fidgeted with the blade in her hand.
“Do we look like we’ve been kidnapped to you?” Carmen asked finally.
“I’m also a friend of Roxanna Baez.”
“Those are her dogs,” one of the girls commented. “Lola sometimes walked them.”
“Lola’s dead,” Carmen said, still staring at me.
“Yes. Lola, her younger brother, her mother, the mom’s boyfriend.”
“Roxy did it.” But it was a question, not a statement.
“I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me.”
Now I got an arched brow, but at least no one was throwing knives or opening fire. I walked slightly closer, aware of the girl with the blade on the left and the other girl with the hidden weapon on the right. Rosie nosed around the barren dirt. Blaze, however, leaned heavily against me. Poor guy had no idea where he was. Did he sense the mood? He lifted his head toward the heat of the sun, wagged his tail feebly.
I patted the top of his head, drawing comfort from his presence. When I glanced back up, Carmen was looking at the dogs, too. Her shoulders had come down.
“Are they gonna be okay?” she asked, her face unreadable.
“They have a temporary home for now. Until things get settled.”
“We don’t have Roxy. But if you’re really her friend, you must know that.” Chin back up, more of a challenge now.
“I’m not sure Roxy knows who her friends are right now. Given the circumstances.”
“Why are you here?” Carmen asked.
“I’m trying to help. I know Lola was one of you. The mark on her cheek.”
Carmen shrugged. “So?”
“Someone murdered her. One of your own gets killed, doesn’t that make it your business?”
“Depends. What I heard on the news made it sound like a family matter.”
“Really? You know Roxy. You know Lola. Would Roxy shoot her own sister? Her baby brother?”
Carmen didn’t answer right away, but I could tell my point had registered. “If not her, then who?” she asked at last.
“That’s my question.”
“You think we did it!” She was already on her feet.
“You tell me.”
“Hija de puta,” she spat. The girls around her shifted restlessly. Blade coming up on the left, while the girl on the right started to draw something out from behind her back . . .
I stood my ground. “Hey, my mom went on national TV for me. She had to wear mom jeans because the FBI agents made her. Don’t go insulting her like that.”
Carmen blinked at me, clearly confused, which checked the entire group, now watching me warily. “Lola was our sister,” Carmen announced. “We do not turn on each other. Not without reason.”
“Did you have reason?”
“No!”
“All right. But maybe you know some things that might help me figure out who did.”
“Like what?” Carmen was still scowling, but she slowly retook her seat on the top step.
“Lola was one of you. We can all agree on that. But what about Roxy? Had she joined?”
“She was considering her options. We came highly recommended by her sister. And I gotta say, we offer a pretty decent benefit plan.”
I took that to mean Roxy still wasn’t sporting any beauty marks. “I don’t know gangs,” I admitted. “Serial killers, rapists, kidnappers, predators, yes. Gangs, no.”
This earned me fresh interest from the whole group.
“So forgive me if I don’t ask this the best way, but did you guys—or Lola—piss anyone off recently? Like a rival gang who might have targeted her over some slight, whatever?”
Carmen actually smiled. “You don’t know shit,” she agreed.
“What can I tell you? Jacob Ness was a loner.”
“Four hundred and seventy-two days,” she said abruptly. “I saw you. On TV. Four hundred and seventy-two days.”
I nodded.
“What kind of idiot gets herself abducted on a public beach?” Carmen asked bluntly.
“A drunk one. A weak one. An idiot that didn’t know any better. But you don’t need to worry about me. I’ve learned a few things since then.”
“You burned a guy to death,” one of the girls said.
“I’ve learned a few things since then,” I repeated. I rubbed Blaze’s long silky ears. He sighed against me.
“We liked Lola,” Carmen offered abruptly. “If we thought one of those—”
“Malvadas?” I offered.
She spat. “—putas did this, you wouldn’t need to ask any questions. The matter would already be resolved.”
“Did Lola do drugs?”
A shrug, which could’ve meant anything. “She was not as reckless as her sister thought,” Carmen said.
“She sold drugs?”
Another shrug.
“She have a boyfriend?”
“Oh, they all wanted Lola. But again, she was not as reckless as her sister thought. She knew how to handle herself. That girl never gave up something for nothing.”
“She used boys.”
“What else are they good for?”
“She was only thirteen,” I heard myself say.
“Weren?
??t we all once?”
I didn’t have a comeback for that, and she knew it. Age, innocence, was a matter of perspective. And we were all realists here.
“Was Lola involved in Roberto’s death? Did she—I don’t know—drive him to shoot himself? Or maybe did the deed herself and then covered it up?”
Carmen’s face hardened. The girls stared at me, tension ramping up.
“I’m not a cop,” I said. “And I really don’t give a flying fuck if she, or any of you, killed the asshole. From what I’ve heard, he got what he deserved.”
“Then why bring it up?”
“Because murder’s like that. It raises questions. Which, the sooner they’re answered, the sooner they go away.”
“I don’t give away something for nothing either.”
“What do you want?” Though I already knew. And I’d been prepared to pay to play, but now, suddenly, I changed my mind. They claimed to be Lola’s sisters, and yet they hadn’t saved her. They weren’t worthy of what I had to tell.
“Roxanna Baez,” Carmen said. “Give us Roxy. Clearly you know more than you’re saying.”
“No.”
“Then we’re done—”
“No.”
“Excuse me?” That ripple of agitation again. Girl on the left, shifting her grip, showing off her very short, very sharp blade.
I stared right at the armed lieutenant as I said: “Roxy’s not yours. You said it yourself. She hadn’t joined Las Niñas Diablas. But she did seek me out. That makes her my sister, not yours.”
Carmen took a menacing step off the porch.
“I have a gang, too.” I was feeling reckless now. “We don’t dress nearly as cool as you, let alone that whole microtat thing. But we’re survivors. Each and every one of us. And Roxy found us. She was looking for help to save her family. In particular, I think she was trying to save Lola.”