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

Jace said. “They probably just want to confirm that I was there all night.”

She huffed. “I didn’t see you all night.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I know what you mean, but you weren’t there all night. You were gone for about a half hour. You told us you had a nosebleed. It was right before Trey came in.”

Fuck, she’d heard him say that? He had to think of something to say when Andy noticed blood on his shirt. Jace paused. Careful. “I had to move my car. You know they ticket or boot or tow the cars in that vacant lot across the street after eight. I was trying to find a place to park on Main. It was packed, and yes, I had a nosebleed. I get them all the time. But I was just moving the car,” he said again, to drive the point home. See, I wasn’t doing anything violent. “I came right back in.”

Her lips smacked together, finishing her gloss. He knew the sound well. “What am I supposed to say, Jace? I don’t want to lie, but I don’t want you to get in trouble either.”

“Just tell them the truth. We all went out for drinks after work. I left a little before nine. I mean, that is the truth.”

It was the truth, and one more thought crept into his head.

Rosita was late. He’d met Andy and Kyle at the restaurant right after six, and she didn’t get there till almost seven. They left the bank at the same time. Where was she?

“I’ll be a little late this morning. I’m going to see if the cops have any new information. What time are Andy and Kyle coming back in?” The two men had been in and out of their office all week.

“Early. Before ten,” she said. “Well. Anyway. Let’s hope the cops find Tessa.”

She hung up without uttering a goodbye, and Jace noticed the edge to her voice.

Yes, he’d stop at the station. Right after he dropped his shirt off at the dry cleaner’s.

4

TESSA

Once I land at the bus depot, I grab my bag and head into the bathroom to brush my hair and teeth. It’s early afternoon, and this station is filled with more people than the last one. These people look more like they are going on a trip rather than running away. There are parents with children clutching stuffed animals and even a few looking like they are headed to a business meeting, all dressed up, holding leather-bound cases.

In the bathroom, I lock myself in a stall and unzip my purse, fingering the little vinyl holder containing my cash—all nine thousand, one hundred forty-two dollars of it. Having been in this position before—leaving an abusive ex—that’s goddamn lottery money. I can do anything. This time, I want to start over the right way. Every time I left an ex before, I’d jump right into something else, mostly because I had no money and nowhere to go. So I let men treat me however they wanted. I stunk of desperation, and I was always taken advantage of. Always.

There was no choice. Where was I supposed to go?

I finish freshening up, swipe on some extra deodorant, and walk back outside, a beautiful sunny day, still too hot for this time of year but with less humidity than my last living arrangement. There is a long cab line forming so I hurry to the back, not thrilled about my next destination.

On the bus ride, I had purposely researched areas on “that” side of town—the side with the million laundromats, the check cashing places, and the “WE BUY GOLD” signs in the window. Where people hang out on street corners to sell drugs or sell themselves.

In case my ex is watching me. He can’t think I left and that I’m living high on the hog.

He’d rather have me killed.

When my turn in line arrives, the driver, Hobart, is an older Black man in his fifties with a potbelly and a stained yellow T-shirt that I know must’ve been born white. His hair, graying at the exposed sides, is under a beige-and-red plaid old-man hat. He looks adorable. Like a grandpa I’ve seen in movies. I don’t know my grandparents other than what I’ve heard. If the stories are true, I’m better off without them. Not that I could ever believe a word out of my mother’s mouth anyway.

He places my wheelie bag in the trunk and then plugs the address I give him into his GPS, and we are on our way to the no-tell-motel–type place I found. The pleather in the back seat is ripped and scratchy on my bare legs and the air is stuffy with a faint cigar smell. This cab clearly hasn’t had a working air conditioner in years, and I can almost smell the last ten passengers.

When he pulls into the Empire Motel, Hobart slows the cab to a gentle sputter near the door to registration. The sign’s neon is busted in half the spots and fluttering in the working spots. The outside is filthy and decaying. So filthy. Hobart turns to look at me in the back seat.

“You sure this is where you want to go, lady?” he asks with raised eyebrows, and his slight southern drawl and gravelly voice surprises me. He sounds like Ray Charles.

I press my lips together and smile a no-teeth smile. “I’m sure. What do I owe you?”

He tells me twelve dollars and twenty cents. I hand him fifteen and tell him to keep the change. I exit the vehicle at the same time he does, and he retrieves my bag from the trunk. He looks around, taking in the loitering men outside, ones with gang signs tattooed on their arms and faces. At the far end, there is a screaming baby in a carriage while the young mother ignores it and yells into a flip phone about child support. What can only be a prostitute comes out of one of