by Steph Cha
He shuddered, and Shawn grabbed his shoulder. If he could have picked him up and thrown him to safety, he would’ve done it without a second thought. Darryl jerked his shoulder away and stepped closer to the women.
“Don’t say anything, Darryl,” said Shawn. He looked around. They were surrounded by people, most of them too distracted to pay attention to the conflict unfolding as they blitzed by, driven by the noise and commotion, the sizzling air. But there were cameras, and Darryl looked ready to make a scene. “Can’t we talk another time?” he asked the sisters. “When there aren’t a thousand people who might be listening?”
Grace cleared her throat and found her voice again. “How old are you?” she asked Darryl.
“Sixteen,” he answered.
“So you never knew your aunt, did you?”
Darryl said nothing. His Adam’s apple wobbled in his throat.
“She’s just an idea to you. Our mom—” She bit down on her lip to steady herself enough to speak again. “I know my mom did horrible things. But she was my mom. You have a mom. You know what that means. That’s what you took away from me.”
“I know,” he whispered. His lips kept moving, but the words didn’t follow, his face crumpling around the things he couldn’t say. “I’m sorry.”
He stood there, bent forward, his back heaving like he might be breaking out of his body.
Grace hated him. This fragile, pathetic, sobbing boy who’d had strength enough to shoot to kill. Sixteen years old. The age his aunt had been when she died. When a weak, frightened, angry woman, a woman who’d never aimed a gun before, had landed the shot of her lifetime.
Yvonne outlived Ava Matthews by twenty-eight years. A whole generation, tainted with fear and regret. There had been beautiful things, too, love and family, Grace’s whole life in the shelter of her unknowing. Yvonne had never atoned, and she had never paid her debt to society. Her escape had meant a stable home for her daughters, with two parents, without the burden of her guilt to warp their childhood. Yvonne did everything right, when it came to them. Grace couldn’t have imagined a better mother.
And she had died, in the end, needing Grace’s understanding. A resolution. A forgiveness that Grace could never give her because it wasn’t hers to give.
She reached both arms out toward the weeping boy. She found his hands and took them in her own. They were warm and wet, and she felt the life pulsing through the meat of his palms. She wrapped her fingers around his and waited for something to happen, for some indication of how she was meant to go on.
Shawn moved toward her, afraid she was planning to hurt Darryl. Her eyes shimmered with a hard, wild light. But then her face softened, and she closed her eyes and bowed her head. They stood there, locked together, in the shape of a prayer.
A man’s voice cracked through the air. “The fuck, isn’t that that girl?” Grace froze. She knew without looking that he was talking about her.
Another voice came after. “And that’s Ray Holloway’s family. I saw them standing up there, when his mom was speaking.”
There were people stopping now, stilled by the recognition, the promise of close-up drama. Within seconds, it seemed, they became a small crowd.
Miriam maneuvered herself in front of Grace, blocking her body from all the hungry, staring eyes, the cameras lifted with them. “This isn’t a show,” she said, waving them away.
“Pretty bold of her to come,” someone said, projecting loudly for Grace to hear. “Racist trash.”
More voices chimed in, jeering and full of disgust.
Grace felt light-headed, overwhelmed. Everything had piled up on her, and here was a host of strangers, flinging insults, craning their necks to see past Miriam. She blinked, her eyes dry and stinging, and saw a palm tree on fire against a darkening sky. She blinked, and it was still there, a waking vision.
Shawn stared at the tree, a pillar of bright flame like a beam sent down from a rip in the evening sky. It was in front of the LAPD building—in the melee, someone had set it on fire, and the fire was climbing fast, up the long, thin trunk. And here, across the street, the fire was catching. He looked at the circle building around them, agitated and vibrant, stoked by the electric atmosphere, by their own passion, feeding off and reinforcing the passion of their neighbors. Their faces blended together in the quickening dark, but they were young and old, black and white and brown and yellow, a raw hunk of the city, brought together by this one annoying, frustrating woman. They were angry, and she made it easy for them—the racist daughter of a racist killer, a focal point for their fervor.
He remembered those six days of violence, fire and havoc wherever he looked, stumbling bodies and stunned, bleeding faces. He watched his city go up in flames, and under the sadness and rage, the exhilaration of rampage, he recognized the sparkle of hope. Rebirth—that was the promise of destruction. The olive branch, the rainbow, the good men spared to rebuild the earth.
But where was the new city? And who were the good men?
Los Angeles, this was supposed to be it. The end of the frontier, land of sunshine, promised land. Last stop for the immigrant, the refugee, the fugitive, the pioneer. It was Shawn’s home, where his mother and sister had lived and died. But he had left, and so had most of the people he knew. Chased out, priced out, native children living in exile. And he saw the fear and rancor here, in the ones who’d stayed. This city of good feeling, of tolerance and progress and loving thy neighbor, was also a city that shunned and starved and killed its own. No wonder, was it, that it huffed and heaved, ready to blow. Because the city was human, and humans could only take so much.
A woman pushed forward from the crowd and spat, the saliva separating somewhere between the two sisters. She was a white woman, young and zealous, recording the action on her phone. “You’re everything that’s wrong with this country,” she shouted.
Miriam laughed, her expression openly contemptuous. “Go fuck yourself, you dumb white twat.”
The woman stepped toward Miriam, and the crowd closed in behind her. Miriam tensed up, her fists balling, as if she could repel the villagers who wanted a piece of her sister. Grace stood behind her with a dreamlike look on her face, and she was still holding one of Darryl’s hands. The boy cowered beside her, but he had nowhere to hide. Shawn had to do something.
He walked in front of the sisters and stared down the crowd.
“Back off.” The power in his voice surprised him.
They fell silent, and he could read their confusion as they tried to make sense of him, a black man, cousin of Ray Holloway, brother of Ava Matthews, coming to defend the daughters of Jung-Ja Han. But what good would it do, for this mob to unleash their outrage on them? It would bring trouble to Darryl, and it would accomplish nothing else. These useless people. City Hall was right there, the police and the courts. They were standing in the heart of the system, hefting their stones for two girls who were grieving their mother.
“This here is a sideshow,” he shouted, calling over the noise. “A way for you to feel good while you keep on doing nothing. If you want to do something, leave us be and do something.”
He flung his arm out toward the erupting riot, the streets and the sinful city. The bedlam had spread, fast and contagious. Sirens and car alarms rang, and the air smoldered, hot and sooty and pungent, crackling with wrathful energy. Shawn stood, facing the mob, until he felt their focus drifting off the women, off his nephew. He wasn’t sure if they’d heard him or if their attention had just shifted, drawn by the babel around them. Everywhere, now, people clapped and stomped, chanted and shouted; they ran and they raged and they fought. One by one, and then all at once, the posse dispersed, disappearing into the greater crowd. He didn’t care where they went, as long as it was far away from Darryl.
Grace watched in awe as they stalked away, these people who had clamored for her blood. It felt like a miracle, the impossible parting of a hostile sea. Shawn stood where he was, his back to Grace, his silhouette dark against the glowin
g chaos; he seemed like a prophet of old, tall and noble as the fire and brimstone came down.
Then, he folded forward, his shoulders shaking. He turned, and she saw that he was coughing.
He staggered toward her, breathing into his shirt, and she felt a tickle in her own throat. Her mouth opened, and she caught a deep, singeing swallow of the acrid air.
He peered over his collar and found Darryl—the boy was safe, for now. Grace was still holding his hand, but she let it go as Shawn came closer. She laced her fingers in front of her face and started hacking into them. Her eyes met Shawn’s, and then Miriam laughed.
It was a loud, barking laugh, vicious and mirthful. They looked at her, both of them wondering if she’d lost her mind.
“Come on,” said Miriam. “Are you seeing this? The fucking flag is on fire.”
They saw it then, the California flag—it must have caught a spark from one of the palm trees, three of them now, blazing in front of the police headquarters—the American flag thrashing just a few yards away. On the ground below, men brawled on a lawn that glittered with glass. A car had crashed into a streetlight, and a boy danced on its hood. He was short and slim, a teenager, or maybe a few years older. He stood in the light and rolled his hips to a song they couldn’t hear.
Soon, they understood, they would have to figure out what came next—what to say, what to do, how to live with what they knew. Until then, they shared this torched landscape. The fever, the fire. The dancing boy spinning and spinning, now leaping through the air.
Author’s Note
On March 16, 1991, fifteen-year-old Latasha Harlins walked into Empire Liquor Market and Deli to buy a bottle of orange juice. When she went to pay for the juice, the store owner, a woman named Soon Ja Du, accused her of stealing and reached across the counter to grab the girl and her backpack. Latasha fought back, hitting Du four times before turning around to leave. Du retrieved a gun and shot Latasha in the back of the head. The girl died with two dollars in her left hand. The whole thing was caught on video, and Du was convicted of voluntary manslaughter. She received no jail time.
Your House Will Pay is a work of fiction, but as should be apparent to anyone familiar with these facts, it is based on the murder of Latasha Harlins. For the purposes of my novel, I fictionalized this history, populating it with my own characters while staying as faithful as possible to the events as they occurred. Only one of these characters is modeled on a real-life counterpart: Sheila Holloway was inspired by Denise Harlins, Latasha’s aunt, who passed away this past December. Denise became an activist after Latasha’s death, seeking justice for her niece and for other victims of violence. She worked tirelessly to keep Latasha’s memory alive.
If you would like to learn more about Latasha and this pivotal moment in L.A. history, read The Contested Murder of Latasha Harlins: Justice, Gender, and the Origins of the LA Riots by Brenda Stevenson.
Acknowledgments
A huge thank-you to my agent, Ethan Bassoff, who has always believed in me and who read more bad drafts of the first third of this novel than even the worst wretch deserves. Another huge thank-you to my editor Zachary Wagman and the rest of the Ecco team: Caitlin Mulrooney-Lyski, Meghan Deans, Miriam Parker, Dominique Lear, and Daniel Halpern. To Maria Massie, who handles my foreign rights, and to my UK editor Angus Cargill and the folks at Faber & Faber, thank you for taking this American story abroad.
I relied on many people in researching this book, and I owe them all my thanks. I am extremely grateful to Peter Woods, who volunteered his help when all I had were a few pages and an idea back in November 2014. I’ve fully abused that offer in the intervening years—talking to him about the L.A. of the early nineties helped give shape to my story and characters, and when I had a manuscript to show, he was one of my first readers. Mike Sonksen, Gary Phillips, and Nina Revoyr all gave me guidance in this book’s beginning stages. Nina’s Southland is the novel that made this novel feel possible.
My friend and neighbor Caroline Yao answered endless texts about gunshot wounds and the inner workings of hospitals. My friend John Lee, who runs his family pharmacy, helped me figure out Grace’s job and the Park family business. Grace was an optometrist for several drafts, and my friend Janice Kim provided the necessary background for that scrapped career. Yakeen Qawasmeh and Arturo Meza helped me understand life in Palmdale. John Lee (a different John Lee), who covered both the Latasha Harlins murder and the L.A. Uprising as a reporter for the L.A. Times, gave me a wealth of context. Michael Freedman and Bruce Riordan answered my questions about legal matters, and Bruce was kind enough to read my book for procedural inaccuracies and implausibilities.
Stefanie Parker, Jorge Camacho, Alma Magaña, and Jamin An took time out of their busy lives to read their novelist friend’s manuscript. Stef and Jorge provided detailed notes and thoughtful questions. (Thanks, too, to Royal Reff and the rest of Stef’s group chat.) Nwamaka Ejebe and Ava Baker also gave valuable advice.
Along with my agent, Ethan (poor man), my friends Elizabeth Little and Sarah LaBrie combed through this book in the last stretch, lending fresh eyes to sentences I’d read way too many times to see clearly. Charles Finch also provided some input at that stage.
I am deeply grateful to Sarah Weinman, who has championed my work since the beginning of my career. Also to Ivy Pochoda, Amelia Gray, Ben Loory, Jade Chang, Naomi Hirahara, Kim Fay, J. Ryan Stradal, Yumi Sakugawa, and MariNaomi—it would’ve been miserable slogging through this book without their consistent encouragement and company.
Thank you to my parents and to Peter, Andrew, and Celestine. Pets and good boys to my assistants, Duke and Milo.
And to my husband, Matt, thank you for your tireless support—your love, your patience, your uncomplicated faith in my abilities. Thank you for reading this book over and over and over again, and for listening to me rant and ramble and obsess about it these past five years. I think I would’ve done the same for you, but I’m glad that I don’t have to prove it.
About the Author
STEPH CHA is the author of the Juniper Song crime trilogy. She’s an editor and critic whose work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, USA Today, and The Los Angeles Review of Books. A native of the San Fernando Valley, she lives in Los Angeles with her husband and two basset hounds.
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Also by Steph Cha
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Copyright
YOUR HOUSE WILL PAY. Copyright © 2019 by Stephanie Cha. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Cover design by Oliver Munday
FIRST EDITION
Digital Edition OCTOBER 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-286886-2
Version 09072019
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-286885-5
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