Crossroads: A Holly Novel

By C.C. Warrens

RUN AND DON'T LOOK BACK.

I'LL FIND YOU WHEN IT'S SAFE.

Those were the last words Holly whispered to her six year old foster sister before the little girl fled into the trees and disappeared from existence.

Fifteen years later, Cassandra Ward is still missing.

Holly is haunted by the possibility that she sent her foster sister running from one monster and into the clutches of another. How else could a child vanish without a trace?

Determined to find her, Holly sifts through her own dark memories for clues, revisits her past, and chases a lead across the country with Jordan by her side. But the search for Cassie takes a dangerous turn when an altercation in the mountains leaves them stranded, cut off from the outside world, and running for their lives.

Lovers of books by Lynette Eason, Terri Blackstock, and Natalie Walters will enjoy this latest thrilling installment of The Holly Novels, and might even stay up all night reading.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.C. Warrens
• Release date: Jul 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798224606047

C.C. Warrens

C.C. Warrens lives in a small city in Ohio, and has discovered that the best way to create a book is to go on a long stroll with her husband. That is when the characters - from their backgrounds to the moments that make them laugh or bubble over with anger - come to life.

Book preview

CROSSROADS

A Holly Novel

By C.C. Warrens

Acknowledgments

An extra special thank-you to the people instrumental to the writing of this book:

Kate Angelo—thank you for brainstorming the psychology of one of my characters with me. It was amazing to bounce ideas with another suspense author. I hope to return the favor someday!

Sergeant Andrew Dalessandro, from my local police department—thank you for taking time out of your busy workday to drop by my home and share your knowledge about Tasers with me. I hope I portrayed them accurately in this story.

My husband­—thank you for always  being a part of my team and supporting me through every step of the writing process.

Mom—thanks for helping me brainstorm the climax.

1

Despite the warm May temperature, memories shivered through my bones—bones that had been bruised and broken under the roof of the two-story structure in front of me.

The cream-and-blue house sat vacant now, its once manicured lawn overgrown, flower boxes beneath the windows sprouting weeds, the screen door stained with black spray paint and scrub brush streaks.

It was strangely silent.

But in the wind that billowed my jacket and teased the loose strands of my red hair, I could hear the echo of my foster siblings’ cries.

Holly, I’m scared.

Make it stop, Holly. It hurts.

Their sweet little voices, filled with such fear, ripped at my heart as viciously now as they had then, and tears spilled onto my cheeks.

I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you, I whispered, my words carried away by a gust of wind that rattled the For Sale sign hanging from the mailbox.

I had been the eldest of the four foster children, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t keep the little ones safe.

Michael died a couple of weeks after I was moved to a psychiatric ward. Cassie vanished into thin air at six years old, and Nat had been in and out of juvie with behavior problems.

You okay? Jordan asked, his voice reminding me I wasn’t alone.

I released an unsteady breath and wiped at my damp cheeks with my fingers. As okay as I can be, I guess.

This place was a graveyard of excruciating memories, and I could feel the ghosts of my past breathing chills down the back of my neck. I didn’t know whether to cry, smash the mailbox to pieces in a rage, or run as far and as fast as I could.

Somehow I thought this place would look more . . .

Evil? I offered, when Jordan paused to search for the right word. I dragged a strand of hair from my face and tucked it behind my ear before looking over at him.

He stood beside me at the edge of the road, his expression tight and his blue eyes hard as he scrutinized my childhood prison. Considering everything that happened here, yeah.

I had only shared bits and pieces of what went on behind the walls of this deceptively quaint home, but he knew enough. Unlike other outside observers, he was aware of the tears staining the carpet and the secrets infesting the walls like toxic mold.

Collin’s mother, Hagatha, was determined to maintain the appearance of a nice, normal family to keep anyone from suspecting the truth about her precious boy, I said.

She hadn’t been as actively abusive as her son, but there were no lengths she wouldn’t go to in order to protect him.

She said if I ever told anyone what was happening in the privacy of their home, she would kick me out before my caseworker could find another placement, and the sickos would have their way with me and leave my bloated corpse floating in the port.

Jordan flinched. Who says something that horrible to a child?

A psychopath who makes terrible life decisions. Like covering up child abuse and trying to kill people.

Trying to kill me, to be more precise. I was the people she tried to murder in a junk yard, which she saw as a fitting resting place for someone she viewed as trash.

I’m glad she’s in jail where she belongs, he said.

If her trial goes as badly as Collin’s, she’ll come after me again. The possibility left a queasy ball in the pit of my stomach. The woman was deranged.

If that’s how she wants to spend her final moments on earth, that’s her choice, he said, and the steel in his voice drew my attention back to him.

Would you really shoot a woman?

"That woman. In a heartbeat."

If she escaped legal consequences, she would come after me, and she would hire others to help. Since I was the first girl Collin fixated on, she believed my death would cure his obsession with torturing women. His obsession with torture began long before I came into his life. This property was riddled with the bones of his animal victims. Nat had discovered them while playing in the yard.

Are you ready to walk me through what happened? Jordan asked.

I had hoped revisiting the scene would trigger any forgotten details about the day Cassie ran away, something to further our search for her, but now . . .

My insides quivered at the idea of stepping one toe onto this property, and I wrapped my arms around myself. Even though it was vacant, I could still feel the evil slithering beneath the soil like a living creature.

I’m not sure I can do this.

A whimper drew my attention over my shoulder to the car. My canine companion rested his snout on the partially lowered passenger window, his worried brown eyes staring up at me as he sensed my growing anxiety.

I reached over and stroked his head. I’m safe, Rye. I promise.

The words tasted like a lie. With Jordan by my side, no one could physically hurt me, but I didn’t feel safe being here.

We can leave right now and never come back, Jordan said. There’s an ice cream shop we can try while we wait for our meeting with Rita. S’mores is the flavor of the week. I’m sure they have extra marshmallows you can put on top.

He had no idea how tempting that offer was, and not only because of the marshmallows. We can’t rely on Rita.

Rita Rhodes was our only potential source of information, but her condition made it unlikely she would remember much. We assumed she was in a nursing home due to her age, but after speaking with her nurse, it became clear she suffered from dementia and was having a difficult morning.

That was why we were here.

I looked down at the blade of grass grazing the tip of my sneaker as I stood on the road and curled my toes away from it.

When you come face-to-face with fear, remember you are not alone. God is with you, and He wants you to be free of that bondage. You don’t need to spend your life caged by fear.

I turned my therapist’s words over in my mind as I tried to force my feet forward. Jordan, I . . .

He stepped into the grass and held out his hand, as if he knew exactly what I needed. I’m with you. Every step.

He didn’t push me for a decision. He simply waited with his hand outstretched—always patiently waiting for me to make the first move. That was Jordan.

You can do this, I told myself.

I had walked barefoot across a bed of nails to save Cassie’s life fifteen years ago. I could walk across this lawn and wade through dark moments from my past if it would help me find her now.

Sliding my icy fingers into Jordan’s hand, I stepped into the grass. Memories stirred like dust with every footstep, vying for my attention.

The chipped, red picnic table around the back of the house tried to suck me into the past, into all the moments I’d sat there with a book, with the other kids, with Collin. It was a source of relief and pain.

My gaze trailed to the screen door with the spring that ticked as it opened, and to a covered window on the right. The terror I experienced in that room reached for me, wrapping its paralyzing tendrils around me before I could brace myself.

The door creaked open, and the scent of citrus and cinnamon smoke spilled in with the light from the living room lamp. A silhouette filled the opening. Why was he here? What did he want this late at night? I peeked at Cassie on the bed across from mine. Her wide eyes shone with the same terror I felt. He closed and locked the door. No, no, no. My lungs froze as my mattress dipped beneath his weight, my scream of terror trapped in my chest, and then his fingers closed around my throat.

Holly. Jordan’s worried voice reached into that haunting memory and ripped me out, dropping me back into the present.

I found myself on my knees, curled forward with one hand buried in the grass and the other pressed to my throat, where I could still feel the pressure of Collin’s fingers.

You’re safe. Just breathe, Jordan said.

I released the air in my lungs and sucked in more, blowing it out to the count of four. For a moment, I had been that terrified little girl again, trapped in my bed with a monster. But that was in the past. I was safe now, no matter what my body believed.

Another breath. The next few were steadier, and the terror from that long-ago night began to leak from my body.

Jordan’s features rippled behind my tears when I looked up at him. He knelt in front of me, his body blocking my view of the house. He had put himself between me and the object of my fear. His hands rested palm-up on his thighs, like he wanted to reach out and comfort me, but he respected my space.

Are you back with me? he asked. At my jerky nod, his shoulders relaxed. You disappeared on me. Where’d you go?

My . . . I rubbed at my throat before dropping my hand to my lap. The bedroom I shared with Cassie.

Judging by the subtle tightening of his jaw, I didn’t need to say more. I know this place is full of traumatic memories, and everywhere you look is bringing them up. Will you let me help with that?

How? You can’t fall into the past with me and fight my ghosts.

He stood, both hands extended to me. No, but I can give you something else to focus on.

Body trembling, I placed my hands in his and let him help me to my feet. He turned me away from the house.

Keep your eyes on me, okay? He stepped backward, drawing me with him.

He kept his grip gentle in case I wanted to pull away, then walked us toward the lone tree in the middle of the backyard.

A part of me felt ridiculous for letting him lead me like a child, but another part of me knew I would be swept away by the flash flood of memories without an anchor. Jordan, who existed now and apart from everything that had happened here, grounded me in the present.

I stared into his crystalline blue eyes—safe, warm eyes that sparked with amusement as he said, Don’t let me fall in a gopher hole or trip over a tree stump.

Should I mention the clothesline?

He ducked, then realized the clothesline was a good five feet away. You are an untrustworthy guide.

I tried to smile, but I couldn’t.

If we can convince Cassie to come back to New York, we should make pizza, he suggested. You girls can split your half. What kind of toppings does she like?

I had no idea what she would like now, but when we were children, she had unusual tastes. She used to ask for meatballs.

On pizza? When I nodded, he said, All right, we can work with that. Any vegetables?

Asparagus was her favorite.

No, I’m drawing the line. Those are not going on the pizza. She can eat them on the side.

A breath of unexpected amusement escaped my lungs. How did he manage to make me laugh in this place?

I assume you still want mushrooms and pineapple on yours, he said.

Maybe some chicken.

Chicken on pizza sounds a bit wild for you. Are you sure you don’t wanna stick with something safe like extra cheese?

I can do wild.

"Your idea of wild is having your chocolate milk without marshmallows floating in it. The rest of us call that normal."

Fair point.

I fixed my sights on the tree beyond his shoulder. It stretched wide with low hanging limbs, making it ideal for climbing and lounging. There were days when I would climb up and stretch out, legs draped over the branches like they were a hammock.

We stopped beneath it, and I released Jordan’s hands to reach up and brush the lower branches studded with leaf buds. This is where I found them.

The events of that day stirred in the back of my mind and flowed through me:

I stretched onto my toes to slide the jar of pasta sauce onto the second shelf of the kitchen cupboard when something caught my eye through the back window.

Collin stood beside the tree in the backyard, and a small figure stood with him. Cassie. Fear kicked my heart into my throat, and I abandoned the groceries. The jar of sauce teetered on the edge of the shelf where I’d left it and crashed to the floor, shattering.

Hagatha would make me clean it up and then scrub the floor with a handheld scrub brush, but I didn’t care. I flung open the screen door and tore through the yard, crisp grass from too little rain biting at my bare feet.

Cassie cried and clawed at the rope around her neck with her small fingers, her dark eyes liquid with fear. The rope traveled up over the branch and into Collin’s hands. Horror sucked the warmth from my body as I realized his intentions.

Collin smiled. Time for a game, sweet sister.

A shiver swept through my body as I remembered the desperate scramble to save Cassie’s life. I touched a patch of smoother bark on the branch. He hung her right here.

Jordan crossed his arms and studied the branch. And you walked across a board of jagged nails to cut her down.

That was the game. My pain and my body for her life.

Once I reached her, he tossed me a dull knife so I could saw through the rope. It felt like I would never make it through those fibers. She’d already stopped moving by the time the rope snapped, and I was afraid she . . .—my voice choked—that I was too late, that I took too long. But then she started to cough.

What happened then?

I could still hear Cassie’s sobs as she squeezed her eyes shut and covered her ears with her hands while Collin hurt me. She experienced and witnessed atrocities a child never should.

I hugged myself as I said, He left us alone in the field, but I knew he would be back, so I told Cassie to run.

Run and don’t look back. I’ll find you when it’s safe.

She had taken off toward the trees, the noose still around her neck like a macabre necklace. I silently urged her on until her blue sundress, barely more than a smudge of color through my tears, vanished into the tree line.

That was the last time I saw her. A fleeting blur of blue running toward safety. I chanced a look at Jordan’s face. There were too many emotions for me to read.

He cleared his throat and nodded to our left. She went that way, I’m assuming.

This way actually. I walked to the edge of the woods surrounding the property and stared into the trees whose leaves turned belly-up in the wind of the approaching storm.

Are you sure? This is the opposite direction of what the witness said. The house where she thinks she saw Cassie is three miles west.

Cassie was six. She could’ve easily gotten turned around. But I know she went this way.

Do you remember anything else?

I searched my memories for every detail. I was pretty out of it from pain. I remember Nat coming out with a blanket and sitting with me until Collin came to carry me back inside.

Something stirred in the brush less than twenty feet away. Something too large to be a chipmunk or a squirrel. I pushed aside a few wild branches and stepped into the woods.

Is someone there?

Jordan followed. What’s up? Before I could answer, a stick snapped beneath someone or something’s weight, and Jordan angled himself in front of me. Who’s out there?

A figure sprang up from behind the brush, and I sucked in a breath so sharply I almost choked. The gangly young man could’ve stepped off the set of a horror film—long black hair concealed half his face, dark clothing hung from thin shoulders, and he gripped a bloody pocketknife.

Jordan rested a hand on his holstered gun. I don’t know what you’re doing out here, but you should probably leave.

Staring intently at me through strands of oily hair, the man stepped forward.

Jordan nudged me back toward the yard with one hand as his right hand inched his weapon from the holster. That’s close enough with that knife.

The man shifted his attention to Jordan for a beat and then turned and darted away through the woods.

I stared after him, the brightness of the blood on the knife stamped in my brain. Jordan, that knife . . .

I know. Stay here.

I rubbed at the goose bumps pebbling my arms beneath my jacket sleeves as he went to see what the man had been doing behind the brush. My mind immediately rushed to a dead body sprawled in the undergrowth, but it could just as likely be an animal.

Jordan grimaced, removing his hand from his weapon, and looked back in the direction the disturbed man had fled.

What is it? I asked, not entirely sure I wanted to know.

A rabbit.

I stepped forward. Is it still . . .

He shook his head, stopping me in my tracks. We should head back to the car. He ushered me out of the woods, and the expression on his face made me wonder what the man had done to the poor fluffy bunny.

. . . .

The disturbing encounter in the woods only added to the tension coiling more tightly inside me as we passed the house on the way back to the car. It spread through my clenched jaw in a steady ache, and I squeezed Jordan’s hand with every bit of strength my fingers could muster.

He didn’t seem bothered by the pressure.

Riley let out a series of warning barks—someone was too close to the car—and Jordan picked up his pace, forcing me to do the same.

A stranger stood on the street near our car, head bowed as she pecked at her phone screen with her thumbs. Riley watched her from the front seat, distrustful and ready to lunge at the window if she moved too close.

Can we help you? Jordan asked.

The middle-aged woman with bleached hair lifted her head, pink lipstick dried and caked in the creases of her lips. This is private property. You shouldn’t be wandering around. I’ve recorded your license plate in case there’s any damage. We don’t need any more trouble here.

We? What did this woman have to do with the Wells family?

We didn’t touch anything, Jordan said.

She considered us, and then the suspicion in her expression softened to mild distrust. There have been quite a few incidents around here since the rumors started up again. She cast a pointed look at the spray paint residue on the metal half of the screen door. People defacing the property with filthy slurs, leaving dead animals on the doorstep.

When she said, dead animals, I threw an uneasy look over my shoulder toward the woods. Did we accidentally stumble across the culprit? What would drive a person to mutilate an animal and leave it on someone’s porch?

Recently, someone wrote in blood on the back door, ‘I hope you die.’ The woman shivered and tightened her hold on the puffball of a dog tucked in the crook of her arm. The police looked for fingerprints, but whoever did it must’ve been wearing gloves.

What kind of rumors would spark such a visceral reaction from people in the area? Jordan asked.

Her sneakers shifted on the asphalt as she wrestled with whether or not to explain, but her obvious inclination toward gossip won out. The ones that started up fifteen years ago with those system kids Agatha and Victor took in. First that little girl ran off, then another one tried to kill herself. I remember the ambulance taking her away. Agatha said she never was very emotionally stable.

My wicked foster mother would tell people that.

One of the little boys passed away from a tragic accident not too long after that girl was taken away. Another boy made some allegations a couple of months later. She shook her head. The state revoked Agatha and Victor’s license to foster after that. It was an absolute mess, but people put it from their minds until recently.

What happened recently? I asked.

That court case in January with the suicidal girl who used to live here started it all back up again. She leveled all kinds of unbelievable accusations against Agatha and Victor’s son, Collin.

I rolled my lips between my teeth and looked up at Jordan, whose expression betrayed nothing as he said, Yeah, we heard about that.

Terrible ordeal. The trial was mostly public, and there was media coverage everywhere. People started throwing things at the house, writing lies anywhere they could find a flat surface. It got even worse after he was found not guilty. Feminists went crazy, screaming about the patriarchy giving men a free pass to abuse women. I’m surprised they didn’t burn the house to the ground.

There was an idea.

I wouldn’t mind if this house spontaneously burst into flames or fell victim to fiery hail from on high. Maybe a tornado, which seemed more likely given the churning clouds overhead. I wouldn’t shed a tear if a tornado ripped through it and reduced it to rubble.

And then that detective walked into the courtroom with charges from Pennsylvania. Collin was guilty in the court of public opinion before he was ever convicted in Pennsylvania. Frown lines formed between the woman’s overly plucked eyebrows. Poor Victor has been scrubbing and painting over the slurs once or twice a month. I’m trying to keep an eye on the place for him.

How kind of her, I thought bitterly. Where was her altruistic urge to keep an eye on the place while children were being tortured inside?

Do you know anything about the little girl who ran away all those years ago? Jordan asked, feigning casual interest.

Not really. I didn’t pay much attention back then. I was in the middle of a nasty divorce. He took everything but the house. She petted her dog’s head absently. My number’s unlisted, but I’ve heard from the neighbors that someone’s been calling around asking about that girl.

That would be us.

Not to sound insensitive, but anyone with a quarter of a brain knows she’s dead, she said, and she gestured to the woods backing up to the house. The police found the remains of a child in that wilderness five years ago.

Her announcement hit me hard enough to make me sway, and I looked up at Jordan, whose expression reflected the shock I felt. In our research, neither of us had come across anything about the remains of a child being found in this area.

It wasn’t Cassie. It couldn’t be.

Jordan massaged my knuckles with his thumb, as if he could hear the concern streaking through my thoughts. He would look into it at the first opportunity.

The woman studied us. Are you two looking for a home? I know Victor will give you a really good deal, and truthfully, there hasn’t been an episode of vandalism in quite some time. This would be a great starter home for a young couple. I’m sure Victor will let you walk through the house to see if it fits your needs.

No, I blurted, and her eyebrows pinched at my abrupt response. I mean . . . no thank you. We don’t wanna bother him. And I never wanted to set foot in that house again.

It’s no bother at all. I already texted him to let him know someone was sneaking around the property. He’s on his way over. He’ll be here in less than five minutes.

Fear fluttered through me. I didn’t want to have a run-in with Collin’s dad. I had no doubt he harbored bitterness and anger toward me for dismantling and humiliating his family.

If you’ll excuse us, we have an appointment, Jordan said, reaching over to open my door.

Do you want Victor’s number?

No, we would never buy a house from child abusers. He closed my door after I settled in the seat and then rounded the car.

The woman’s eyelashes fluttered as she processed his statement, and then she looked at me, lines of thought creasing the makeup-caked skin around her eyes. I knew that look, and it wasn’t good.

I stared at her through the front windshield as she pecked at the screen of her phone again. As Jordan sank behind the wheel, she looked up and locked eyes with me.

You’ve been made, Jordan said.

Yes, it’s me, the emotionally unstable system kid.

Jordan backed up and pulled out around her, leaving her standing in the road with her mouth hanging open.

2

My mind drifted as we drove to Serenity Nursing Home.

Before making the trip to Maine, we had called every number in a five-mile radius of the Wells home, and of the handful of people who’d resided in the area during the time of Cassie’s disappearance, only one woman presented us with a possible lead: Anna Krug.

Anna recalled seeing a twelve-year-old black girl in the window of her blind elderly neighbor’s house on more than one occasion. When Anna asked about the little girl, Rita Rhodes claimed to have adopted her. Anna, a mother of two teen girls, offered to have her over for a pool party, but Rita sidestepped the invitation with an excuse that her daughter was shy.

The girl’s name was Asha, according to the neighbor, and the only reason she knew that was because she bumped into the girl when she snuck out to a parked ice cream truck where Anna was waiting in line with her daughters.

Asha Rhodes.

Anna told us she thought the way Rita isolated the child was odd, but she looked healthy enough, and she didn’t suspect any abuse, so she respected Rita’s privacy.

If Rita had adopted Asha, the records were sealed. Apart from her word, there was no indication she legally had a daughter. But there was a chance she had taken in a desperate and terrified little girl.

That was my hope. Rita lived inside our five-mile radius, and when we drove past her house, there was no fence to deter trespassers. Cassie could’ve run to her, assuming she would be safe. But if Rita was a safe person, why was my foster sister still missing fifteen years later?

Thank you, Jordan said, hanging up his phone and setting it in the cup holder. He had called the local newspaper to ask them about the child’s remains found in the woods five years ago—a story every local paper would’ve published.

What did they say? I asked, anxiety churning in my gut.

"The little girl was found seven years ago, and she was found alive."

I felt like one of those inflatable Christmas decorations someone punched a hole in—all of the tension and pressure escaped, leaving me limp in the passenger seat.

That explains why we didn’t find any articles about a child’s remains in our research. It was nothing but a rumor, Jordan said. And I asked them about any child remains in the past fifteen years.

Which brought us back to Rita.

Do you think Rita’s a good person?

Jordan turned into the nursing home parking lot. According to the neighbor, she is.

Kind but private were the words Anna had used to describe her blind neighbor.

If we’re right and the little girl Anna saw was Cassie, what kind of person doesn’t go to the police when an abused child shows up on their doorstep? I asked.

Someone with a strong distrust of the system or something to hide.

I shifted toward him in my seat. Why does it sound like you’re describing me?

"Who you used to be. He cast me a smile. Two years ago, when you didn’t trust anyone with a badge, you would’ve harbored an abused child without telling a soul."

That was probably true.

We don’t know Rita or her story. Let’s try to be open to what she has to say, all assumptions and concerns aside, okay?

I unbuckled my seat belt. Okay.

Serenity Nursing Home had a warm and inviting atmosphere with speckled tile floors and artificial plants decorating corners and tables. With the soft green walls, it almost felt like a spa.

The woman behind the reception desk greeted us as we approached. Good afternoon.

Hi, we called earlier about visiting Ms. Rhodes. I’m a friend of her daughter, I said, guilt needling me as the words left my mouth. It wasn’t a lie exactly, but since the girl’s identity was in question, so was my friendship status.

The nurse, whose name tag read Betty, nodded her head. I told her you’d be stopping by. Her mind comes and goes, so don’t get upset if she loses track of the conversation. She stepped out from behind the desk. Follow me.

A male nurse pushed an old woman in a wheelchair past us as we started down the hall, and she half turned to face him as she said, Take me to the cookies, Nolan. I know Nurse Ratched is hiding them somewhere.

You’re not supposed to have fats, Ms. Stella. It’s bad for your heart. You know that.

A life without sweets is bad for my heart. If you don’t get me one, I’ll have to convince some young, good-looking man to sneak me one. Stella winked at Jordan and waved wrinkled fingers at him as they passed by.

I leaned toward Jordan and whispered, Looks like you might have a date later.

I do have a weakness for ladies with a sweet tooth. He glanced back at her retreating wheelchair. Though I do prefer them at least five feet tall.

Jace will be heartbroken.

Jace, my best friend, was about four feet tall in her wheelchair. Unless she forgot to add the seat cushion before leaving her apartment. Then she was about three foot nine and frustrated.

I’d rather break her heart than have Sam break every bone in my body out of jealousy, Jordan said.

Sam was in love with Jace, who added a little sparkle to his mundane, and if anyone tried to move in on her, there would be trouble, to say the least. Not that Jordan would ever even consider it. He and Jace were bestfriend rivals.

An old man in a wheelchair, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth, pumped his arms as he sped down the hall faster than any elderly person should be able to move, and a heavyset nurse chased after him.

Betty waved us off to the side and stepped into his path, hands on her hips. Mr. Luis, there’s no joyriding in my hallways.

He rolled to a stop inches from her and slumped in his chair, lower lip smashed against his nose. "There’s no nothing in your hallways, Boring Betty. No liquor, no dancing girls. Not even a cigarette. I’m leaving tonight."

I’m sure you are. Betty raised her eyebrows at the nurse who finally reached him. I warned you to watch him, Jan.

Jan puffed for breath as she snagged the handlebars of the chair. He was half asleep thirty seconds ago while I was fixing his sheets.

That’s what he wanted you to think. Mr. Luis plays possum and then escapes at the first opportunity.

Next time, I’ll mow you over, he grouched.

Betty winked at him. Aren’t you sweet. Until then, you can cheat some residents out of their Jell-O cups in the garden room.

I don’t need to cheat. Half these people don’t even remember what game we’re playing while we’re playing it. I’m surrounded by overgrown children. And I’m tired of Jell-O. I’d rather play for someone’s life savings. How much do you make, Jane?

Jan, the nurse corrected as she turned his chair around. And the subject of my income is not on the table.

I’d like your income to be on the table. Let’s play some real poker. The kind with stakes, not food coloring. He continued negotiating as Jan wheeled him away.

Interesting guy, Jordan said.

He’s a spirited one, Betty agreed. She led us to a door that stood slightly ajar and gave a soft tap before pushing it inward. Rita, honey, you have visitors.

A woman with skin as thin and translucent as wet paper sat in an upholstered chair by an open window, blue veins spider-webbing along her bare arms. She turned her head toward us, and I stifled a gasp at the scars around her eyes and down one cheek.

Jordan had pulled up her state ID on his laptop last week, but seeing the disfiguring scars in person made my insides twist. Whatever caused them must’ve been unbearably painful.

What had this woman endured?

Her gaze rested a couple of feet to our left. Is it my sweet Asha? It’s almost her sixteenth birthday. I need to find the candles for the cake. She asked for strawberry cake this year. Can you believe that?

Her daughter should have been between twenty and twenty-two, if Anna had guessed her age correctly when she saw her nine years ago.

It’s a friend of Asha’s, Betty said.

Rita’s soft expression changed to one of suspicion. Asha doesn’t have any friends to invite to the party. Who is it?

Betty encouraged me to move forward and speak up. I shuffled closer to Rita. Hi, Ms. Rhodes. I was hoping I could talk to you about your daughter.

Rita’s head tilted. I don’t know your voice. Or that coconut scent.

I touched my hair self-consciously. I hadn’t expected her to be able to smell my coconut