Chapter Five
CHAPTER FIVE
Everything hurts in the morning. It’s like I’ve swallowed a mouthful of cotton, my throat dry and lips scabbed over with dead skin and dried blood. A pounding headache keeps me from lifting myself up and makes the broken ceiling fan spin.
“Good morning, beautiful,” says Tiffany.
Sunlight almost never makes it to my room, back in the darkest corner of the house. Today, it blinds me, adding a new sting to the mix. “Wha’s … going on?” The words bleed together, my mind too split between processing the sun and the all-over pain to put together coherent thoughts.
“Looks like you had fun last night.” Something new burns my knuckles. I hiss, trying to pull my hand to my chest, but Tiffany holds me down. Half our medicine cabinet is spread out across the bed, my left hand in her lap. She’s already dressed in the drab gray sweatpants and matching hoodie she reserves for when she visits Angel. Gets her through the check-in process easier. “You owe me a new mirror, by the way.”
I keep quiet while she works, biting back yelps as she cleans each cut. The mirror did more damage than I thought. My hand got the brunt of it, but I must’ve knocked my head into something along the way. The cut on my forehead is shallow but doesn’t do me any favors when it comes to keeping headaches at bay.
I can vaguely remember feeling some pain last night, but I was numb to anything that wasn’t screaming until my voice gave out. My body followed pretty soon after. I stumbled back to my room once I couldn’t scream anymore and fell asleep dripping blood onto my comforter.
Which is gone, I realize. I sit up slightly, checking to see if I kicked it off while I slept. “Where’s the—”
“In the washer.” Tiffany rests a hand on my shoulder, gently pushing me back down. “You’re welcome.”
“Thanks.” A wave of nausea comes when I lean back against the pillows. All I can do is stare at a fixed point on the ceiling.
“How was your night?” I ask once my stomach has settled and she’s moved on to bandaging.
“Fun.” Her tone is blunt but doesn’t pack any bite. “Wish I’d stuck around here, though. Might’ve saved my bathroom mirror.” A hint of a smile cracks through as she peeks over at me. It hurts to pull my lips taut, the dry skin stretching past its limit. But it’s hard not to smile when Tiffany’s around.
“All right.” Tiffany finishes tying off the bandages, patting my hand before setting it down on the mattress. “Breakfast is in ten. Try not to get into any more fights with inanimate objects, okay? I’ve cleaned up enough blood for one morning.” Before I can reply, she plants a kiss to my cheek and bounces out of the room like the hurricane she is.
The cold seeps in once Tiffany’s warmth is gone. Naturally, the radiator in our room would be busted for months while the one in the bathroom is constantly on full blast. Once my headache feels dulled enough that I won’t fall over when I stand, I slowly make my way to the garage. Glitter is streaked across the back window of Tiffany’s minivan. I can hear her complaining about what a pain in the ass it’ll be to clean already. We have a strict no-glitter policy in our household.
I’ve made it in time to move my comforter from the washer to the dryer. Pushing through the ache in my arms and throbbing in my knuckles, I squat down to move the damp comforter into the dryer, but a flash of gold catches my eye. A box shoved between the dryer and a stack of crates that’s been sitting in the garage since the day I moved in. The box is unusually damp, curdled dust sticking to my good hand, but the contents are in pristine condition. Kingswood blazers. Three of them. Washed, ironed, and ready for the new semester.
Dropping the comforter, I pick up one of the blazers and hold it up to my nose. The collar still smells like Solina. Eucalyptus shampoo and the pine-scented laundry detergent she insisted on, even though it cost an extra two dollars. The wrist is stained with spilled peach iced tea. She was always a messy eater.
Without thinking, I slip the blazer on. I don’t fit into it the way she did. I’m all straight lines where she had curves. The shoulders hunch, fabric gathering at my collarbone where I can’t fill the spaces. But it’s better this way, easier to let her scent surround me.
I hate how present she still feels, but I don’t think I could’ve survived if she wasn’t. My world has revolved around her since we were fourteen. I’ve buried dollar bills in the box under our bed for over three years so she could have the life I once thought we both deserved. The money still went to her, to the coffin we buried her in. What does that leave me with now?
If I could, I’d sit here forever, wrapped in the warmth and smell of her. It’s the closest I’ll ever get to the way it was before, the two of us curled around one another during thunderstorms, whimpering until the storm passed. We were always too proud to admit when we were afraid.
Last night is a blur, but one thought comes rushing back. The force of it knocks me onto my elbows, leaves me breathless as I look at myself in the reflection of the minivan’s rearview mirror.
It’s like she’s still here, looking back at me.
My head protests when I scramble back up as quickly as I can. The room spins and my stomach lurches, but I keep moving, barreling into the kitchen and bracing myself up against the doorframe.
“Calm down, the pancakes’ll be ready in five,” Tiffany replies without looking up. “Make yourself useful and grab the syrup.”
When I don’t, she turns around with an annoyed look. “What’re you—” Her words trail off, spatula hanging limply in her hand as she takes me in. “Where did you get that?”
“Box in the garage,” I reply, taking a second to let my headache calm down.
She bites her lip, giving me one last up and down before turning back to the stove with an unreadable look. “She asked me to iron them,” she mumbles. She’s the only person in the house with enough patience to brave the ironing board. “I meant to put those away, but …” She heaves a sigh, shaking her head as she flips one of the pancakes before it’s ready, batter splashing all over the pan. “Sorry.”
“I’m going to Kingswood,” I say, my voice steady and sure even though I still feel like I’m trapped underwater.
Her shoulders lock, but she doesn’t take her eyes off the pan. “What?”
“None of us have told them about Solina. Cops never bothered to contact them either. I could go back there, as her. Figure out what happened.”
Find who did this.
The silence makes the three feet between us feel like miles.
“Have you lost your freaking mind?!” Tiffany finally snaps, swinging around with her nostrils flaring. “You could get arrested, Luna. And that’s assuming some rich kid doesn’t try to slit your throat first or—” She stops mid-tirade, her cheeks flushing.
“Or what?” I challenge. “What else am I supposed to do? Stay here and do nothing?”
She points the spatula at me, lets the tip of it rest on my chest. Pancake batter drips down my shirt. “Yeah, that’s exactly what you should do.”
If there’s one thing she should know about me by now, it’s that I’ve never sat by and let things happen. My business with Cartagena is proof of that. If there’s a hole, I fill it; a question, I answer it. It’s what brought me and Solina to her. We needed a fresh start, I found it.
Now Solina is dead, and I’m going to find who did it.
I snatch the spatula out of her hand and toss it onto the counter. “This is the only way we can find out what happened.”
It would be so simple, sliding into Solina’s skin. Wearing her name like armor. Whoever hurt her would have it written all over their face the second they saw me. A girl brought back from the dead.
“Uh, no. ” The smell of smoke stops Tiffany before she can continue. She flips around, turning the burner off and fanning the black smoke billowing from the pan before the fire alarm can rat her out. “Cops are pieces of shit, but it’s their job to get answers. Not yours.”
And they’re not doing their job.
“They’re closing the case.” Hearing it in my own voice packs twice the punch. And I’d already hated Cartagena’s voice to begin with. Nasal, like a poorly healed nose job.
Tiffany stiffens, her hand falling back down to her side. Black smoke curls around her as her chest balloons up with protests, the same ones I’d had before Cartagena shut me down. Soon enough, Tiffany deflates too. She bats the smoke away and sags against the counter once it’s gone. There’s nothing else we can say that hasn’t already been said hundreds of times.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
I wish people would stop saying that.
There’s no time left to feel sorry for myself. I cross the cramped kitchen to get back to my room, grabbing the stack of mail that’s still sitting on the edge of my bed. Tiffany’s brow furrows when I return waving Solina’s schedule in front of her. The Kingswood wax seal glimmers in the dim light of the kitchen when I hold it up. “We could do this. We have her schedule, the uniforms, her books. It would take a few days. Just until—”
“Until what?!” Tiffany shouts back. I can’t even remember the last time she raised her voice like this. This kind of anger is reserved for bad answers on Wheel of Fortune and coupons we didn’t use before they expired. It takes a lot to turn someone as sweet as her sour. “You get them to confess? This isn’t the fucking CW, Luna. You don’t get to just throw on a blazer and play Nancy Drew.”
And to think, I thought she’d be on my side. Telling her was supposed to be a formality, an excuse to get a ride to the train station. The night after we found Solina, she nearly punched a hole in the wall of the living room. Pacing for hours, tears streaming down her cheeks. In between sobs she promised we’d find who did this, holding my hand so tight I worried the bones would snap.
When did that change?
“We don’t even know if someone at that school did this,” Tiffany continues, gesturing to the crest on the blazer’s breast pocket. “It could’ve been some rando at the park for all we know.”
Of course I’d considered that option too. That some tripper lured her off the road, but Solina knew as well as I do never to trust strangers—even the kind ones. We don’t know much, but we know a fall off the cliffs at Green Hills Park is what killed her. That there’s no other way her body could’ve been so badly bruised except from those jagged rocks jutting out of the water. And I know she never would’ve gone to that park unless someone wanted her there. Someone she thought she could trust.
And there’s no one in this town she would’ve trusted.
I throw the envelope from Kingswood back down on the counter and storm out of the kitchen.
“Come on, Lu,” Tiffany calls out, trailing after me but keeping a safe distance. “I’m not the villain here.”
“No,” I snap, prepared to slam my bedroom door. “You’re just like the rest of them.”
Usually, sleep doesn’t come easy, but today I crash as soon as my head hits the pillow.
Closing my door means the heat from the bathroom radiator doesn’t waft over. In just a few hours, my room becomes a tundra, and I don’t even have my comforter to hide under. My joints crack unsettlingly when I stretch, my skin a map of cuts and goose bumps. The sky is pitch-black, but the clock says it’s only ten past four.
The scent of something sweet lingers in the air. Sugar cookies. Out-of-town bar crawls aren’t sustainable, so stress baking is Tiffany’s coping mechanism of choice. She must’ve made them before she left. The drive up to the federal prison takes two hours on a good day, and she always gets her gas worth, telling Angel about all the things he’s missed until the guards bark that her time is up. If she doesn’t hit traffic, she’ll be back in about three hours.
I pull on an extra pair of socks and sweats, grabbing one of the spare quilts from the closet before crawling back to bed. The door creaks open so quietly I don’t notice until someone is sliding under the covers. My breath hitches as a warm body slots behind me, arms wrapping around my waist. The smell of frosting and flour. Tiffany.
“Shouldn’t you be—”
“I can go tomorrow,” she interrupts before I can finish asking. The part of me that’s not still angry at her feels guilty for making her break tradition. Though if there’s anything she and Angel have, it’s time.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers as she leans her chin on my shoulder, her breath hot against my cheek. My hands rest on top of hers, just above my belly button.
I nod instead of replying. I’ve never been able to stay angry at her for long. She and Solina have always had that effect on me. Exceptions to my cold heart.
“I just …” She exhales sharply. I can’t tell if she’s at a loss for words or close to tears. “We can’t lose you too.” It comes out broken, less than a whisper. I can’t apologize for wanting to find answers for Solina, but I can for hurting her.
A tear rolls down her cheek, smeared against mine before I can reply. The knot in my stomach, the one that hardens with every day I hold everything in, keeps my own at bay. I don’t say anything, not yet. Instead I hold her close, running my chilled fingertips along the length of her arm while the tears fall.
Her sniffles turn into a quiet laugh. “We’ll need to do something about these.” One hand comes up to tug at my earlobe. “Ready to get your ears pierced?”
Needles creep me out. Solina didn’t really care, though. Sometimes when we went to visit Mami at the hospital, she’d sneak us little presents, toys or candy or a few crumpled dollar bills from the bottom of her purse. Solina saved up hers until Papi agreed to take her to a kiosk at the mall to get her ears pierced. Mami brushed her hair back the next time we saw her, grinning at the fake pearl earrings.
“Just like yours!” Solina exclaimed.
She wore them all the time. Until she turned sixteen and I got her real pearls, not the plastic kind they shell out at the mall for ten bucks. It took six weeks of double shifts and a loan from Dede to swing it. She cried when she hugged me, told me she’d never take them off. She wasn’t wearing them the night she left. One last fuck-you before she died.
“You’ll text me every day,” Tiffany says, a command, not a suggestion. “Gather all the evidence you can find, and get out of there ASAP, all right?”
I don’t say anything to that. The details of my half-formed plan are still murky, but I know what I’m going there to find. Proof of what I’ve known all along—that this was never an accident. But I don’t know if I want the same ending Tiffany does. Me on the train back home with a folder full of proof to hand off to Cartagena, just for him to toss it into the back seat of his cruiser. I could hand him a knife with her blood on the blade, and he’d still choose to look the other way. He doesn’t deserve to finish this—I do. Make whoever killed my sister pay for what they did, even if it means getting caught in the process.
Life in a cell is better than a life of never knowing what happened.
Last night’s thrill comes rushing back—pain and anger colliding into a fire I can’t put out. A fire that has my fingers twitching from the urge to reach for my switchblade. To leave right now and hunt down whoever tore my life apart. But Tiffany would never let me leave if she knew that.
There aren’t enough words to capture everything I want to say to her, about how it feels to finally have someone on my side. I don’t trust my voice not to reveal everything I’m hiding, so I turn around in her arms. She gasps when I hug her. You could count on one hand the number of times we’ve hugged in the years we’ve known each other, none of them initiated by me.
“Promise you’ll come back?” she whispers against my hair.
I’m not in the habit of making promises. I don’t say things I don’t mean or can’t see through to the end. The last time I made a promise was when a woman in a boxy gray suit took us away from Papi to the first of a revolving door of homes, Solina’s hand clammy and trembling in mine. I told her I would keep her safe.
“Promise,” I reply.
Because I won’t break another.