Chapter 1
Eden
Walking down the long, windowless hallway, I can’t help but think about how we used to live in a big white house with black shutters. Not the fake kind bolted into the siding, but the real ones that closed, protecting the glass and people inside.
It feels like a lifetime ago—maybe two—so long ago that sometimes I think I’ve made it up, completely fabricated this past out of passages from books I’ve read or movies I’ve seen. That I’ve always lived this life. The one with no father. A sick mother. A missing sister.
Because I’m definitely not making this one up.
Dreams don’t smell like piss and stale weed.
I turn the corner, past the stench of urine that always seems to linger in the stained, moldy carpet. I pass apartment 806 where Mrs. Reinhart lives and the TV drones on and on, all hours of the day. Quietly moving past 809, where the sound of people arguing travels through the door. More than once I’ve stood outside, fingers hovered over the buttons on my phone, wanting to call 911 to call in the abusive asshole that lives there, but I never do.
It’s too dangerous.
One of the first rules of living in this place is the simple but straightforward, “snitches get stitches.” The last thing I want is to become an example.
Outside my own apartment, I pull the brass key out of my front pocket. At the same time, I quadruple check that the slip of paper I stashed there earlier is still safe. I feel the smooth scrap and tuck it deeper. It’s the first clue I’ve found about Hope in weeks, and I’d be out there looking for her now if my mom hadn’t called me to come home.
I open the door and walk in the house, overwhelmed by the scent of vanilla that my mom thinks masks the scent of how filthy this place is.
“Mom,” I call, crossing the kitchen and entering the tiny living room. I go to the window and open it wide, seeking fresh air. The vanilla makes me want to gag. “You in the bedroom?”
I pass the bathroom, which is clean, only because I scrubbed it the night before in an attempt to get the stains off the floor. I catch sight of myself in the cracked mirror, long dark hair, blue eyes, olive skin. It’s a small mirror so you can’t see my full body—the fact I’m on the shorter side and although I’m thin, I have curves, especially in the hips. Photos prove my coloring matches my father’s. I wouldn’t know, personally; he left when I was eight.
Around the same time the house vanished from our lives, too.
I open my mother’s bedroom door and see her lying on the bed in the same clothes she wore yesterday. Her hair is dirty—unbrushed. She glances up at me.
“Hey baby, did you stop by the drug store?”
Is that what we’re calling the kid on the corner now? A drug store? I’m embarrassed for both of us that we’ve sunk this low.
“Good morning to you, too.” I say, walking to the window and pushing aside the curtains to allow in some light. “Have you even left the bed in the last twenty-four hours?”
“I’ve been resting.”
Pouting is more like it. Her eyes are red and swollen. I wonder if Jimmy has been back since the fight. I approach the bed and sit, gently shifting the collar of her shirt. She bats my hand away but not before I see the mottled bruises.
“Did you get my medicine?”
“Yeah,” I say, pulling the tiny baggie of pills from my pocket. “You need to go back in and get another prescription. There’s no telling what’s in this garbage.”
She takes them from me, fingers shaking as she opens the zippered closure.
“That corrupt doctor won’t give me another prescription, you know that. Thinks my back is fine.”
I know she doesn’t want to use this crap. I know she’s self-medicating, trying to keep the demons away. I know my mother is lost, mentally and physically, consumed by a lifetime of bad choices and shitty circumstances. I also know that if I don’t bring her the meds, she’ll get them out on the street in other, more dangerous, ways.
“How’s your neck?” I ask, smoothing the blanket over her legs. “Last night was scary.”
“Jimmy had a bad day.”
“Jimmy is a dick,” I counter. “We all have bad days and don’t take it out on the people we supposedly love.”
“Eden—” she warns. I know better than this. I know who she’ll pick if I push too hard.
“Just,” I start, trying to find the words, “I’m just worried, Mom. I don’t want to lose you, too.”
“You won’t, baby,” she says and her voice fades. The meds are kicking in. In a few minutes she’ll black out entirely. I glance down at the baggie, wishing I could check out of this world, too, but what my mother just said drives it home. I don’t have the luxury of taking the easy way out. My sister left me with one thing when she vanished: the purpose and drive to find her.
Chapter 2
Eden
I was thirteen the first time I came down to Kingston Park. Hope brought me, or was forced to, telling me it was where kids from school hung out. Anywhere, she’d said, is better than being at home with Mom and whatever man was coming in and out of our lives.
That night I felt the charge of energy that ran through the park. Skateboarders. Punks. Runaways. Drug dealers. The homeless. Everyone seemed to converge here and I got the feeling that Hope felt accepted, unlike at our new school where everyone just saw her white skin and assumed it meant good things came with it.
Kingston Park, on the other hand, seemed colorblind, classless. Large overpasses that developers cut through the city provided shelter. Kids long before us built skate and bike ramps out of old, abandoned properties. Corner shops clung to the periphery, selling single cigarettes, lottery tickets, and dark brown bottles of beer. Everyone here was running from something, which meant we were in it together. Hope exposed me to a certain element of our town, a place that could be scary and even dangerous, but she also gave me something to hold on to. People that didn’t judge and didn’t mind if you crashed for the night. A place to buy what you couldn’t find in stores—or to sell the only things you owned. Even if that was yourself. She knew then it was a community I’d need to get by. Maybe even then she knew she’d be gone one day.
People liked my sister, she was pretty. Kind. Fun. The boys down in Kingston liked to flirt with her and a few made her cheeks flush in a way that told me she liked them a lot. There was one group, though, that she told me to stay away from, the self-crowned “royalty” of the park. The Kings, or K-boys, as they’re called. They weren’t exactly a gang, but their presence was noted and when they showed up, people noticed.
Including me.
Over the years, the K-Boys came and went—sometimes we saw it happen, the police showing up and dragging one or a group out of the park. Other times they just vanished. A few times, rumor had it, they were gone. Dead. OD’d or in the wrong place at the wrong time. By the time I was fifteen and a regular down in Kingston Park, the scene started to shift. Gentrification had long been encroaching on the park and worse…kids from the suburbs started coming down with their expensive boards and fancy shoes, trying to get a little urban experience. They brought something new and shiny to the area beyond the clean, handsome boys and looking-for-adventure girls. They brought colorful pills and expensive bottles of liquor. They brought the stench of privilege and elitism. They brought money.
Ultimately, they just brought trouble.
The reaction to these kids was mixed. Some saw a way to party—to get high and screw someone new. They could do both in a fancy car with leather seats and satellite radio pulsing out a soundtrack.
Other were pissed—the K-Boys most notably. They considered this an invasion of their territory. Fights broke out more regularly. To be honest, I was conflicted. There were times when I longed for that lost suburban life. The picket fence. The clean car. The mother that made dinner. These kids would skate by and the scent of their lives would waft through the air. I wanted to hold onto that smell.
So did Hope.
When she started hanging out with one of these guys, I thought maybe it would be our ticket out of this place.
I’ve never been so wrong.
Chapter 3
Eden
Everyone in Kingston Park knows everyone else—at least by name or face. For months now, I’ve kept my distance from the three Kings that linger in the shadows, often sporting bruised eyes or raw, scraped knuckles. There are always girls flocking around them, vying for their attention. I get it. They’re good-looking. Not quite a gang but a unit. It’s smart to stick with a group, if you can find one. Ever since Hope vanished, I’ve been on my own.
Tonight is different. As much as I hate it, I need their help—well, maybe his help. Hawk, the leader, I guess. I’ve only spoken to him once, if you want to call it “talking.” I recall screaming in his face, blaming him for Hope’s disappearance and being dragged off by a group of bystanders, who were probably trying to keep me from getting my ass kicked. In hindsight, I think I’d wanted an ass-kicking. I’d wanted to vanish, too.
I wind through the people, tugging my jacket sleeves at the wrists. People know me here. They nod, smile, call my name. I do the same in return, not stopping, keeping my eyes peeled for Hawk or one of his friends. Despite the new houses and the large chain grocery store three blocks away, all signs of change coming, the culture of Kingston Park is still present. I avoid the idling cars, the ones filled with men looking to pick up girls. I avoid the gaze of the men—some only boys—that handle girls down on the streets. Men that have tried to lure me and my sister into the life.
I can’t help but wonder if that’s where Hope is now, being held by one of these men, forced to work. Sex trafficking is the biggest danger down here. It’s why so many girls do link up with a handler. It’s safer.
I step over two kids sharing a bottle and look between two buildings. Nothing.
“Eden.”
I look up and see my friend Shelby hanging out by an open door. It leads straight down a set of stairs to a damp bar. Music filters up. Her dyed crimson hair is in a series of tiny braids hanging over her shoulders, heavy makeup smeared under her eyes. She’s in a tank, despite the cold. Blue bra straps intentionally visible. Her skirt barely covers her ass. She’s working tonight.
“Hey,” I say, slowing down but aware of my surroundings. I don’t like her handler—Richie. He keeps trying to get me to work—team up with Shelby. I love the girl but that’s not my scene.
“What are you doing down here?”
“I’m looking for that kid, Hawk? Have you seen him?”
She stares at me for a moment before saying, “I thought you gave up on that grudge.”
I make a face. “It’s not about that. I just need to talk to him.”
“The last time you two ‘talked’, one of you almost got sent to the ER.”
“I’ve calmed down since then.” She looks unconvinced. “Promise.”
She sighs and nods down the street. “I haven’t seen him tonight, but lately they’ve been hanging out mostly on the old school steps. I’d try there.”
“Thanks.”
Getting to the school means I have to pass the skate park—an area I avoid at all costs. It’s been mostly taken over by the Brats. There’s one in particular I don’t like to engage and sure enough, two seconds after I step off the sidewalk I see him, Trip Cohen.
I walk with purpose, ignoring the boys zipping up and down the old school parking lot. The K-Boys are, as Shelby said, lounging on the steps. Hawk’s eyes flick up when he sees me, watching me, expressionless, as I walk in his direction. There are a million places I’d rather be right now than caught between Trip Cohen and Sawyer Hawkins. Unfortunately, this isn’t about me. It’s about Hope.
I think I’ve escaped Trip’s notice but a long wolf-whistle bounces off the pavement followed by a deep voice, “Avoiding me?”
I don’t turn.
“Your sister wouldn’t like that you treat me like this. We were close, you know.”
The anger and rage that simmers just below the surface starts to boil when he mentions Hope. He knows I’ll fall for it and I do. “Don’t talk to me and definitely don’t mention my sister.”
Trip has that pretty-boy look. One that comes from money and privilege. He’s my age but hangs mostly with older kids. He should be taking the S.A.T.s and playing lacrosse. Instead he’s slumming it down here, harassing girls.
He crosses his arms over his chest, eyes raking over me. “You know I’ve always had a soft spot for the Warren sisters, well parts of me are hard.”
That little prick. And yeah, I suspect little. My hands ball at my sides as his eyes shift over my shoulder and I sense the presence of a tall build.
“You need something, Warren?” a male voice says from behind me.
I hold Trip’s eyes. They’re blue, I think, but the dark blocks out any color. A pool of dread settles in my stomach. This kid is evil. I don’t know how I know, but I do.
“Yeah,” I say, pulling my attention away from Trip. “We need to talk.”
He jerks his head for me to follow and I do, pushing my hand into my back pocket. I feel the slip of paper.
“Are you going to lose your shit again?” he asks, taking me away from the others. Fair question. I’m not sure I know the answer.
“I don’t think so.”
He snorts but stops near a low brick wall outside the old gym. Hawk has brown hair, shaggy on the front but clipped short in the back and sides. He pushes it out of his eyes and I get a look at the light gray. Hawk’s an ass but he’s not evil.
I pull the piece of paper out of my pocket and hold it in the air between me and Hawk. He looks at it and then back at me, curiosity flickering in those angry eyes.
“What’s that?”
“Maybe nothing, but I hope it’s a lead about Hope.”
He takes it from me and reads the information. A line creases between his eyes. “What do you want me to do?”
“Come with me.”
He crosses his arms over his chest and I can’t help but notice the long line down his forearm, defining his muscle. I never even knew a muscle like that existed.
“And why would I do that?
I look him square in his eye and reply, “Because you know Hope’s disappearance is your fault.”
* * *
We’re about two blocks away when I feel the presence of others behind us. My sense of survival is good and my pulse quickens at the sound of shoes on the ground behind us. I glance back and only see shadows. Hawk is unfazed.
“It’s just two of my guys,” he says, picking up on my nervousness.
“They followed us?”
“Things have been tense the last few days. I had to make sure you weren’t trying to get me alone or something.”
Is he afraid of me? I straighten my shoulders. Maybe my reputation is more impressive than I realize. Although the other option is that they’re getting me alone. Three on one. I swallow back the fear.
“You haven’t been around much lately,” he says suddenly. “Or in school.”
I shrug, not wanting to admit I dropped out earlier in the year. I don’t like leaving my mom alone much, not with Jimmy around. I don’t want to tell him that, either.
“I think that’s it,” he says, squinting at the street sign. It’s a strip of boarded-up commercial buildings. None really functional. A bad feeling churns in my stomach. Hawk’s jaw is tight, his fists clenched.
“Where did you say you got this address?”
I don’t want to say—or tell him what I had to do to get it.
Three figures emerge from the shadows around the building.
“What is this?” he asks, shoulders tensing.
“Nothing. I don’t know.” I don’t. I was told if I came here I’d get information about Hope. The figures head in our direction. I take a step back. Then two.
Hawk lift his hand and holds it against his face, whistling—two quick, long. “Did you set me up?” he asks in a whisper.
That’s when I run. Not just from the figures charging toward us, but from Hawk himself. He’s pissed. Furious, and I’ve seen what his fists can do to the Brats when he feels like it. With an eye on the two men headed toward us I bolt, rushing to the left, toward the railroad tracks. Hawk runs the opposite way and footsteps sound from where he said his crew was hiding. I run down the gravel, over the rails, pounding feet behind me. Shouts echo off the abandoned building, loud angry voices, but I don’t stop, running so hard my chest aches.
I don’t want to get caught. I don’t want to get taken. I’m not one of the missing. The mantra runs through my head as I run as fast as my feet will take me, but I feel the person chasing me getting closer, I hear their breath, their grunts, and I feel my speed failing me, the adrenaline waning. But I know one thing for certain. If I’m not here, no one will be looking for Hope. No one will look for me.
That’s the last thing I think about—the last thing I know for certain as a hand latches onto my jacket and pulls me to the ground. A flashlight glares in my eyes, blinding me, and I hold my hands up, covering my face.
“Settle down Ms. Warren, I’m not here to hurt you.”
I freeze.
How do they know my name?
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
