Cyan Greene turned the piggy bank around in her hands. The coins inside clinked together, the sound muffled against what she prayed was enough cash to get her to her gig tonight. A gig that would pay this month’s rent. It wasn’t stealing if the person who’s bank it was had passed away.
That was too benign a phrase to explain anything about her mother’s life—or her death. She’d been gunned down on the street in downtown Miami in what the police had told Cyan was a gang-related incident. Wrong place at the wrong time. But the police didn’t know Cyan and her mom had been in witness protection for thirteen years, out for nearly half that after her uncle was stabbed in prison. The threat had been over for a long time, but the memory of running and hiding never really went away.
Cyan shook the piggy bank and prayed some more. This was what her life had come to. Years spent trying to get her singing career off the ground and now she was scrounging for gas money. It hadn’t worked. She wasn’t the star her mom had wanted her to be. Cyan had to face the fact it wasn’t what God wanted for her and truth be told, it wasn’t what she wanted, either. Now at least she had the freedom of her mom’s absence to explore other things, to figure out what it was she was supposed to be doing.
First she had to get rent money, and then she could tell her manager she was done. She’d more than fulfilled her contract, and she just didn’t have the energy for it. She felt old and tired.
Cyan lifted the bank and threw it down on the kitchen floor as hard as she could. Pieces of stone shattered across the floor, spraying nickels, dimes and an alarming amount of pennies across the linoleum. A wad of scrunched up bills unfolded.
Cyan crouched and flipped through the bills, her heart sinking. Apparently she was taking the bus to her gig. She glanced at the clock on the oven. She’d have to leave pretty soon if she had any hope of not being late.
A small plastic square with SD on it slipped from the bills onto her palm.
Cyan stared at it.
Why would her mom keep a memory card in a piggy bank she never opened and yet had guarded like Cyan’s cat when her food bowl was full?
Cyan strode to her laptop and swiped the mouse pad to wake it up. She slid the SD card in the slot she’d never used before and waited while her laptop came out of its stupor. When it finally loaded, the SD card showed a list of images and some documents. Cyan scrolled down them to view the preview. The pictures all had what looked like date stamps on the bottom, like an old digital camera. She opened one so she could see the date, and gasped. That day would forever be imbedded on her brain—the very day her mom had testified in front of a jury.
Why would her mom have kept a memory card of evidence? Surely it should have been turned over to the police. Her mom never did anything the logical way, but this was serious. People had died over her testimony, and more lives had been saved because her uncle had been put away and his organization dissolved.
The laptop screen went black. Cyan frowned and touched the mouse pad again. The screen flicked back on with her email program open. The quiet beep of Facebook notifications chimed four times in a row…five, six. The screen flickered again, and the photo was back but the bottom corner showed she was offline. Her internet was spotty at best, and she couldn’t stream anything unless she went to a coffee shop. Not to mention she badly needed a new laptop.
Cyan ejected the SD card and slipped it into her pocket. She grabbed her guitar case and purse, and locked up. Not that she had anything worth stealing when her guitar was going with her, but it was the principal of the thing. She didn’t want her nosy neighbor, or that guy who sent her flowers and cards every once in a while, to find her apartment unlocked.
After the gig she’d have to call the contact the US Marshals had given her. If the SD card was related to her mom’s case, then it was old, but it might still be important even now.
“Smile!”
Cyan turned back, trying to look happy. The iPhone camera flashed, blinding her with a yellow spot that lingered in her vision. “Hi, Mrs. Rae.”
“Honey, I’ve told you to call me Vanessa.” The seventy-five year old who was Cyan’s neighbor stood in the hall in yoga pants and a tight-fitting shirt. Her fingers and toes were freshly manicured, her hair had been expertly curled, and her skin was almost orange.
Cyan prayed she had half this woman’s style when she reached that age. Just without the tanning beds.
“There. All done and posted to your Facebook page. The star, on her way to a gig!”
Her last one if Cyan had any say in it. Still she said, “Awesome.” Hopefully that didn’t sound sarcastic. “I’ll see you later.”
Maybe when she got back, things would be looking up.