Trail of Echoes by Rachel Howzell Hall

Author:Rachel Howzell Hall
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781466878037
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

30

Why did some girls get kidnapped and murdered while other girls didn’t?

As I drove to Syeeda’s house, this question stayed with me. Why Chanita? Why Trina? Why Tori and not her friend Golden?

Did Moriaga and Max Crase see something in these girls that only evil men glimpsed?

And why did some of us make it out of the ghetto? I made it, but Regina didn’t.

Was it because of the adults in our lives? If so, why did I make it, but Tori didn’t?

As I pulled into the driveway, my mind turned to other questions.

Would the monster actually attend Chanita’s funeral?

And if he comes, who would I be looking for?

Exhausted, I collapsed on the overstuffed sofa in Syeeda’s living room. Raindrops fell, and a wet breeze lifted the silver gauzy curtains that hid the open window. The nerves in my head tightened as though I sat in a crowded Brazilian soccer stadium during the World Cup. I closed my eyes against the light from the lamp on the nightstand—not dark enough—then reached to turn off the lamp. Dark enough now, but the pain only worsened. The healing effect of Sam’s kiss had worn off now, and my wrist throbbed as though it was infected with glass and lava.

Call him. Let him kiss the pain away again. And again. And—

I placed a throw pillow over my face and took several deep breaths. Focusing and not focusing, waiting for my banging pulse to slow. In … out … In … Chanita … Out … Victor Starr … Shit. “This is not my beautiful home,” I said. “Or my wonderful couch.” I grabbed my iPhone from the coffee table and texted Sam. U around?

I turned the lamp back on and grabbed the television’s remote control. Click. Reality show—competitive cake decorating.

My iPhone whistled from the coffee table. A flare shot in my heart.

Sender: [email protected]. Hello? Anyone there? Wondering about you.

The flare quickly died. “Brave soul.” I ignored the message, popped two Aleve from Syeeda’s coffee table stash, and rose to shut the window. Took a twenty-minute shower, then pulled on boxers and an LAPD sweatshirt.

When I returned to the couch with a cup of peppermint tea and thirty Lorna Doone cookies, the red team was making a thirty-foot-tall, NASCAR-themed wedding cake. Sam had responded. At jail. Would rather be doing nothing with you.

I texted back. I’d rather that too. Out came the laptop from my bag. I sat it next to Chanita’s expanding file folder and Trina Porter’s missing person report. Once upon a time, I never worked at home. Since the divorce, though, work had been the only thing I did right.

The front door opened, and Syeeda banged into the foyer with an overnight bag slung over her shoulder. “Honey, I’m home.”

I tossed her a smile. “Missed you, kitten.”

She trudged into the living room and dropped into the armchair. She looked wilted in her silk shirt and jeans. Her bun was more honorary than acting, and stray tendrils of hair frizzed about her head like a corona.

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