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

CPS and the previous four seasons of the podcast, they had been the foundation—the scales she practiced as she built toward something more complex. TCK was her magnum opus.

“You look pale.” Sash took her arm gently, stopping her before they could enter the dining room. “Shit, I’m sorry, Elle. You’re probably already nervous enough without me telling you how big this case is.”

“No, it’s okay. I mean, I’ve always known it was going to put a huge spotlight on the podcast. I just didn’t anticipate how much.” Elle met her best friend’s gaze as she pressed her fingernails into her own palm. “My producer and I are seeing lots of chatter online, ideas floated on our social media, but nothing concrete yet. I know it’s only been a few weeks, but I feel like I’m failing them.”

“The girls on the wall,” Sash said. Besides Martín, Sash was the only one Elle ever allowed into her studio upstairs. “You’re not failing them, Elle. You’re honoring them. You’re telling their stories and trying to get justice. You’re too hard on yourself.”

Before Elle could respond, the door to the dining room swung open and Natalie peeked her head out. “You guys going to come in or what? I’m starving.”

Sash smiled at Elle, gave her arm one more squeeze, and then they followed Natalie into the room where Martín was dishing up.

“How’s your birthday been, sweet?” Sash asked, giving her daughter a hug.

“Good. Thanks for leaving work early,” Natalie said.

“Of course! You think I’d miss this?” If Elle didn’t know Sash better, she might have missed the shadow that crossed her best friend’s face. It was a sore subject between her and Natalie, how late Sash worked some nights. But she always made it to the events that counted, and now that Elle worked from home full-time, she was able to help fill in the gaps. Swim meets, piano lesson pickups, even the occasional field trip chaperone gig. At this point, she was somewhere between a very involved aunt and a glorified babysitter, although Sash insisted she was more like a second parent Natalie had adopted herself. Either way, she loved it.

Pulling out the chair next to Natalie, Sash lifted her hands like an MC announcing the next act. “Ladies, gentleman, and gender-ambivalent: ten years ago today, a remarkable event happened.” The sleeves of her draped blouse swept the top of the table, narrowly avoiding the spaghetti sauce. “My daughter, the one and only Natalie Hunter, came into this world the size of a Chipotle burrito and squawking like a crow.”

Natalie giggled and covered her face with her hands.

“I know things weren’t always easy, the first few years of your life, when we moved around so much. But I’m glad we’re here now, and I’m glad you get to celebrate turning ten with your family.” Sash looked in Elle’s direction, but it was hard to see her expression through the sudden blur of tears. It still got her whenever Sash referred to Elle as family. Besides Martín and her in-laws, Sash and Natalie were the only family Elle had.

Natalie leaned forward, looking at the plate of cooling food in front of her. “C’mon, Mom, I’m hungry.”

They all laughed, and Sash raised her glass. “All right, all right. Sue a mom for giving a speech on her daughter’s tenth birthday. To Natalie!”

“To Natalie,” Martín and Elle echoed, raising their wineglasses. They clinked with Natalie’s glass of cola and then they all dug in.

“How was your day, Sash?” Elle asked as she twirled pasta onto her fork.

Sash took a sip of wine. “Not bad. This merger I’ve been working on is soul-destroying, though. The CEOs both insist on pretending everything’s rosy at their board meetings, but I can’t even get them to sit at the same table to negotiate anymore. One guy said something about the other guy’s golf swing, and suddenly a multimillion dollar deal is on the line. And they say women are emotional.”

Martín snorted around a mouthful of pasta.

“How about you, Martín? How’s life with the stiffs?” Sash asked. She pronounced his name correctly, Mar-teen, rather than the anglicized way their lazier acquaintances tried to get away with.

He held up his fork with a speared cherry tomato. “Oh, you know, pretty busy. This time of year I can’t clear the bodies fast enough.”

“Martín!” Elle said.

He held up his hands, palms out in the classic I’m-innocent stance. “Sorry! It’s not like they don’t know what I do.”

“Yeah, Elle, it’s not like I don’t know what he does.” Natalie took a sip of her water and grinned. “I want to be a medical examiner someday.”

Elle shook her head and cut her eyes at her best friend. Sash confided in her a few weeks ago that Natalie had developed an innocent crush on Martín, although by that time it had been obvious. She’d abruptly stopped calling Martín “tío” about a month ago, insisted on using his first name, and clung to every word he had to say. Sash blamed it on puberty. It had been a few years since Elle did her master’s in child psychology, but developmentally speaking, a ten-year-old girl falling in love with the only close adult man in her life was pretty standard stuff.

Even though he must have known they were watching in amusement, Martín ignored Sash and Elle and made eager conversation with Natalie about how to pursue a career in forensic pathology.

“I think you’d make a great medical examiner,” he said. “You’re going to have to improve your knife skills, though. I’m still scarred from the last time you helped me chop peppers for fajitas.” He held up his thumb, showing her the small pink crescent that marred his medium-brown skin.

She shoved him on the arm, her face turning red. “That was two years ago, and I apologized like a thousand times. You’re such a baby.”

Martín cradled his hand to his chest, his mouth dropping open in fake offense. “Cómo te atreves. But I suppose you’re right. In my