Eighteen

Walls were made for sliding—down, down, down to a heap on the floor. I took full advantage and did just that. I blame my knees. They’d disappeared and left me with Jell-O.

“Ellison?” Anarchy’s voice was insistent. “Ellison?”

I clutched the phone and stared at my non-working knees. Donna was wrong. She had to be wrong.

Anarchy pried the phone from my stiff fingers. “Hello, this is Detective Jones, with whom am I speaking?”

He listened for a few seconds, the expression on his face as cold as the blood in my veins. “May I please speak with your mother?” Another pause. “Thank you.”

He crouched next to me, somehow inserted his arm between my back and the wall, and hauled me off the floor.

With Anarchy supporting me, I staggered to the island, and collapsed on a stool.

He spoke into the phone. “Mrs. Hess, Detective Jones on the line. Am I to understand that Grace Russell left your house?”

Again he listened.

“We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Daddy walked into the kitchen as Anarchy hung up the phone. He took one look at my face and asked, “What’s happened? Are you all right?”

“Grace—” my throat closed, tightened by unspeakable fear.

“Grace left the Hess’s house and we don’t know where she is,” Anarchy explained.

“She’ll be home soon,” said Daddy.

Tears spilled over the rims of my eyes. “There were—” telling Daddy about the threats was an impossibility.

“There were threats.” Good thing Anarchy could finish my sentence.

Daddy’s brows drew together. “What kind of threats?”

A sob escaped my throat. When I’d thought Grace was safe, facing the myriad problems in front of me seemed doable—especially with Anarchy beside me. Now that she was missing, fear and horror and panic clawed for supremacy in my chest. I could think of nothing but her. I shook my head unable to speak.

“Things no parent wants to hear,” said Anarchy.

I bit the knuckle of my thumb. Hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to draw blood.

Now Daddy looked worried. “What can I do?” He was letting Anarchy take charge?

“Stay here in case Grace shows up,” said Anarchy. “Ellison and I are going to the Hess’s.”

Somehow I made it from the kitchen to the passenger seat of Anarchy’s car (hard to do with knees made of Jell-O).

Anarchy turned the key in the ignition. “Address?”

“What?”

“What’s the address? Where are we going?”

Coming up with an actual address was an impossibility. My brain, filled as it was with awful images and numbing fear, refused to fetch details. “Turn left at the corner.”

Anarchy drove as if the streets were dry. Houses and trees and sodden leaves blurred past the windows.

“Right at the stop sign.”

He turned without coming to a full stop and the rear of the car fishtailed. “We’ll find her.” His tone left no room for doubt. “I promise, Ellison. We’ll find Grace.”

We had to.

Despite the heat blasting from the vents, I shivered. And shivered.

Anarchy reached across the seat and took my hand. “We’ll find her.”

If he said it often enough, it had to be true. I nodded, again unable to speak, my voice held hostage by horrific what-ifs. I wanted to scream and rail and beat against the windows of the car. Not my daughter. Not heroin. Not men. Not that. Had Leesa’s mother felt this way? Had Jane’s? Of course they had. In that moment, I understood desperation. There was nothing—nothing—I wouldn’t do to get Grace back.

More houses whizzed by.

Anarchy slowed for another stop sign.

“Straight through here then the third house on the left.” My voice didn’t belong to me. It quavered like an old woman’s—one beaten down by hardship and sadness and unrelenting terror.

Anarchy pulled into the drive and together we ran to the front door.

India was waiting for us.

She hugged me. “Ellison, I’m so sorry. I had no idea Grace left. Not until I spoke with Detective Jones.” She ushered us inside. “Coffee. Do you need coffee?”

Like I needed my heart and lungs. Like I needed my daughter. I shook my head. My throat was too tight to swallow even a sip.

“Who picked up Grace?” Anarchy wore his cop-face. All business. Not a shred of warmth in his expression. For once, I was glad to see it.

India turned and called, “Donna.”

A pale-faced Donna appeared. Tears stood in her eyes and her chin quivered. “I thought it was okay. Mom didn’t tell us there was a problem.” She sent a reproachful glance in India’s direction. “If I’d known Grace was in trouble I wouldn’t have let her leave.”

Anarchy’s hand closed around my elbow, keeping me steady, keeping me on my feet.

“It’s true. I didn’t tell the girls about your call, Ellison. I thought it best that you, not I, tell Grace what was happening.”

I didn’t blame her.

Blame didn’t matter. Not now. The only thing that mattered was Grace. Where was she? The question reverberated through my body but my voice-box rebelled.

It was Anarchy who said, “Tell us about the girl who picked her up. Where did they go?”

“She was just a girl. Grace knew her. She called her Jane.”

Where did they go? My mouth opened and closed and I squeaked.

Anarchy glanced at me then asked, “What kind of car was she driving?”

“Light blue.”

There were probably a hundred thousand light blue cars in metropolitan area.

“Make? Model? License plate number?” Anarchy’s no-nonsense tone made Donna blink. Multiple times.

She shook her head. “I don’t know much about cars. I don’t pay attention to them. I do remember the license plate was red with white letters and numbers.”

A Kansas plate?

Anarchy leaned forward. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Not Missouri. Missouri plates were white with black letters and numbers. Living near the state line as we did, we saw an equal number of both.

“Anything else? Do you remember any of the letters or numbers?”

“J and A.”

“That’s it?”

“I only remember those because the girl said her name was Jane and I thought it was cool that the first two letters of her plates matched her name.”

“How many doors did the car have?” Now Anarchy’s tone was patient.

We didn’t need patience. We needed urgency. Jane could have already delivered Grace to one of those awful bars.

“Two doors.” Donna rubbed her chin and closed her eyes. “I think. Maybe four.”

I pressed the back of my hand against my mouth, stifling a scream.

“Did she say where she was going?”

“I’m not sure. I think I heard Jane say something about home and a grandmother.”

“My mother?” My voice creaked like the third step on the backstairs—the one Grace avoided when she was late for curfew. She had to be all right. Had. To. Be.

“We should check your parents’ house.” said Anarchy.

“I can’t imagine why they’d go there.”

“Jane’s grandmother?”

Jane’s grandmother. Who knew it was possible for my stomach to sink even lower? “We don’t know who—” my voice died as a tiny sliver of mental acuity slipped past the wall of terror in my mind—the woman who’d sent me looking for Jane in the first place. What if she’d lied? What if there was no restless spirit begging for my help? What if there was just a desperate grandmother? One who’d do anything to rescue her granddaughter? I cleared my throat. “Madame Reyna’s. We should go there.” My voice was strong and sure.

Anarchy’s brows rose. “Why?”

“I have a feeling.” More than a feeling. Certainty blossomed within me. Madame Reyna and Jane were related by blood. And the men Jane had been involved with had threatened her grandmother if she dared go home. But now, she had no place left to run. I rushed toward the door, toward the car, toward Prairie Village and Madame Reyna’s little ranch house.

“Ellison.” India’s voice slowed my steps. “Please keep us informed.”

“I will.” I looked over my shoulder and attempted a smile (a smile that felt like a grimace). “I promise.” Jane and Grace were at Madame Reyna’s. They were. They had to be. I’d be calling with good news in no time.

Anarchy clutched the wheel as we drove. Ten and two. I clutched my hands together and prayed.

He parked at the curb in front of the house. “I don’t suppose you’d wait in the car.”

I snorted and opened the car door.

We hurried up the short front walk, the rain dampening our hair, and, for me, sneaking past the collar of my trench coat.

The front door stood ajar.

Anarchy reached inside his coat and pulled out a gun. He looked at me, his face serious as death. “You won’t go back to the car?”

“No.” Not now. Not when Grace might be inside. Might need me.

“Then stay here.” His tone brooked no arguments.

I nodded and pulled the collar of my trench tighter around my neck.

“I mean it, Ellison. Stay. Here. Do not set foot in this house until I tell you it’s clear.”

“Okay.”

“Promise.”

“I promise.”

He gave me a look that said he didn’t quite believe me. A look that said if I broke my promise, there would be hell to pay.

I gave him a look that said I wouldn’t move a muscle. I blinked back raindrops. Mascara ran down my cheeks. I was sure of it. “I won’t move.”

Giving me one last cop-like stare, Anarchy used the tip of his gun to push on the door. It swung open and he stepped inside.

The temptation to follow him was overwhelming. Grace might be in there.

But, if Anarchy needed to use his gun to save her, I might get in the way. I wiped my mascara-blackened cheeks and waited.

Not patiently.

I leaned over Madame Reyna’s neatly trimmed hedge and peeked through the rain-streaked windows into the living room.

Madame Reyna’s gold brocade living room set had been upended, the macramé hangings ripped from the walls, and her crystal ball lay in pieces on the shag rug.

Oh dear Lord.

I straightened and stuck my head through the front door. “Anarchy!”

“Stay outside, Ellison.” His voice carried from the back of the house.

No one was home. Worse than that, someone had destroyed what home there was. I couldn’t wait. I lifted a sodden loafer. I had to find Grace. Now.

Wham!

My bum hitting the concrete reverberated up my spine.

And the man on top of me didn’t seem to appreciate that I’d broken his fall. He struggled—violently—to free himself from the tangle of our limbs.

I gasped for air and my lungs filled with the scents of wet wool and tobacco.

“Son of a bitch.” He was almost free.

I grabbed the front of his sweater and held onto the wool as if Grace’s life depended on it. “Anarchy!” My voice echoed in the damp air.

“Let go, lady.” The man struggled against my hold.

I threw my calf over the bend in his knee. “Anarchy!”

The man raised up, his hand closed into a fist—a fist the size of Rhode Island—and he drew his arm back.

I winced in anticipation of the coming pain. No matter what, I couldn’t let go. My grasp on his sweater tightened. I closed my eyes.

His weight disappeared and I was half-dragged off the pavement by my hold on his clothing.

“Let go, Ellison.” I opened my eyes and saw Anarchy.

Per his instructions, I released the man’s sweater and thudded against the concrete.

An enormous, craggy man scowled down on me.

Anarchy had twisted the man’s arm. The hold looked painful.

“Can you get up?” Anarchy asked.

I nodded and rose slowly to my feet.

“There are cuffs in the car. Go get them.”

I nodded and hurried toward the car parked on the street.

“They’re in the glove box,” Anarchy called after me.

I yanked open the glove box, grabbed the cold metal, and raced back up the walk.

Anarchy closed the handcuffs around the man’s wrists. “Let’s get out of the rain.”

With Anarchy propelling him, the man stepped back inside. I followed.

Anarchy pushed the man into the kitchen.

Someone had destroyed Madame Reyna’s home. And not just the living room. The kitchen drawers had been emptied onto the rust-colored linoleum floors, plates and glasses had been pulled from the cupboards, and the avocado-green oven door hung at a drunken angle. Miraculously, Madame Reyna’s Mr. Coffee had survived.

Anarchy caught me looking. “Crime scene. You can’t make coffee.”

I sighed.

He forced the man into a kitchen chair. “Meet Rocky O’Hearne.”

I’d heard that name before.

Anarchy, who stood behind O’Hearne, mouthed, “Bookie.”

A bookie? Now I remembered, Anarchy had told me about him. Rocky O’Hearne wasn’t just a bookie. He had his finger in every illicit pot in the city. I shifted my gaze to the man in the chair. My first impression had been spot on. He was craggy. His face was deeply lined and his faded red hair looked wind-swept as if he’d just returned from a walk on the moors. He wore a shapeless, moss-colored sweater (the sweater probably had more shape before I grabbed hold of it), a leather jacket spotted with damp, and corduroy pants. He also wore a bored expression—as if getting cuffed by a homicide detective was nothing more than a tedious inconvenience.

Did Rocky O’Hearne know where Grace was?

Flying across the table and choking Grace’s whereabouts out of him probably wouldn’t work. Mother, who seldom followed her own advice, often told me that I’d catch more flies with honey than vinegar. Honey was worth a try. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. O’Hearne.”

Both Anarchy and Mr. O’Hearne blinked.

“I’m sorry I ruined your sweater.”

They blinked again.

The panic that had subsided on the drive over, when I’d been sure we’d find Grace at Madame Reyna’s, was building again. Deep breath. “We’re looking for my daughter.”

Rocky did not reply.

“She’s sixteen.”

Rocky did not look interested.

“She disappeared this morning.”

Rocky looked terminally bored. His gaze traveled the kitchen, catching on Mr. Coffee as if he too wanted a cup of liquid heaven.

“She’s with a girl named Jane—Starry.”

I had his attention now. His gaze—the cold, pale blue of a January sky—locked onto me. “You know Starry?”

“I do.”

“Smart kid.”

“She worked for you?” I asked.

Rocky O’Hearne glanced over his shoulder at Anarchy then settled back into silence.

Now it was my turn to look at Anarchy. I pleaded with my eyes. Was there nothing he could do to make this Rocky person tell us where the girls were?

Anarchy righted two additional chairs. “Sit.”

I sat.

He took the other chair. “This lady is worried about her daughter.”

Rocky swung his bored gaze my way. “The kid ran away?”

“No!” My voice was too loud in Madame Reyna’s small kitchen. I adjusted the volume. “She didn’t run away.” Tears filled my eyes, blurred my vision. “Grace went with Jane—probably because she thought she could help her.”

“With what?”

“I don’t know. I just know she’s in trouble. Ray’s dead—”

Rocky’s eyes widened and he rose from his chair. “Ray’s dead?”

“Sit down,” instructed Anarchy.

Rocky sat and lowered his head so the fall of his hair and his wild brows hid his eyes.

“Ray was murdered,” I said quietly. “Last night. At my house.”

Rocky’s head didn’t move.

“Someone threatened my daughter.” If I fell to my knees on Madame Reyna’s linoleum, would Rocky listen to me? Would he tell me what I needed to know? Did he even have the answers?

Like Rocky, I lowered my head. Unlike Rocky, I was not silent. A sob ripped from my chest. The first sob was followed by a second and a third.

“Shut up.”

No one had told me to shut up since I was five. My sister, Marjorie, yelled at me when I sang “Marjorie and Chet sitting in a tree” one too many times. Marjorie didn’t count. Rocky’s rudeness surprised me enough to quiet my crying.

“I can’t stand it when women cry.”

Then he was in the wrong business. There couldn’t be too many happy women at strip clubs.

“She’s sixteen.” My voice was still choked with emotion.

“She made a choice.”

“Were all the decisions you made at sixteen wise ones?”

“When I was sixteen, I was in juvie.”

“There you go. You’d made a bad decision.”

“I turned out fine.”

He’d turned into a monster. “No one was feeding you drugs. No one accepted money to let men rape you. No one made you dance around a pole. No one—”

“Shut up!” He lifted his head and we stared at each other.

“Why are you here, Mr. O’Hearne?” I asked. “At this house?”

He couldn’t cross his arms—not with his wrists cuffed—but he extended his legs and slouched in his chair.

“You have the right to remain silent,” said Anarchy. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot—”

“You’re arresting me?” Rocky O’Hearne sounded annoyed (bothersome-mosquito annoyed) “On what charge?”

Anarchy’s gaze traveled the destroyed kitchen. “Breaking and entering. Destruction of property.” He looked at me. “Assault.”

“I’ll be out in an hour.”

“If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand—”

“Yeah, I understand ‘em.”

“Why are you here, Mr. O’Hearne?” Every bit of sadness and hope and exhaustion and yo-yoing emotion I’d felt that day came through in my voice.

He stared at me, his face impassive.

I wiped a tear from my cheek and my gaze dropped to my lap. He wasn’t going to tell me anything. Not one thing.

“I didn’t wreck this place,” said Rocky. “It was like this when I got here.”

I lifted my head in time to see Anarchy nod as if he’d expected as much.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

The expression on Rocky’s face was almost wry. “I’m looking for Starry.”

“Why?” I insisted.

“She witnessed a murder.”