The Art of Fear (The Little Things That Kill Series Book 1)

by Pamela Crane

  Seeing that his paper won over her rock, Sophia’s bottom lip jutted out. “I lost. Paper covers rock.”

  “Not today, you didn’t,” George said with a sugarcoated wink. “Today rock beats paper. I’ll take you out after breakfast to pick your prize.”

  “Really? Thank you, Mr. George!” Sophia squealed. At her father’s nudge, she hopped down to offer a cautious hug to this odd man-child.

  “Mr. George is going to make you a star, sweetie,” Mercedes giggled as she set plates around the table. “With your beauty, you’re going to make us rich. Then we’ll be able to buy anything you could dream of.”

  “But I don’t want to be a star.”

  “Don’t you want your mama to have nice things?”

  Sophia nodded wordlessly.

  “Well, Mr. George says you are exceptionally pretty and is going to take pictures of you and pay us for those pictures.”

  “But I don’t want to be in pictures. I just want to play with Arturo.”

  “Honey, you can’t play with Arturo forever. Don’t you want to be famous?”

  Sophia shrugged halfheartedly. “Not really. I just want to be a kid.”

  “Being a kid doesn’t put food on the table,” Josef gruffly cut in. “Times are hard. Jobs are few. You must do what you can to help the family, Sophia.”

  “Perhaps,” George suggested, “Sophia can be a star without giving up the fun of being a kid.” He smiled at the little girl, and she smiled back.

  Sophia and Mr. George continued to bond over a game of thumb wrestling. Breakfast was served in the usual way, but there was something different—peculiar—about Mama. First she blinked away tears and crossed herself, and then she cast her eyes to heaven. This was strange to Sophia, because Mama was usually only religious on Sunday and during Navidad. Then all of a sudden Mama grabbed her and squeezed her and looked her directly in her eyes. Something Mama had never done with such intensity.

  “I love you, Sophia. Make me proud, okay?”

  “Okay, Mama.” But Sophia always tried to make her parents proud. She didn’t understand why the fierce hug, the penetrating stare.

  They ate breakfast with much laughter and conversation, but to Sophia her mother’s enjoyment seemed tinged with sadness. Afterwards, Mama and Papa walked Sophia to Mr. George’s fancy American car, each one holding a hand, before ushering her inside the vehicle, releasing her into George’s care.

  “Have fun, sweetie. Pick out something extra nice for yourself.”

  “Aren’t you coming, Mama?”

  “Not this time. Behave.”

  “I will.”

  “And remember, Mama loves you, Sophia. Please forgive me.”

  “Forgive you for what?”

  But no answer came. No answer ever came.

  After her father buckled her in, through smudged glass Sophia saw her mama break down in tears. The sobbing face looked huge and hideous pressed against the window, the veins in Mama’s eyes like a sea of angry red snakes, and the cheeks wet and the mouth blubbering like somebody had died.

  Sophia was scared out of her wits, for herself and for her mother.

  She yanked furiously on the handle, but the door wouldn’t budge. Fear turned to panic as her small fists banged against the window. “Mama!” she screamed. “Mama, what’s happening?”

  The last time Sophia ever saw her mother, she was running toward the front door.

  Sophia’s mouth dropped open. This couldn’t be happening. In a daze, she saw Mr. George hand Papa a thick wad of paper—money. She noticed the odd look on his face, the same look greedy kids had when they asked Santo Clos for more toys than they deserved, as he flipped through the bills.

  “Papa, help! Please let me out!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. But he turned on his heel and left without a backward glance.

  “You miserable brat—stop that yelling or I’ll give you something to yell about!”

  What had happened to Mr. George’s pleasant voice? It sounded like he was mad at her. But why?

  “I’m sorry, Mr. George, it’s just that I—”

  The back of his hand caught her full in the mouth. Nobody had ever hit her like that. Not Mama. Not Papa. She was too shocked to cry. She looked straight ahead as Mr. George’s ugly voice seethed in her ear.

  “I told you to be quiet, didn’t I? Maybe now you’ll think twice before you give me any sass. You will remain silent for the rest of the trip—or else.”

  When they had passed the supermercado where they bought their food, she got up the courage to move. She looked out the passenger-side window and pressed her hand on the glass, tracing her mama’s imagined face with her little fingertips. As the car bumped along the dirt road, away from the only home she’d ever known, she wondered how much her life was actually worth to her father.

  As the minutes turned into hours and the open fields and towns whizzed by in a blur, Sophia Alvarez knew one thing for certain: No, there would be no forgiveness.

  Chapter 11

  Creased down the middle, the photograph in my hand was twelve years old, an image of the Alvarez family at a time when they were still whole. Broken, yes, but whole. While the picture had long been tucked in pockets and envelopes and wallets, the image was as crisp as the day it was taken. In front of their orange adobe two-bedroom home stood Rosalita, the doting grandmother who knew all. Josef, the husband who labored tirelessly for his family. Mercedes, the nurturing mother and cook who could make gourmet meals out of scraps. Sophia, the whip-smart daughter snuffed out too soon. And tucked against his sister’s side, the handsome son his papa always wanted—the family’s pride and joy, Killian.

  Once upon a time they had been a beautiful collection of high cheekbones, bright eyes, and dazzling smiles—the picture-perfect envy of San Luis … until the stench of poverty clung to them like cigarette smoke, that is.

  But happiness is a mirage when you’re poor. You don’t know hunger until you’re numb from the constant war within your stomach, the emptiness that has taken up permanent residence within you. Even as you’re eating a meal, the hunger bares its teeth, biting into the cavity where food should be. Hunger is fear—a gnawing worry over when you’re going to eat again. Rent is fear—a grace period away from eviction. Every moment is fear when you’re poor and can’t afford the needle and thread needed to repair the holes in the shirt you’ve worn four days in a row this week.

  I understood why Josef did what he did.

  The offer for his daughter’s service—as a child model was how it had been spun—was too opportune to pass up. And with the assurance that Sophia would get a solid education and all the niceties life had to offer, he had convinced himself it was a no-brainer. One year of her life was a small price to pay for the perks Sophia would have access to; then his family could eat well, live well, pay off debts. Then bring their darling girl home to enjoy the fruits of her labor.

  If only Josef Alvarez had followed through with just that. Instead, the debts piled up, the frivolous spending on alcohol, gambling, and drugs reeled him into a whirlwind of IOUs. One year of service became two became eleven.

  And a father’s little girl no longer little, and no longer his.

  And yet he still owed.

  It was the price of his sins.

  So I had collected the debt on his life.

  Now it was time for another—eye for an eye, life for a life—until they were all relieved of this burden. Unfortunately, Josef’s life was worthless to me. His death didn’t pay off his outstanding balance.

  I reflected on his last moments. Unsatisfying, that’s what it was. The gaping hole only felt vaster as the skin opened up a larger wound. Josef didn’t pay; I paid for him. Did killing him serve no purpose but to quench my thirst?

  Perhaps it was because the job wasn’t done. Yes, I needed to finish my work to feel relief. That much I now knew. After all, the family embarked on the path together. Thus they all were accountable for the costs. No one had stopped it. No one had
attempted to rescue Sophia when the months became years. No one stepped in to pay off the collectors when Josef fled to escape his responsibilities.

  Justice required equal retribution, and it was finally mine to divvy up.

  But who was next? Deciding was the hard part.

  My fingertip traced the faces, one by one, pausing over each image captured in a timeless frozen moment. The girl, so pretty in her pink cotton dress, was only six years old—and mere days from losing her innocence. Her chubby-cheeked toddler brother, adorable in his vaquero outfit, complete with cap gun and traditional flat crown hat, beamed next to his sister, blissfully unaware that she would soon be taken away, as his dimpled fingers intertwined with hers.

  It was impossible not to be charmed by this dark-skinned cherub with his winning smile and mass of black curls crowning his bulbous head. But twelve years later he was no longer a child. He was accountable for the costs. Not a boy, but a young man. At sixteen a boy can copulate, can create life, can take life. In accepting his sister’s servitude, in relinquishing the battle, he accepted her gifts yet repaid none of the debts. Yes, it was time this young man knew what responsibility was all about. Pay what you owe. Man up.

  Tapping my finger on the little cowboy’s image, I knew it was the right choice.

  Oh, pride and joy of the Alvarez family, be ready for me, for I would be coming for you.

  Chapter 12

  Ari

  April 2002

  Nothing about him—the shiny badge, the navy button-down shirt taut against his slender body, his crispy brown hair, or his vanilla pudding tone—makes me feel protected or served. Instead, I feel like a prisoner as he bombards me with question after question that come at me so fast I can’t think straight.

  The overhead fluorescent fixture blinks, strobe-like, causing my temples to throb. The thin cushion on the metal chair is as thin as a pancake. I feel every minute I’ve been sitting here ache in my butt muscles. The interrogation room is as blank as the policeman’s face. He looks at me like a spotlight shining on all my sins.

  “Can you describe what you remember before the accident? Were you playing together?”

  “Do you remember anything from when the car hit your sister?”

  “Where was your sister when it all happened?”

  “Did you see the car—the color, anything special about it?”

  “Could you see the driver?”

  Officer Friendly doesn’t seem content with the truth. He wants information, even if I have to make it up, apparently.

  I tell him the first things that come to mind. I don’t know if they’re true or not, since I’ve lost track of the details from the ordeal of telling and retelling and backtracking.

  “Yes, Carli and I were playing in the yard. Well, we weren’t playing together. I was mad at her for ruining my Barbie so I pushed her away from me. But I didn’t mean to.”

  “I remember seeing the car swerve up into the yard where Carli was, and I heard a loud thump when it hit her. Then just blood. Lots of blood.”

  “She was in the grass but kinda near the road.”

  “I think the car was red, Or maybe orange? I don’t remember.”

  “I couldn’t see who was driving. It happened too fast.”

  I try my best, but every reply only irritates Mommy more. I can feel her angry heat beside me, the tense squeeze of her clammy hand on mine in an unspoken warning that I can’t decipher. It’s not the tender comforting caress you expect of a mother whose ten-year-old daughter is being questioned in the wake of her sister’s hit-and-run death. No, the arm circling my shoulders is the constriction of judgment. Her fingers woven around mine are the grip of accusations, a guilty verdict. Even as a kid I sense it in her wooden movements, like a nutcracker clamping down on me.

  The policeman looks at me, his eyes kindly. For the first time I see the hint of a smile on his homely face. “Thank you, Ari. I know this isn’t easy for you, but you did a good job.” Then he turns to Mommy. “Unfortunately, this isn’t much to go on, Ms. Wilburn. I’m sorry, but without more details, I don’t know how we can find your daughter’s killer. We need something more—a vehicle description, partial plate number, anything.”

  “What about the neighbors—didn’t they see anything?” Mommy wants to know.

  “No, no one saw anything. We canvassed the neighborhood asking if anyone remembers anything at all, but so far we’ve come up empty-handed. At this point all we can do is hope the driver turns himself in.”

  “Of course he won’t!” Mommy growls, a sound angry cats make. “So that’s it? He’ll get away with murder?”

  “I’m afraid so, ma’am.”

  Mommy releases me and sits there stiffly. When she finally speaks, her words stick in her throat. “There is something … something I’d like to say.”

  “Go ahead, ma’am,” the officer says.

  Mommy swallows so hard, I can hear it. “I saw what happened.”

  “Are you saying you saw everything? Why didn’t you come forward with this before now?”

  Mommy glares down at me, her eyes warning beacons to a ship entering stormy seas. “Because I was trying to protect Ari, but maybe I shouldn’t anymore.”

  The policeman sighs and rises, signaling for Mommy to follow him to the corner of the small room. I hear whispers against the naked white walls, a barren room where people’s lives are inspected and pulled apart like taffy. It’s a dismal room. Cold and redolent of death. An omen that my life holds no future.

  Mommy and the officer return to the faux wood table, both looking at me with eyes watching from a new lens. A lens of suspicion and fear.

  “Ari, your mother tells me you and Carli fought a lot. Were you jealous of Carli?”

  I nod meekly.

  “Were you angry with Carli before the accident happened—about the Barbie?”

  I nod again.

  “Your mother says she saw you push your sister in front of the moving car. Is that true? You can be honest with me. You’re not in trouble if you did. We just need to know.”

  I look from his walrus mustache to Mommy’s creased forehead, then back again. I know what he wants to hear, whether it’s true or not. I remember the shove. I remember the fight. But the car … I can’t remember.

  “Honey, you need to be honest with the policeman if he’s going to be able to help us. Please tell him what you did.”

  Tell him what you did … My eyeballs ache as the image of Carli’s body lying in a pool of crimson thrusts itself on me. Mommy’s hand cups my shoulder, kneading the truth out of me. She needs me to tell.

  My fingers frantically twist themselves into knots in my lap, and my gaze turns shamefully downward on my untied shoelace dusting the floor.

  I don’t know what will come after this moment, but I’m afraid of whatever it is.

  “Yes, sir, I … I pushed Carli.” The words snag in my throat as a sob creeps out. “I killed my sister.”

  Chapter 13

  Ari

  Twelve days until dead

  “Do you have your purse? We’re going on a road trip,” I had announced to Tina an hour earlier when she slipped into the passenger seat of my Ford Focus. I hadn’t come empty-handed, at least, handing her a to-go cup of Starbucks—a caramel macchiato, a recent favorite of mine.

  After a night of police interrogations swimming through my dreams, it was a welcome break to have company this morning.

  The long drive to Dunn gave Tina and me a golden opportunity to bond over the usual chickish subjects, but I noticed she studiously avoided comparing notes about the rock musicians and actors I considered hot, a long list to be sure. I wasn’t surprised, considering how she’d skedaddled after our run-in with Ebony and Ivory—and my admittedly vulgar attempt at humor. But she talked freely about everything else under the sun, and I found her to be intelligent and witty, and fun as hell to be with. Eventually we fell into a companionable silence, and I decided to play my hand.

  “Tina, I know
we’re just getting to know each other, and I don’t want to pry, but I can’t help but notice you seem to have some, uh, hang-ups about … guys.”

  She bristled. “Are you trying to say you think I’m gay? Well, I’m not.”

  “What? God, no! It’s not that at all. I was just thinking about those two punks. You were brave as hell, but I know it upset you. And today, well, you clam up whenever the subject of guys and, uh, sex comes up.”

  Tina was silent for a long time. I glanced over at her now and then, saw the tears beading in her eyes, her jaw muscles working. She looked like she wanted to say something but didn’t know where to start. Finally she found the courage and the words.

  “Remember when I said my father kicked me out?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s not what happened. The son of a bitch sold me … to a sex trafficker … when I was just six.”

  I was gobsmacked. I remembered the line in Josef’s suicide note: I sold my child’s innocence for a dollar. It all made sense now. “Oh, Tina, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to—”

  “Don’t say anything!”

  The waterworks opened up full blast. When she was able to talk again, Tina told me the whole incredible story of her shiftless father’s betrayal in one long, impassioned, uninterrupted confessional. Details of the unimaginable life of a child prostitute she didn’t provide, and I didn’t press. I didn’t need to hear them to know the degradation she’d endured.

  Afterwards I sat in silence, searching for something, anything to say. Suddenly I knew just the right thing.

  “Now I know why you hate your father. Alright if I hate him too?”

  She chuckled, and then laughed outright. I joined in. There was no doubt now that we were soul sisters.

  **

  The route to Josef Alvarez’s house took us down a rutted dirt road, a glorified cow path with deep ditches on either side. I lost count of all the castoff furniture and appliances, too shitty for a discriminating connoisseur of roadside treasure like I was. Once we came bumper to bumper with a puke-green GM truck, 1970s era, tricked out with humongous mud tires and off-road lights. Squeezed abreast into the cab were four leering good old boys; a huge Confederate flag flapped from the bed. Somebody was going to have to yield the narrow road, and it looked like that duty fell to me, because chivalry was obviously dead here in the butt crack of North Carolina. I eased the Focus into the ditch to let the rednecks pass.