No. Unnatural.
Another tired exhale escaped my lips. I gave up trying a long time ago.
When I’d first realized—back when I was about seven or so—that my hair attracted the wrong sort of attention from some of the foster men and boys in my life, I tried everything to get rid of it. Cut it. Dyed it. Shaved it. I’d even lifted hydrochloric acid from the science lab in seventh grade, filled the sink, and then dunked my hair into the solution. It burned my hair into oblivion, but a few days later it was back to the same length, the same color, the same everything. Just like always.
So I hid it the best I could; buns, braids, hats. And I wore enough black, had accumulated enough attitude throughout my teenage years that most guys respected my no’s when I said them. And if they didn’t, well, I’d learned how to deal with that, too. My current foster parents, Bruce and Casey Sanderson, were both bail bondsmen, which meant they put up the bail money so defendants could avoid jail time until their court appearance. And if the person didn’t show for their appointment with the judge, we hunted them down and brought them back to jurisdiction so we weren’t stuck footing the bill. Thanks to Bruce and Casey, I could operate six different firearms, drop a two-hundred-pound asshole to the floor in three seconds, and cuff a perp with one hand tied behind my back.
And they called it “family time.”
My hazy reflection smiled back at me. The Sandersons were pretty decent, decent enough to let a seventeen-year-old borrow their car and go in search of her past. Casey had been a foster kid too, so she understood my need to know. She knew I had to do this alone. I wished I’d gotten placed with them from the beginning. A snort blew through my nose. Yeah, and if wishes were dollars, I’d be Bill Gates.
Steam filled the bathroom. I knew what I was doing. Avoiding. Classic Ari MO. If I didn’t take a shower, I wouldn’t get out, put on my pj’s, and then open the damn box. “Just get it over with, you big wuss.” I stripped off the last of my clothes.
Thirty minutes later, after my fingertips were wrinkled and the air was so saturated with steam it was hard to breathe, I dried off and dressed in my favorite pair of old plaid boxers and a thin cotton tank. Once my wet hair was twisted back into a knot and a pair of fuzzy socks pulled on my forever-cold feet, I sat cross-legged in the middle of the king-size bed.
The box just sat there. In front of me.
My eyes squinted. Goose bumps sprouted on my arms and thighs. My blood pressure rose—I knew it by the way my chest tightened into a painful, anxious knot.
Stop being such a baby!
It was just a dumb box. Just my past.
I settled myself and lifted the lid, pulling the box closer and peering inside to find a few letters and a couple of small jewelry boxes.
Not enough in there to contain an entire life story. No doubt I’d have more questions from this than answers—that’s usually how my search went. Already disheartened, I reached inside and grabbed the plain white envelope on top of the pile, flipping it over to see my name scrawled in blue ink.
Aristanae.
My breath left me in an astonished rush. Holy hell. My mother had written to me.
It took a moment for it to sink in. I trailed my thumb over the flowing cursive letters with shaky fingers and then opened the envelope and unfolded the single sheet of notebook paper.
My dearest, beautiful Ari,
If you are reading this now, then I know you have found me. I had hoped and prayed that you wouldn’t. I am sorry for leaving you, and that sounds so inadequate, I know, but there was no other way. Soon you will understand why, and I’m sorry for that, too. But for now, assuming you were given this box by those at Rocquemore, you must run. Stay away from New Orleans, and away from those who can identify you. How I wish I could save you. My heart aches, knowing you will face what I have faced. I love you so much, Ari. And I am sorry. For everything.
I’m not crazy. Trust me. Please, baby girl, just RUN.
Momma
Spooked, I jumped off the bed and dropped the letter as though it burned. “What the hell?”
Fear made my heart pound like thunder and the fine hairs on my skin lift as though electrified. I went to the window and peeked through the blinds to look one floor down at my car in the back lot. Nothing unusual. I rubbed my hands down my arms and then paced, biting my left pinkie nail.
I stared at the open letter again, with the small cursive script. I’m not crazy. Trust me. Please, baby girl.
Baby girl. Baby girl.
I had only a handful of fuzzy memories left, but those words. . . I could almost hear my mother speaking those words. Soft. Loving. A smile in her voice. It was a real memory, I realized, not one of the thousand I’d made up over the years. An ache squeezed my heart, and the dull pain of an oncoming headache began behind my left eye.
All these years . . . It wasn’t fair!
A rush of adrenaline pushed against my rib cage and raced down my arm, but instead of screaming and punching the wall like I wanted to, I bit my bottom lip hard and made a tight fist.
No. Forget it.
It was pointless to go down the Life’s Not Fair road. Been there before. Lesson learned. That kind of hurt served no purpose.
With a groan, I threw the letter back into the box, shoved the lid on, and then got dressed. Once my things were secured in my backpack, I grabbed the box. My mother hadn’t spoken to me in thirteen years and this letter from the grave was telling me to run, to get to safety. Whatever was going on, I felt to the marrow of my bones that something wasn’t right. Maybe I was just spooked and paranoid after what I’d learned from Dr. Giroux.
And maybe, I thought, as my suspicious mind kicked into high gear, my mother hadn’t committed suicide after all.
Two
I HURRIED DOWN TO THE CHECKOUT COUNTER, HANDED IN MY key, and then headed out the back exit to my car. The streetlamp buzzed, flickering occasionally, highlighting the haze that hung low in the air. Frogs and crickets chanted from beyond the chain-link fence that separated the parking area from the overgrown, watery ditch that ran the length of the lot.
With every step, I became increasingly skeptical and felt increasingly stupid. What the hell was I doing fleeing because of some letter? And what was in New 2 that I needed to avoid? Answers to my past? Why I was a freak of nature? More info on my mother’s life?
My mother might’ve warned me, but she probably never envisioned that her only daughter would turn out to be a part-time bail bondsperson. I could handle New 2 and anything else that came my way.
Once again, I put the box on the passenger seat and my oversize backpack on the floorboard. My fingers flexed on the steering wheel, and I sat in the driver’s seat for a long time, hating my indecision.
I’d learned about Rocquemore House and the place of my birth, New Orleans, before leaving Memphis. Bruce and Casey had been cool with lending me one of their vehicles, knowing I was more mature and responsible than most adults. I was seventeen, had just graduated a semester early, and had proven, by my performance at work, that I was trustworthy. And in six months, I’d be a legal gun-toting citizen and full-time employee of Sanderson Bail & Bonds.
But—I bent over and let my forehead bang softly against the wheel—I’d promised Bruce and Casey I’d only go to Covington, and that if my search led to New 2, I’d wait for them to go with me, and not go in alone.
But now, with my mother’s letter, I wanted to go right away. I’d waited all these years. I was so close. …
The entire night had totally messed with my mind. Ari Selkirk was not an indecisive person. I’d had to take care of myself for most of my life, and I’d faced tougher moments than this. Hell, this was downright soft compared to some things.
With that thought, I sat back and slipped the key into the ignition, but before I could turn it, my cell phone rang from inside the backpack.
“Hello.”
“How’d it go, kiddo?” It was Bruce.
“Fine. Think I got what I came for. Still have to look through it, though. Hey, tell your brother thanks for his help, okay?” Even though the jerk overcharged me for his investigative services.
“Sure. You still driving back tomorrow? We got two new cases. Could be good for business.”
Could be, I thought. Could be even better if I found out who I was and why I was different from every other girl in the world.
“Hey, you still there?”
“Yeah.” I paused. “I, uh, have a few more leads to check into and then I’ll be back. Should be tomorrow night sometime.” I squeezed my eyes closed, feeling like crap that I just didn’t come clean and tell him I wanted to go to New 2. But I was too afraid that if I did, he’d say no. Originally, I’d planned to leave Covington in the morning and drive back to Memphis. Now I wasn’t sure what to do or why the hell I’d just checked out of the hotel.
Yes, you do. You’re going past The Rim. You’re going into New 2.
After hanging up with Bruce, I turned the ignition and let the car idle. I needed one day. One day to drive into New 2, visit Charity Hospital, gain access to my birth records, and, hopefully, find my father’s name. Although, driving might not be the best option seeing as New 2 was notorious for stolen vehicles. The last thing I wanted, especially after going back on my promise, was to arrive back in Memphis without the car.
Maybe the woman at the front desk could point me to a bus station. If there was one nearby, then maybe it was meant to be. If not, then I’d have to wait. But there was nothing wrong with asking, right?
Leaning over, I went to grab my backpack, but movement in the rearview mirror made me freeze.
A dark figure stood behind the car, now totally still. Fear shot lightning fast through my system, and I had the distinct feeling that I’d just dropped straight into a horror film.
Shit. He just stood there, a shadow in the rear window.
Slowly my hand skipped over the backpack and went for the glove compartment. I opened it, feeling for the 9mm Bruce kept there. I was in a company car. There was always a backup in each vehicle. Illegal for me to use, but something told me being underage was the least of my worries, and if I could scare him off, then no harm done.
