I didn’t have time to read the letter now. Somehow I had to escape before my caseworker arrived. She’d never let me stay here alone, not in a place where someone had just been killed. A crowd had gathered outside. I could slip away, invisible. Just as I slid the bedroom window open I heard a knock on my bedroom door.

“Natasha? It’s Jane. May I come in?”

Too late. My caseworker was already here. Ready to haul me off. I’d never get away in time. They’d catch me. Maybe it was better if I tried to convince her to let me stay until morning.

I closed the window and kicked my bag under the bed. “Come in.”

Jane entered my room, her face somber. “Are you all right?” I looked into her eyes. She was the type of woman who had no spark, cold and uninteresting in a boring brown suit. Jane Jones was as plain as her name. A woman who had been middle-aged since birth.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m okay.”       

“I know you’ve had quite a shock. I think it would be best if you’d let the paramedics take another look at you.”

“No. I’m just tired.”

“Would you like to talk about it?” She lowered her voice. “Did you know the man she killed?”

Her words cut into my insides like a saw. The last thing I wanted to do was talk about Chuck’s death. Especially with her. I shook my head and turned away, my voice cracking, threatening to betray me. “Just another one of Bambi’s boyfriends—she has plenty of them.”

“They are taking her in for questioning. That means….”

“I know…I just want an hour or so to get ready and pack my things. Can you give me that?”

She thought about it a moment, then nodded. “The police will be here for at least that long doing their investigation. There’s a female officer here who works with my department. Her name is Linda. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask her. She’ll keep an eye out until I return.”

Jane placed a hand on my shoulder. I pulled away—I just wanted her to leave.

“I’m sorry, Natasha,” she said. “I know that up to this point this was a successful placement. You’ve expressed your feelings about living at the group home, but I'm afraid there's little choice. Unless...”

"Unless what?"

"I'll head to the office and make some calls. We'll find a temporary placement for the night, but then...” She hesitated. “There is a woman just north of here who might consider taking you in long-term. She’s a foster mom with a lot of younger kids, so she’ll expect you to help out around the house. But she’s very kind. I think you’ll like her. I’ll send her a copy of your file and we'll see what she says.”

My stomach churned. I despised the idea of anyone reading about me. Prying into my business—and Jane Jones was good at prying. She was writing a book about her work with troubled kids. A year ago she'd invited me into her home, introduced me to her cat, tried to get me to trust her. She took advantage of my hunger, jotting down all my secrets in exchange for a juicy hamburger and ice cream. She studied me like a lab rat, recording every painful word I spoke, sitting across from me as impassive as a brick.

Jane thought she knew it all—what it was like to be a foster kid. She didn’t know anything. Jane Jones had never eaten dry macaroni for breakfast, never begged for a blanket or lived with a murderous drunk. I was nothing to her but material in a manuscript—a building block in the palace she was erecting. She knew I didn’t want to go back to the group home, and suddenly it occurred to me that all I had to do was roll up my sleeves, bare my scars, and she’d do whatever it took to place me, make me happy, just for more material for her book.

I hated and needed her at the same time.

Jane turned to leave and hesitated. She frowned, searching my face. Did she know I would run? Could she see it in my eyes? “Pack only what you need. We’ll gather the rest of your things later.” She pressed her lips together into a thin line. “I’ll be back soon.”

Jane left. I added a few more things to my bag, stuffed the letter into my shirt pocket, and slipped a hoodie over my sweatshirt. The window was a bad idea. I went to the back of the trailer, to the door no one used because there weren’t any steps. If I could slip out, I could duck between trailers and head to the highway before being noticed.

I went into Bambi’s room. It reeked of unwashed sheets, booze, and stale perfume. I caught a whiff of something else, something that smelled earthy, cedar and leaves—Chuck’s smell. My mouth went dry, tasted metallic. I tried not to cry, but it felt as if someone were squeezing my throat, crushing my windpipe, forcing tears out of my eyes.

Bambi’s jewelry box rested on top of her dresser. The pink box glared under the light with its gaudy gold lid—one of her favorite bingo prizes. I flipped open the top, ignored a spinning ballerina pirouetting in tight circles, and stuck my hand inside.

Beneath a picture of a hideous wedding gown was a pile of cash. I grabbed the thick wad of bills and tossed the box aside. Apparently, Bambi had been saving for a wedding dress. I gritted my teeth, seething with mounting rage. It served her right that I was taking the money. She had killed my dreams and now I’d steal hers. She must have been saving for months, skimping on groceries, bumming off Chuck and me so she could save up for her selfish, over-the-top dress.

Stuffing the money into my pocket, I went into the laundry room and peered out the backdoor, watching out the little plastic window to make sure no one was around. I turned the knob, bit by bit until the door opened. I jumped to the ground. The gravel made loud crunching sounds as I landed.

I paused, leaning against the cold metal siding of the trailer. Holding my breath, I waited, but no one came. Since there weren’t any lights on this side of the trailer, the darkness would conceal me. Voices echoed in the night, coming from the driveway, cops laughing and asking whose turn it was to buy coffee. How could they laugh and talk about coffee when Chuck was dead? Footsteps drew near, a flashlight cut into the darkness. I had to escape, and fast.

My mind scattered into a million worried thoughts, I had to focus. I wouldn’t be able to take my usual path out of the trailer park because of the two guard dogs near the entrance—their barking would give me away. Keeping to the shadows, I crept from one beat-up trailer to the next, trespassing through an obstacle course of junk: bald tires, a discarded wash machine, furniture missing its stuffing. I kept traveling until I was free, ducking into a back alley where I started running, legs pumping, breath sawing in and out. I didn’t stop until I reached the industrial end of the city. They’d never find me now with all the dark nooks, warehouses, and dimly lit streets.

Somewhere in the distance a train rolled down the tracks, its iron wheels making a lonesome rumble into the night. The sound stirred a mixture of emotions. Panic. Loneliness. Desperation. If only I could be aboard, tucked away, lulled by the train’s rhythmic percussion. I’d ride the rails farther and farther away, until all my worries were soothed by distance.

I worked my way deep into the heart of the city. I glanced at the time on my cell phone. I still had about ten minutes before my caseworker would return to the trailer and find me missing—if the cop she put in charge of me hadn’t already.

I rested near a bus stop, hidden under my dark hood. Beneath a pale street light, I pulled Chuck’s letter from my pocket, hugged it to my chest, feeling his spirit hover near me. I studied his handwriting scrolled across the front.

For Natasha.

I traced each word, then flipped it over and worked my finger under the flap, careful not to tear the last thing on earth that Chuck had given to me—had held in his hands before he died.

I sucked in my breath as I read each word.