Girl, 11 by Amy Clarke (grave mercy TXT) 📗

beneath the windows next to the path, every part covered in snow except for a few dry branches of a large shrub peeking through the powder.

Remembering that Maria was convinced this guy killed Leo, Elle rested her hand on the Ruger strapped under her coat. Using her free hand, she pressed and held the doorbell until it chimed inside.

There was no answer. She stepped back and looked at the closed garage door. No way to tell if someone was actually home. The windows carved into the front door were frosted, and there was no light behind them, but she rang the bell again anyway.

After a moment, Elle heard footsteps inside. It sounded like someone coming down the stairs. She shuffled in place and breathed into her cupped hands. Finally, the front door opened into the house, just a few inches until a chain stopped it. Appearing above the chain was the face of a man in his fifties. He wore blue-tinted glasses like Bono, and his graying stubble met up with the thinning hair around the bottom of his faded Twins cap. The creased skin around his mouth had the texture of dried-out leather. For a moment, his expression went from confused to tense, but then he pasted on a polite, Minnesota Nice smile. He was probably expecting someone he knew.

“Yes?” he said.

“Hello, Mr.—” Elle waited for him to finish her sentence, but he just stood there, examining her. She cleared her throat when the silence stretched on, then finally gave in and continued speaking. “I’m looking for a young woman named Luisa. I’ve been told she lives here.”

He shifted his weight. “You must have the wrong house,” he said, starting to shut the door.

“No, wait.” On instinct, Elle reached out and put her hand against the door. He paused. “Please, I really need to find this woman. Are you sure you don’t know anyone by that name? Luisa’s mom, Maria Alvarez, gave me this address. She seems to think Luisa is living with you, or at least staying with you most nights.”

The man’s eyebrows drew together. “Maria Alvarez? That old bat?” With a laugh, he shook his head. “Oh, that Luisa. Maria’s daughter. I don’t believe this. Maria Alvarez used to live across the road from me, and I saw her daughter come around a couple times. I flirted with her, sure, but we never even went on a date. She said she had a boyfriend.”

At last, he took the chain off the door and opened it wide enough to point past her shoulder at a little white house on the other side of the road, kitty-corner from the man’s house. In contrast to his place, Señora Alvarez’s old house was in desperate need of a coat of paint and probably a new roof. The driveway was lost in snow the same height as what blanketed the yard, which was high enough to nearly cover the sad brown FOR SALE sign.

“I don’t mean to be cruel, but Maria isn’t all right in the head, you know? I wouldn’t be surprised if she actually did think I ‘stole her daughter’ from her or whatever. She already thinks I stole her house.”

“Stole her house?” When Elle looked back at him, his arms were folded across his chest. The gray hoodie he wore made him look soft, warm; he could be her dad, a man she’d interrupted in the middle of a Monday night football pregame show.

“You see the state of it? Last year, I complained to the council that she wasn’t taking care of it. The grass was overgrown, there were more weeds in her garden than flowers, the front of the house looked like it was going to slide right off. Still does, don’t you think?” Redness rose in his cheeks. Something about his rage sparked a hint of familiarity, but men’s anger wasn’t unique—all red, contorted faces and spluttering, affronted tones.

He continued: “Anyway, I registered a couple complaints with the council, like I said. Finally, someone went to check on her and realized she wasn’t living well. She was sick, and her house was apparently an even bigger disaster inside than it was outside, so I guess her daughter was called and she took the old broad to live with her.”

“You got an old lady kicked out of her home?” she asked, trying to keep the judgment out of her voice.

“I got an old lady the help she needed but was too damn stubborn to ask for.” He met her gaze through his tinted lenses. “Why are you looking for her, anyway? You a friend of Luisa’s?”

“You could say that.” Elle tapped her fingers against her thigh. The guy was being nice enough, but he had nothing for her and this was now officially a waste of time. “So, when you flirted with Luisa, you said she turned you down because she had a boyfriend?”

The man’s smile grew. “She didn’t turn me down.”

“But you said—”

“If I’d wanted her, I could have gotten her. She was obviously interested. I chatted with her outside her mother’s house, gave her a few compliments. Turned out to be a bit of a waste.” The man stared past Elle at the house across the street, as if remembering the conversation. Then he looked back at Elle. “She was a hairdresser. I’m looking for a little more in a woman, you know?”

Elle kept her expression neutral. She didn’t even know Luisa; for all she knew, the other woman was a nightmare—maybe even Leo’s killer. But that didn’t stop her from wanting to elbow this guy in the throat.

The man tipped his chin up in a smug nod, eyes gleaming. “Right. Okay then, thanks for stopping by. Gotta get back to the game.”

When he closed the door, Elle turned to walk toward her car, studying the broken-down house that was apparently still on the market. The man’s plan of getting Maria Alvarez kicked out so the place would be better taken care of seemed to have