Finding Tessa by Jaime Hendricks (best ereader for comics .TXT) 📗

Solomon and Garvey exchanged a glance, and Solomon slapped both hands on the table. “I suppose you haven’t heard the last from us, Montgomery. Don’t go too far.”

Jace stood and waited for both detectives to do the same before he exited the room. They followed closely behind, right on his heels as the saying goes. He could almost feel Garvey’s hot breath on his neck, and their accusatory eyeballs scorched the back of his head.

Jace had to get home. The gun was out of the house, for sure, but he had to make sure the detectives wouldn’t look there for it. Because of course that would be the next place to search.

13

TESSA

My day was productive. I did everything I had to do, which included rising at six-thirty A.M. even though I barely got any sleep. I wanted to walk over to the pharmacy a couple of blocks away and get my prepaid cards. I got two five-hundred-dollar ones—one for online stuff, and the other for the rest, including Ellen at the front desk. I knew she was on the eleven P.M. to seven A.M. shift, and I didn’t want her to get in trouble for not having me checked in properly. She did me a solid last night. I’ll have to pay cash once I check out, since the card won’t cover the large hotel expense. And on Monday, I’ll have to start looking for a job.

Damon texts me to “hang out” tonight, and I tell him yes, since the bruise is getting easier to cover. The yellow has faded to a point that I can tell him it’s a no-sleep bag of under-eye water that refuses to budge, and he’ll believe it. The swelling on the lump is still there, unfortunately, and I spend most of the day lazing around in the hotel room, running back and forth to the ice machine to try to keep it from getting any larger, even though that ship has sailed. When housekeeping knocks, I tell them I don’t need a made-up bed or turndown service but request more clean towels and turn in my used ones.

Today, there is a bit more of a chill in the air than the last few days, which is finally normal for this time of year. I even open a window in my hotel room before I shower to get some of the stuffiness out. The hotel is set back off the main highway, so there are some trees, which are nicely lit up for incoming guests. The view is bland, but if I crane my neck to the left, I can see lights that line the main part of town, where people gather for romantic dinners and to clink martini glasses filled with rainbow-colored liquids.

Better than the red flashing “vacancy” signs I’m used to. I think every foster sibling, and even my half siblings, were probably used to the same things.

I often think about Sara and Tara, and what became of them after they took off. We lost touch in my teens, and they weren’t always in the same foster homes as me. They’ve got to be in their midthirties by now. I wonder if they’re still together. If they ran off and met brothers or friends, if they ended up getting GEDs or went to college and got stable jobs and have summer homes on the beach on the same block. They could be doctors or lawyers, mothers or trophy wives.

Doubtful.

I think Sara was knocked up. Tara is probably dead of an overdose—Lord knows she ran out of the last Hell House with a needle practically sticking out of her arm.

The things we had to do to cope.

Kenny is probably hiding from all his baby mommas. Working construction or dealing drugs or taking bets. Something off the books. It’s not like the government will be able to garnish his wages if he gets paid in fistfuls of cash. He was never one for stability. I was closest to him at the time; we’re only a year apart. Less, even. Irish twins, they used to call us. Aside from the actual twins, obviously, we were the only ones with the same mother and father. The twins had a different dad than us. So did Christopher, who was half Black. He had a hard time growing up as a mixed kid, who looked more African American than white, while living in a white trash world.

Christopher may or may not be out of prison. Maybe he did his time, learned his life lessons, and now works for youth groups, telling his story about growing up in the system and tsk-tsking them about their crimes and regaling them with tales of his own mistakes. Maybe he met a nice counselor who understood him and wanted to save him. Maybe he or she did.

Or maybe he was shanked while innocently taking a shower.

It’s nice to dream about reuniting. Gatherings under the Christmas tree. Exchanging Hallmark cards on birthdays.

And I’d bet every last seven thousand four hundred seventy-seven dollars I have left in my bag that none of them have given one last thought about what the fuck happened to me.

Okay. Maybe Kenny. Maybe.

For now, I put the finishing touches on my makeup. I press two fingers onto the lump on my head. The swelling has gone down, but it’s still a lump.

All of the Assholes brandished my bruises like a badge of honor. Yeah, I hit my old lady when she’s runnin’ her mouth. She’ll learn for next time. Then they’d clink their beer mugs and take their whisky shots with their buddies. One Asshole, who lived in an apartment over a bar with two other guys, used to shove me around in front of them. Laugh about it. Let them order me around too. Get me another beer, Tessa or I want chicken wings, bitch or Hide this coke and keep yer fuckin’ mouth shut. They all lived paycheck to paycheck, only splurging