CHAPTER ONE

The View

 

 

SHILOH NASH

Antelope Island, Utah, Wednesday, September 5, 2014.

 

Shiloh grimaced as clouds of mosquitoes and biting flies surrounded her and spread out like a threadbare blanket over the lake. The insects also swarmed over the blood dripping from the suitcase in their rented paddleboat’s cargo area. Yuck. I’ll bet Momma makes me clean that up. As the boat struck a sandbar, Shiloh swiped bugs off her face and tried to shove the heavy suitcase out.

“Stop! Darlin’, don’t drop Lisa!” Momma gasped before she hopped into knee-deep water that stunk like rotten eggs. “That’d be disrespectful.”

“Disrespect—phew!” Shiloh blew bugs out of her mouth and sucked in air, using her teeth as strainers. As gross as this was, ticking off her foster momma would be worse, so she splashed into the salty water too.

While she was distracted, the bugs coated Shiloh’s skin that wasn’t covered by her pink tube top and Denim mini-skirt. “Ew, they’re all over me!” Shiloh seized her waist-length blonde hair at the nap of her neck and used the rest as if it were a horse’s tail to swat the bloodsuckers. Something stung below her belly button. She squirmed, trying to see past her large chest and bigger belly to swat it.

“Let’s go, Puppy.” Momma reached up for the Samsonite’s handle. “The sooner we get this done, the sooner we leave.”

Everyone in the Aurelian Society called Shiloh “Puppy” because she had followed Momma around as often as Fleas, their adopted stray dog. After he’d been flattened by a truck, he’d been tossed into the garbage can instead of getting a suitcase burial. Sharing a mattress on the floor with him and smelling his butt breath all night would have been better than hauling around a dead body.

Grumbling, Shiloh eased her half of the hundred and ten pounds off the beached boat. A bug flew into her eye. She opened her mouth to scream and inhaled more of them. Sputtering and coughing, she spit out bug body parts as she dropped her end of the Samsonite. The shifting weight inside it yanked Momma forward. She fumbled for a better hold, but the rest of the suitcase splashed into the icky lake, splattering her face.

Shiloh winced. Would Momma freak out?

Momma grimaced. “Ugh. The blood leakin’ out of the suitcase is slippery, but darlin’, we can’t treat Lisa like this. You shouldn’t be complainin’. Two minutes after we started churnin’ them pedals, you left me to do all the work.” She rinsed off her palms in the stenchy water then reached into the boat for her suit jacket. She had tossed it after the sweating started earlier, so at least her bare arms had been getting eaten too.

“Look!” Shiloh pointed at the purple oversized suitcase bobbing on the calm surface. “The lady at the marina said everything floats on the Great Salt Lake. Let it carry her.”

“It won’t lift her up there.” Momma gestured to a sandy hill on Antelope Island’s southern tip. “Hoist and haul, honey.”

Grumbling, Shiloh raised her end. As she did so, Momma lifted hers and began shuffling backward. Her spiked heels sank into the sand, slowing their progress to a crawl.

Shiloh pinched her lips. Only an idiot wore a business suit and stilettos when she rented a pedal boat to ditch a body. If Momma had been in her right mind when they left the tattoo parlor, she would’ve grabbed tennis shoes and changed into her workout clothes.

Shiloh huffed for breath. I might have a heart attack before we get to the top. “Why am I here? You work out every day. You can carry her yourself.”

“There’s no dignity in bein’ hauled like baggage. We’re showin’ respect. We’ll get Benadryl cream on the way home.”

Shiloh rolled her eyes. “Dog farts don’t stink as bad as this place. Why couldn’t we hide her body in the desert, like the last one?”

“That abusive jerk deserved his cactus bed. I promised Lisa we’d go to the beach when we went back to California. This is the best choice because I can’t take her that far.” Momma swiped at the bugs trying to land on her face. “And the skeeters chase off most people at this time of year. Everyone else will be too busy fightin’ them off to notice us.”

“How the hell is this best?” A humming mist of bugs followed them as they inched their way through patches of summer-yellow prairie grass. The knee-high strands also itched when they swiped her bare legs. “This is stupid.”

“Honey, hush.” Momma tugged the pretend casket forward. “Your answer should be, ‘Yes, ma’am.’”

Shiloh pinched her lips. It was better to avoid getting smacked for sassing. “Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s my girl. We’ll put the suitcase on that little hill, so Lisa’s final restin’ place has a postcard view.” She chin-gestured to the Wasatch Mountains reflecting off the sunset-colored lake from the east. To the west, a small herd of wild bison living on the preserve munched on the tall yellow grass.

“Why do you care if she gets a view? You killed her, and stiffs don’t need one.”

Momma’s hunched shoulders straightened as fast as a dead body in a zombie movie. “I did not!” Her eyes flashed in that scary way. “Following orders to suitcase her doesn’t mean I killed her! Who said I did?”

Shiloh’s heart pounded. Telling the truth—bad idea. “Um . . .” She used her chin to scratch her arm. “Um, one of my foster sisters said you did.”

“Which one?” Momma jutted her chin and glared. Her eyes were scary as a meth addict’s when she made that face. “Which liar said I’d do somethin’ so horrible, Puppy? She’ll need a good talkin’ to. I can’t believe how ungrateful—”

Loud snorts interrupted her.

Startled, Shiloh glanced up to find horned beasts watching them. “Oh! The bison are looking at us.”

After a few sweat-trickling moments, all except one shaggy beast returned to eating. The largest one stared at them. At least six feet tall at the shoulder hump and longer than a sports car and probably just as heavy.

“This is far enough.” Momma squatted in the gently waving grass. “Tell me if the bull moves while I get rid of our fingerprints.” While she used sand to scour them off, she whispered, “Sorry, Lisa. You didn’t deserve this. I promise, it wasn’t my fault.”

The bull lurched toward them.

“Shh! Stop scrubbing,” Shiloh hissed. “It’s coming.”

Momma froze, so did the car-sized animal. Time seemed to slow while they tried to avoid staring into its eyes—another tip from the lady at the marina.

Gradually, Momma rose to a crouch, then her full height—a few inches shorter than the bull’s shoulder. “Puppy, back up slowly.”

Sand shot up around Shiloh’s feet as she obeyed.

Momma remained between her and the gigantic animal. It snorted and tossed its head from side to side, then jerked its chin up. In an eyelash-flutter, it lowered its horns into goring position and charged. Its hooves pounded the ground and tore up sand and grass.

Screaming, Shiloh almost wet her pants as she bolted. She didn’t stop running until her feet splashed in the lake. Huffing for breath, she peeked over her shoulder.

Momma faced the bison with her hands in the air, as if she’d ordered it to stop—which it had. While the bull whipped its tail, Momma peered over her shoulder at the pedal boat.

The only mother Shiloh had known since her real one died stared at her with the same mean expression she’d had when she’d beaten Lisa for trying to escape.

Did she forget who I am again? An urge to hop in the boat pulsed through her, but the sun was setting. I’ll never make it alone in the dark. “Momma, hurry!” Shiloh shouted. “Run before it kills you.”

Momma’s mean expression flickered before she turned toward the gigantic animal. Her suit jacket flapped, but her drenched expensive pants clung to her slender legs as she backed up.

The bull snorted and shook its head, but it didn’t follow her.

Momma slowly retreated until her heels finally hit the water. She shoved the boat farther out into the lake, then scrambled into it—and grinned. “I think Josie protected us.”

Anytime something good happened, Momma gave Josie, her dead friend, credit. Shiloh twisted in her seat to find the bison. It snorted while it paced along the shoreline. If it charged again, Momma would say, “Poison messed with its mind.” Poison always got blamed for bad juju. Shiloh shook her head. “No, Momma, you scared it off. That was the bravest thing ever. You wouldn’t let him hurt me. My real Momma would’ve left me to die.”

Momma flapped her loose silk shirt to dry it. “Darlin’, I wouldn’t let anythin’ happen to you.”

Unless you’re PMSing or forgetful as a grandma. “I know.” Shiloh scooted to the edge of the seat so her short legs reached the bicycle-type pedals.

“Do you want to do that or clean up the blood?” Momma asked as she slipped her feet into the foot straps. “The marina is over thirty minutes away.”

Earlier, Momma’s triathlete legs had moved them so fast, the breeze had scattered the bloodsuckers.

“I’ll clean.”

“Get the wipes out of my purse.”

Shiloh fetched them, then pushed the tarp aside to clean the seat. If Momma hadn’t wasted time giving Lisa tattoos, they’d be home now. “Why does a dead body need a tattoo?”

“You mean Lisa?”

Shiloh stiffened and kept her eyes on the sun’s rays fading behind the skyline. “You’ve done others?”

“Yep. Everyone gets a different tatt because they tell a story about that person. Mine.” She gestured with her chin to her jacket sleeve that hid 3D roses twining up her arm. “The skulls hidin’ in each blood-red bloom are empowerin’ and beautiful. They show strength. I gave Lisa a swirl of butterflies to represent her rise to heaven.”

“I hope the next body you ink and we bury is Sammie’s.”

Momma sighed. “Honey, hush. You shouldn’t say such things. I understand gettin’ to know a new sister isn’t easy but try for me.”

The new fifteen-year-old talked like a history teacher. Since Shiloh was three years older, and she struggled to read a cereal box, she had to make sure the newbie knew who was boss. “Sammie thinks she’s too good for us. Did you find out what she meant by telling the other girls, ‘We need to do a Spartacus?”

“I looked him up. He was a gladiator who led a revolt against the Romans in 73 BC. They killed him later for doin’ it.”

Shiloh reached out her short legs to help Momma go faster. After a few rotations, she huffed for breath and pressed her hands on her thighs with each downstroke. “What’s a gladiator and Romans? What does 73 BC mean?”

“It means Sammie was trying to get the other foster kids to riot and break up our family. Watch her close. I used the shock collar to shut her up about Spartacus.”

Gasping as an idea struck her, Shiloh whispered, “Sammie said you killed Lisa.”

Muscles stiffening, Momma threw the bloody wipes Shiloh had set aside into the water. “She couldn’t have. Who told you I did it?”

Shiloh cocked her head and forgot the flies and mosquitoes. When Delilah Decuir grew mad enough to forget her accent, she was as scary as Shiloh’s real parents on meth. She made as much sense, too.

Coughing, Shiloh tried to swallow, but her throat was so dry and scratchy she might’ve had dozens of dead bugs clogging it. “I, um, don’t know. I-I heard whispers while I was watching my sisters through the security cameras. I-I guessed it was Sammie.”

Momma grabbed her iPad out of her bag and tapped out notes. “I’ll figure out who it was, and she won’t spread rumors anymore.”

Shuddering, Shiloh pedaled faster. Perhaps if she distracted Momma, she’d forget.

“Can you check to see if we’ve heard anything from the, um, the team in Nevada?”

Momma’s pedaling splashed water on the iPad’s screen as she studied it. “Sammie’s disappearance made that state too hot for now. A damn shame that we have ta shutter operations around homebase for a bit, but Darlin,’ this state has so many fresh religious girls, I ’spect it’ll be good huntin’ here.”

​
 

 

CHAPTER TWO

The Family Anthology

 

 

ASHTEN MASON

Green Mountain, Utah. Thursday, September 6, 2014.

 

Ashten Mason crouched in the dew-damp prairie grass bordering her neighbor’s property. Everything from her black hoodie to her Wrangler jeans were wet from soaking up the moisture. Her pulse pounded in her ears. She abandoned concealment to sneak the garden cart across the gravel driveway. Well, it wasn’t really sneaking when the wheels ground an abrasive symphony on the loose rocks. However, it was the best route to take. From this angle, the fragrant honeysuckle covering the lattice that framed the front porch hid her approach.

She listened for voices or the front door opening, anything that indicated the couple inside suspected something wasn’t right.

No sounds were audible over songbirds serenading the rural farmhouse.

Ashten pressed forward past the rose bushes, concealing the lower portion of the two-story house. A thick layer of honeysuckle covered its walls. This residence was the most fragrant in the valley, and up until dawn this morning, the most decorated. Ashten had already taken the small army of garden gnomes lining the walkway. Borrowing a hundred of them was the type of prank best conducted before sunrise. Although she’d started collecting the breakable statues that early, transporting ten at a time had chewed up an hour. If her human accomplice had showed up when she was supposed to, they’d be done by now.

Ashten stopped near the front porch and stuffed her hands under her armpits to warm them. In September, nighttime temperatures in the Wasatch Mountains dropped so low, jackets were necessary. By afternoon, most people shed them. Cold-stiff fingers were a small price to pay if she could pull this off. Holding her breath, she peeked around the leafy barrier.

Coast was clear.

As the birds sang nature’s equivalent to the “Mission Impossible” theme song, she slipped forward. A magpie joined in. Its aggravating cawing grated on her nerves as much as the gravel. She grabbed two gnomes off the lowest stair. She’d never describe herself as a porch pirate, but as she nestled the items in the cart, she looked like one. Adding an entry into The Mason Family’s Anthology of Practical Jokes was worth the risk. If the collection’s owner, found out, she most likely wouldn’t think of Ashten as a thief. The hilarious seventy-year-old was the queen of practical jokes. She’d said her favorite one was sewing up all the flies in her husband’s underwear to teach him not to leave the toilet seat up. Mr. and Mrs. Roberts four children and fifteen grandchildren sent her gnomes for every holiday, so she had hundreds. Her smiley-faced ones had premium real estate in the house. She’d relegated the grumpy ones to “guarding” the outside.

Ashten hustled back and snatched the last two grumpy ones. A mountain breeze swept over the ridge, rattled a large aspen behind her, and blew her ponytail into her face. She shook her head to dislodge the wisps over her eyes.

After settling the last ceramic statue with the others standing like soldiers in the cart, she weaved a blanket between them to prevent them from damaging one another. Before she fled, she pulled a note from her pocket and left it on the doormat:

 

We’re on vacation. Be back soon.

LOVE: Your Garden Gnomes

 

The sweet old lady would appreciate the internationally popular traveling-gnome joke, but Ashten had a different target in mind than Mrs. Roberts. Ever since Dad had Saran-wrapped her car, she’d wanted payback.

Once again, the cart’s big tires churned loose gravel in the driveway, making her theft more difficult. When she reached her hand-me-down car parked off the dirt road, she breathed a sigh of relief. One of the cart’s wheels dropped into a hole, jarring her cargo. Cringing, she eased it out. As she did so, King, her non-human partner in crime, barked. The giant German shepherd sat in the driver’s seat—as her brother had trained him to do to prank their dad. When she drew closer, the dog stuffed his head out the window. Ashten scratched King’s ear that hung down like a puppy’s. His other ear lay across the top of his head, toupee-style. Despite his odd appearance, his birth defects earned him celebrity status. Whenever she took him into town, he got his picture taken. Today she’d brought him along so he didn’t wake her parents by barking. Ashten also didn’t need him opening lever door handles in the house to get outside and trample the gnomes.

After giving King attention, she loaded half the booty into the trunk, covered them with blankets, and added another layer of statues.

Now that she was ready to make a getaway, King still monopolized the driver’s seat. His fuzzy grin was complete with his tongue hanging out.

“Move over.” She pointed to help him remember where he was supposed to be and waited for him to obey. He did. As soon as she slid her backside into place, King stepped on her thigh and attempted to deliver slobbery kisses. “No, King. Not now. Front seat.”

He settled into the proper place and allowed her to wrap his seatbelt around and buckle him in.

As she drove off in her hand-me-down Malibu Maxx, she checked the rearview mirror. No sign of discovery. The dirt road between their houses was five hundred yards of spine-jarring potholes. Weaving around the worst of them had caused the longest delays. Once beyond them, she accelerated to thirty miles-per-hour. A cat darted out in front of her. Ashten only tapped the brake, but her trigger-happy seatbelt locked into place. She pulled the ever-annoying strap away from her neck. At eighteen, she was probably too old to grow taller, so she might as well admit defeat and buy a seatbelt adjuster for kids. Either that or use the booster seat her brothers had given to her as a joke for her birthday.

Carrie Underwood’s oldie, but goodie, “Jesus Take the Wheel” burst out of her favorite country station. Ashten sang along while cruising past the alfalfa field at the base of the aspen-covered ridge.

The song ended, as she coasted up her long driveway lined with rosebushes on one side and a massive yard on the other. Over the years, she and her three brothers had played every yard game known to humankind out there. Since she was the last of the “litter” at home, she mowed that monstrosity weekly. She couldn’t complain, though. She had a riding lawnmower and audiobooks for entertainment. As she pulled in beside Dad’s work vehicle with the Davis County Sheriff’s decal on it, the DJ said, “Fifteen-year-old Samantha aka Sammie Taylor is still missing, and investigators have an interesting take on her case. More after the break.”

Ashten blinked tears. Poor thing. Lord, please help her. She unbuckled King. “Stay.” He whined, but obeyed, so she hopped out and scanned her home. No lights shone in the two-story red-brick house that Dad had, according to him, “built with hammer, nails, and hard work.”

Now that it was light enough to see Mom’s fall decorations adorning the back porch, Ashten noticed the grinning scarecrow on the bench had slumped again. He was surrounded by fake red, orange, and yellow leaves. The basket beside him had fake squirrels “playing” in it. Of course, a wooden sign made of colorful leaves hung in a vertical row beside the door. Each leaf had one letter of the word: W-E-L-C-O-M-E painted on it.

King barked, startling Ashten. She followed his gaze out the rear window.

Brakes squealed. Leandra Alvarez drove Crusty, her bread-crust-colored Corolla, up the driveway. Ashten signed to her nineteen-year-old accomplice, “There’s a grassy lane leading to the barn on the other side of the garage. Go up far enough so we can hide both cars.”

After Leandra did, she rounded the corner wearing a stylish mauve Guthrie dress, leggings, and cute knee-high boots. The adorable clothing looked best on her, models, and store mannequins with long legs. She also had her black hair twisted into a darling boho braid.

One of these days, Ashten vowed to move beyond leaving her mouse-brown hair as wild and free as her horse’s mane or catching it up in a ponytail. Now, sleep or pranks were way more important than elegant hairdos. In the mornings, all Ashten had energy for was waking up at five to go to Grandma’s house, make sure she was taking her dementia medication, and feed her horses. If Ashten had time afterward, she’d go meet friends to work out before classes started. Until she paid off school loans, nothing was better than comfortable old Wranglers, T-shirts with funny or inspiring quotes, and her black CINCH jacket.

Leandra stood bathed in the motion detector’s light and peered at the dark house. Her hands flashed words. “Did you grab the gnomes already?”

“Yeah,” Ashten vocalized and signed at the same time. As a toddler, she’d learned to communicate with her deaf grandma and older brother and hearing people who weren’t watching hands talking. “Come help set them up.” She used Dad’s keys to unlock his vehicle.

Grinning, Leandra pulled out several of the two-foot statues. For the last year, the energetic athlete and Ashten had fun playing harmless pranks and working together at the School for the Deaf and Blind. Leandra didn’t know it, but she’d filled the void Ashten’s best friend had left when she’d moved to Alaska.

Fifteen minutes later, they’d surrounded the patrol vehicle with two-foot statues of mythological creatures. Ashten seat belted a three-foot gnome in the driver’s seat. She also lined the dashboard with smaller six-inch statues. She hung one designed to hang on a hook on his spotlight’s handle and another on his rearview mirror. Giggling, she took pictures of the finished product and then waved at Leandra before signing, “Hide behind those lilac bushes.” She pointed at the shrubs blocking the view of the garden she’d be weeding for weeks if she broke a gnome. Well, without brothers around, she’d have to do those chores anyway and pay for the damage. Risk assessment complete, she signed, “From there, you’ll have the perfect view to record him when he comes out the back door.”

While her friend slipped into place, Ashten hid her car and King behind Crusty. She rounded the garage and examined the back door lit by the brightening dawn and the overachieving motion detector’s light.

Still no movement.

After flipping on Dad’s lights and siren, she dodged gnomes and darted behind the lilacs. Leandra peeked around the leafy edge. Ashten dropped to her knees and leaned forward for a better view. Both had their phones on record. While they waited, more dew seeped through her jeans to her knees. This prank was worth getting wetter.

Sudden barking drew her eyes to the backyard. Yapper, the small, black-and-white Chihuahua she’d found dripping on the side of the road a few days ago dashed toward her. How had he gotten out of the house?

Crud. He’d ruin everything—especially if he damaged any gnomes. “Yapper!” She hissed, waving the lilacs to draw his attention. “C’mere.”

The fluffy critter darted toward her, then flinched and barked at the gnomes. He yapped so hard his front feet rose off the ground. Ashten abandoned her hiding place and chased him to the porch. He hopped up next to the scarecrow. She scooped him up and bolted for the lilac bushes. Leandra howled with laughter. Gulping for breath, Ashten dropped beside her and held up the “shh” finger.

Her friend stifled her giggles with one hand.

Ashten clutched Yapper’s snout shut with two fingers and signed that she’d have to rely on Leandra to record.

As if they’d choreographed the events, the back door opened, and Dad dashed outside. Wet hair plastered his head, and he held a pistol by this thigh while clutching a blue towel around his waist.

“Oh no! I didn’t know he’d be in the shower.” Ashten stifled giggles and didn’t feel too bad for him. His towel covered as much as swim trunks, and his dedication to daily workouts allowed him to maintain some self-respect while standing there half-naked.

He scanned the gnome army, then seemed to focus on the one in his driver’s seat. “What the—Ashten!” He weaved through the gnomes to switch off his lights and siren.

A grumbling engine drew Ashten’s and Dad’s eyes to a green truck advancing up the driveway.

“Oh!” Ashten signed. “That’s Mrs. Roberts! She’s looking for her gnomes.”

Leandra laughed so hard she jiggled the phone, and so loudly she gave away their position.

The former kindergarten teacher was so old, she’d changed Dad’s diapers when he was a baby. When she stepped out, he blushed and clung to his towel. “H-hi, um, Mrs. Roberts, um, I-it’s not what it looks like.”

“Markus?” Mom’s shock was audible in her tone as she exited the house wearing her scrubs with colorful Band-Aids decorating it. She adjusted her hospital lanyard as she fox-whistled at him. “Oooh, handsome, what’re you doing?”

Dad signed, “We have company.”

Mom pivoted and color flushed her cheeks. “OH! Um, hi, Mrs. Roberts. Um, Markus, what’s going on?” She scooted over to stand in front of Dad, somewhat blocking the older lady’s view of him.

Mrs. Roberts doubled over, hooting so hard, she leaned on her truck for support.

Dad had once said when you’re embarrassed, you might as well own it. Would he?

He maintained a firm grip on his towel as he passed his pistol to Mom, then flexed in a muscleman pose. “For posterity’s sake,” he said.

Hopefully, Leandra wasn’t laughing too hard to get a steady video.

The little dog pulled his snout free of Ashten’s fingers and barked. Was Yapper venting his hatred of Dad or did he still think the gnomes were a threat?

Whistling, Dad strutted to the house peacock-proud, tossing over his shoulder, “Ashten, return her property—now—and get rid of that canine rodent.”

Laughing so hard her sides hurt, Ashten noticed Leandra clutching her belly as if she had the same problem. Tears streaked her cheeks. On the other side of the bushes, Mrs. Roberts still clung to her truck with her shoulders shaking. Mom picked up a few gnomes and carried them to the older lady’s truck. She glanced at the lilac bushes. “Ashten, after you clean this up, let King loose from wherever you’ve stashed him, and do not post videos or photos of this on social media.”

“Is a group chat social media?”

“If it’s not our family’s, yes.”

Ashten dissolved into more giggles. After confirming Leandra had caught everything on video, Ashten signed, “No one, not even Dad, can top this entry in my family’s anthology of practical jokes. We’d better hurry and take the gnomes home so we’re not late for class.”

A few feet away, Mrs. Roberts was still trying to collect herself enough to drive home.

​

 

 

CHAPTER THREE

It’s the Little Things that Kill You Slowly

 

 

TOMMY ZAMORA

Los Angeles, California, Friday, September 7, 2014.

 

Tommy hurtled up the stairs three at a time. His T-shirt clung to his chest as the cold wind whipped through the open walkway. At the top, he avoided grasping the grimy railing and winced. A few doors down, his neighbor—the ratty-haired alcoholic mom—leaned against the railing. Whether she was drunk or sober, he suspected she often let her kid get into trouble so Tommy would stop and help her. Today, her naked toddler pressed his face against the bars and peed over the walkway’s edge. At least Juan’s head wasn’t stuck in the bars again. No time to deal with his loco mamá now. He slid past them and raced to his door.

“Tommy!” Alexia, his seven-year-old sister, had her face pressed to their apartment’s window. She bounced on a couch cushion, then scrambled over the arm and burst out of their green door. It banged against the wall. More paint flaked off and dusted the concrete. She clutched their family’s emergency phone in one hand and her purple dinosaur in the other. Pigtails flying as she jumped, she held up her arms to him.

He scooped her up. “Did Liliana leave with Alejandro?”

Alexia dropped the phone and caught it against Tommy’s chest. “Yeeesss.” A smile followed her singsong tattling. “I told her you’d be mad if she left me alone.”

Alexia had called him ten minutes ago. How far could Liliana have gone with her boyfriend? After her twelfth birthday, Tommy had caught the fourteen-year-old drug dealer chatting her up at the bus stop.

“Go back inside. I’ll be right back.” After Alexia closed the door, Tommy reversed course and charged to the stairs. He descended to the first floor and marched to Alejandro’s. The entire hallway reeked of weed’s pre-smoked skunk funk, even with a breeze blowing.

He pounded the door hard enough to rattle it. “Liliana, you got ten seconds to get out here before I break the door down. One. Two.”

The knob turned on seven.

Liliana stepped out in the kind of shorts that allowed butt cheeks to hang out and a shirt so low he would have yanked off his own shirt to cover her up—if he was wearing one instead of coveralls. She gulped air as if she’d run to meet him.

“Where’d you get those clothes?” He sharpened his tone. “You better not be high.”

“I’m not. See.” She tilted her chin to show off steady, undilated pupils. “Alejandro gave me the money.”

Another reason to beat him. “You’ve had enough time to eat a pot brownie, so I’m still gonna change his oil.” He yanked her out of his way, but someone shoved the door closed behind her.

A lock clicked as he touched the knob.

Clenching his fist, he pounded. “Alejandro, if you even look at her again, I’ll break every bone in your body—starting with your face!” At six-foot-four, Tommy could easily carry out the threat with muscles honed by hours of training for surfing contests and working with heavy equipment at the auto body shop.

“No, Tommy,” Liliana wailed and tugged on his arm.

“You”—he pointed at her—“get in the car.”

She backed away, blinking tears. “We don’t have a car anymore.” Her words ended in a high-pitched squeak as she ran to the stairs.

Tommy winced as pain washed over him, too. “I meant Khalil’s truck,” he called after her. At least she ran toward their apartment. She passed Alexia on the stairs.

Doesn’t anyone do what they’re told?

Alexia ran toward him, chewing on her dinosaur’s tail—a habit she’d given up when she was five years old. After the car accident, she had started doing it again. She still didn’t connect the accident that had killed Papá and left Mamá with permanent brain damage to no longer having a car. Had that only been two months ago?

He clenched his fists. First losing his parents and now having to deal with his three sisters’ pretzel-like emotions. Beating Alejandro might keep Liliana safe. He raised his foot to kick the dealer’s door in. Destroying a guy’s face in front of Alexia is a bad idea. Pressure built in his head as if it were a head gasket about to blow.

“Tommy?” Alexia forced her tiny hand into his. “What’s wrong?”

Her wide-eyed stare steadied him, as if she helped him catch his balance on a breaking wave.

He sighed. If he got himself arrested, who would take care of the girls? He squeezed her hand. “Nothing’s wrong. Let’s find Liliana and take Antoinette’s stuff to her.” Their oldest sister had been waiting several weeks for Tommy to bring out the rest of her things to San Diego State University. The day their parents would have dropped her and her belongings off, Antoinette had loaded a backpack, boarded a bus, and set out alone. She wouldn’t have gone if she hadn’t prepaid her tuition and three months of her apartment’s rent. Her college savings wouldn’t last long with the cost of Mamá’s physical rehabilitation facility eating away at it, though.

“How was school, mija?” Tommy said, ignoring the neighbors peeking out their windows, probably wondering if it was safe to come out, or just curious about the commotion.

Alexia skipped beside him with her dinosaur clutched to her chest. “My teacher said you have to read and sign my papers.”

“Oookay.” Would Liliana be too bratty to read them to him? We’re going to Antoinette’s, so I won’t have to ask.

“Hey, Lexi, we can visit Mamá, too,” he said. Mamá didn’t make sense when she talked, but she always smiled at him. He had kept his promise to visit her every day on his way home from work—until today—thanks to Liliana’s obsession with the drug dealer.

“No!” Alexia stomped a pink tennis shoe. “My real Mamá doesn’t drool like a baby!” Instant tears streamed down her cheeks.

Not you, too. He plucked her up and plopped her onto his shoulders.

She giggled, and her feet tapped a rhythm that matched his footsteps as he carried her down the hall.

“Ugh. Number seven.” She gagged.

“Hang on.” Tommy sucked in a breath through his mouth and hurried past the apartment that always reeked like fifty cats used it as a litter box.

She gagged louder.

“Don’t puke in my hair.” He trotted up the stairs. She giggled.

What would help Liliana laugh again? She’d been a beast ever since their parents never came home. How could he stop her from making stupid choices? He sighed and stopped before entering their apartment’s open doorway. He couldn’t even get her to close a door.

Maybe for Liliana, closing it meant accepting that Papá and Mamá really weren’t coming home.

Made sense. Outside this door, it was easier to pretend they were. For him, walking into their home that no longer smelled like Mamá’s fresh frijoles or her windmill-shaped speculaas cookies made it real. Not seeing her and Papá holding hands and laughing in the kitchen made it real. Tommy pretended that it wasn’t real by keeping their parents’ bedroom door closed. His sisters didn’t go in there either, so maybe they thought the same thing. Grief burning in his gut reminded him of corroding battery acid. One day, it might eat him alive.

Alexia tapped her heels on his chest. “What’s wrong, Tommy?”

Clearing his throat, he leaned his head back and shook it against her belly. “Nothing.”

She squealed, grabbed his ears as if they were handles, and wrapped her legs around his neck.

While she laughed, he clutched her knees to prevent choking and forced himself to go inside. Everyone cried when they saw their family pictures on the entryway wall, but no one wanted to take them down. To distract Alexia so she didn’t notice them, he wobbled as if he were about to fall.

Her giggles grew louder, and she hung on tighter. He blinked tears.

His booted footsteps echoed as he clumped to the kitchen. “Liliana,” he hollered, his voice harsh with emotion. “Put on some clothes Papá and Mamá wouldn’t freak out about and get in Khalil’s truck. Give me any crap and I’ll carry you out there.”

He plucked Alexia off his shoulders and stood her on a chair. Her short arms couldn’t reach the knockoff-brand cereal sitting on the other side of Antoinette’s two stacked boxes. Was there enough for a snack? He rattled the bag, then handed it to Alexia. “Share these with Liliana. I’m gonna change clothes.”

Before he walked out, he carried Mamá’s favorite breakfast bowls to the sink. Papá had bought them for her because they had windmills on them, and she loved collecting things that reminded her of growing up in the Netherlands. She also enjoyed making Dutch desserts, but she never talked about her parents who still lived there. Whenever they came up in conversations, she’d laugh and insist she was more Mexican than Dutch now.

Tired as he was after a long day working at Khalil’s auto body shop, Tommy always left the kitchen as clean as she had kept it.

He dragged a finger over her clay cooking pot and the chip he’d made by dropping a pan on it. Mamá had teared up over the damage to her olla, but she hadn’t yelled at him for it.

No one used her olla, or her stash of chili peppers, garlic, and spices hanging in the tiered baskets. Mamá and Liliana had used them every Sunday when they made traditional Mexican meals together. The only thing the preteen nightmare made now was quesadillas in the microwave.

Should he give the supplies away?

That meant admitting Mamá would never be herself again.

He couldn’t deny the truth anymore. It had been obvious on her first day home from the hospital when she’d beaten Tommy with her Bible because she didn’t know who he was. The following morning, she punched his older sister in the face. The bruise on Antoinette’s cheek had turned purple. Later that night, Mamá kicked them both. Everyone had cried when he’d held her down to stop her from hurting them. They knew she’d never do it if she were in her right mind, but that didn’t help.

Afterward, Antoinette said they needed to send her to Pinos Sombríos Nursing and Rehabilitation Center. Tommy had refused to do it. Antoinette pointed out they might be able to help Mamá recover, and if she were home and attacked the younger girls, the state might revoke Antoinette’s custody of them. She had turned twenty-one just weeks before the accident and qualified to get it.

He’d agreed to sending Mamá to the rehab center but leaving her in that place where most people waited to die was as hard as burying Papá.

Tommy blinked more tears as he walked into his bedroom to trade his grease-and-oil-stained coveralls for jeans and a T-shirt.

When he returned to the kitchen, he found Liliana scowling as she scrounged cereal out of the bag. Now, she wore jeans and Mamá’s favorite purple blouse.

“It’s my turn.” Alexia snatched the bag.

“Hey, you both need to share. Lilia.” Tommy swept a finger up and down, pointing at her clothes. “That’s better. Papá wouldn’t have yelled himself hoarse over those.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Tommy, don’t forget my papers.” Alexia held out her red homework folder to him.

“Okay. I’ll read and sign them later. We gotta hurry.” He stuffed the folder between Antoinette’s two large boxes. “Let’s go.” He hoisted the boxes and herded his sisters to his boss’s work truck. Using the brand-new Ford F350 was risky. Tommy had been driving since he was eight, but ten years of experience didn’t mean a peso since he couldn’t pass any written tests. At least Khalil Karim, his Moroccan boss, trusted him without a license.

“Buckle up,” Tommy told the girls while he did so himself.

Alexia bumped his elbow as she squirmed to click her seatbelt into place.

Liliana faced the truck’s front passenger window. Her reflection predicted his grim future. Narrowed eyes. Pinched lips. Locket between her fingers. She always slid her necklace’s heart-shaped USB across her pursed lips when her internal radiator was about to explode. Was she gonna bail and run to her boyfriend? “Liliana, buckle it—now.”

She snorted but did so.

What would Papá say to her? “Tell me about your day, Lilia,” he said.

She continued to stare out the window.

He sighed.

“Tommy!” Alexia pointed at a large woman wearing a bright orange dress standing beside their caseworker’s lime-green Honda Civic three cars over. “That’s the lady who came to my class and wanted to know where Antoinette is.”

Ms Baggnato? Why was the caseworker who’d helped Antoinette file the paperwork to get custody of the girls talking to Alexia now? Had one of their neighbors called Child Protective Services on him? Did they think he couldn’t take care of them or that he was abusive because he yelled at the dope dealer? The girls only needed one guardian, and neither Antoinette nor Tommy were legal U.S. citizens. Now that he was eighteen, he could be deported to Mexico. California’s sanctuary law made things easier, but the state was breaking federal laws, so Papá had always said they should be careful. Maybe one of their neighbors told CPS Antoinette lived hours away at SDSU. If so, Ant’s custodial papers might be as useless as a car without a sparkplug. Was the caseworker coming to take the girls away? Last month Tommy and the girls had hidden at a neighbor’s apartment until Ms. Baggnato had gone away. “Get down,” he murmured as if she could hear him. “Don’t let her see you.”

Liliana sank in her seat as fast as Alexia. At least she listened now.

“Did you tell her Ant was at work?”

Alexia pulled her dinosaur’s tail out of her mouth, but her lower lip stuck out in a pout. It had taken forever to convince her it was okay to lie, but only about where their older sister was. “Yes.”

“Did you tell them you couldn’t remember where?”

The lip pushed out even farther. “Uh-huh. They asked about you, too.”

Tommy frowned. “What’d she want to know about me?”

“Where you worked.”

As soon as the older lady hobbled up the stairs to their apartment, he exited the parking lot. “What’d you say?”

“Um. That you worked out in the ocean so you could win surfing contests.” She grinned at him.

He forced a return smile. That dream had died the instant the drunk slammed into their parents’ car.

Once on the freeway, Tommy’s muscles remained in a tight bunch. How were they going to avoid the social worker? He added that to his list of worries while he followed Liliana’s directions and Alexia chattered nonstop.
 

What do I do if the state tries to take the girls from me?