Maybe It's You

by Candace Calvert

  “Along with Oksana.”

  “When and if they catch that Viktor guy.” Sloane thought of Zoey’s tears when she hinted at her experiences with him. “Zoey’s dealt with more than I ever did.”

  “I don’t know . . .” Harper hadn’t let go of Sloane’s hand. “I get the feeling you’ve had more than your share of tough stuff, pal.”

  “Ugly stuff, you mean.” Sloane closed her eyes. “What are they saying? In the news?”

  “I don’t think now is the time to worry about that.”

  “Tell me.” Sloane opened her eyes, slid her hand away. “I have to know.”

  “Well . . . you saw the paper. The TV news took that and ran with it after the press conference. Sex trafficking, gambling money, arson, murder. I think they have most of Southern California piling furniture against their doors to stave off the Russians.” Harper sighed. “They’re saying you had a past connection to the man who was killed. And Zoey was traveling with him—they didn’t use her name because she’s a minor.”

  “But they used mine.”

  “Yes.” Harper grimaced. “Both last names. They said you were a nurse at LA Hope. And you’d been cooperating with the investigation.”

  “Aaagh . . .” The motel blanket slid from Sloane’s shoulders. “My job.”

  “You have friends there,” Harper said quickly. “People who’ll stick by you.”

  “Like Morgan from the SICU?” Sloane groaned, thinking of their heated exchange in the ER. “I’m sure I can count on him.”

  “You can count on me.” Harper reached for the blanket. “And there’s Micah. Where is he, anyway? I thought he’d be riding in like a white knight.”

  Sloane’s heart cramped. Even real chicken soup couldn’t fix that.

  “I don’t know, man. . . .” Coop fingered his beard scruff, looked at Micah in the driver’s seat. Even in the meager illumination of the dash lights his expression appeared agitated. “How was I supposed to know—?”

  “That you’d get somebody killed?” Micah barely resisted the urge to bash him. He’d come back to the scene hoping to catch a glimpse of Sloane. Finding Coop sniffing around only made things worse. “Get a firebomb thrown into somebody’s house? Turn Sloane’s life into some blasted three-ring circus?”

  Coop raised his palms. “I didn’t use her new name. The TV guys did that. And it’s not like she’s so innocent—hey, man, that’s how it reads. To me and everyone else. What’s that dumb thing they say? ‘Not my monkeys, not my circus’? Well, it is, dude. All hers, plus a juggling act. Your nurse made her bed; now she’s got to—”

  “Shut up.” Micah lunged across the seat, snatched a fistful of Coop’s shirt, and shoved him against the passenger window. “One more stupid cliché and I swear I’ll . . .”

  “Hold on; hold on.” Coop’s eyes showed too much white. He twisted against Micah’s grip.

  “Go ahead. Give me one more excuse,” Micah threatened, his fist trembling in an aftershock of what had been happening in his gut for hours. All he knew was that someone was to blame and—

  “Hey, Micah. Easy.” Coop had gone pale. His voice rasped from the pressure against his throat. “Let go. Please . . . I can’t breathe.”

  Micah stared, saw that his knuckles had gone white with the ferocity of his grip. What am I doing? God, help me. . . .

  “Uh . . . better. Thanks, man,” Coop managed as Micah moved away.

  “Don’t thank me. Don’t talk.”

  Micah hunched over the steering wheel and stared out the windshield, barely seeing the tableau beyond. Firefighters mopping up at Celeste’s house. Patrol cars, unmarked cars, and forensic vans still in front of Sloane’s. The lights were on inside. Evidence was being gathered, photographed, and tagged. Micah had heard something about multiple shipping cartons of cereal. He didn’t get that. But then he didn’t understand any of this. He only knew that it suddenly felt like he’d taken a bullet too.

  Coop cleared his throat. “I can see where you’re coming from.”

  “Right.” Micah shook his head. “Don’t bother; I’m past punching you now.”

  “No, really.” The reporter did his own survey through the window. “When I heard there was a kid in there . . . I don’t know. I was so stoked about this story. I’ve been dogging it for months. And there it was. Right in my hands.” He turned toward Micah, his forehead creasing. “That byline—my name in print. A real feature article. Not a stupid pumpkin patch or lawn watering tips. But . . .”

  Micah waited.

  “You’re right.” Coop tugged at the neckline of his shirt. “Even if I never meant for it to happen like it did, some of this is for sure on me. My investigation pressured those Russians. They got to Stryker and forced him to take them to the money. They threw that bomb for a diversion. . . .” Coop exhaled in a half groan. “Somebody’s dead—bad guy or not. Doesn’t really matter. What if that runaway girl and your nurse had gone back to the house a few minutes earlier?”

  Micah’s heart stalled out. He’d gone over and over that in his head. The truth was, he could blame Coop—act like a jerk and slam him around—and it wouldn’t change the fact that Sloane would never have been there if Micah had handled things better. If he hadn’t sent her away this morning.

  “I need time to think. It’s a lot to take in.”

  Micah tapped his phone in the darkness, watched the screen light, and looked at the message icon. Nothing. He’d written that note on the crisis card asking Sloane to call him, then sent a half-dozen texts. And left a voice mail. She hadn’t responded. One of his LAPD friends said she’d been released after the interviews, but they didn’t know where she’d gone.

  36

  “HOW DID YOU GET HERE?” Sloane asked, shocked Zoey had come.

  “Uber. No van. No uniform.” Zoey dredged up her impish smile. She’d lost all of her makeup and looked twelve years old. Even her hair seemed less coal-black; Sloane suspected she’d scoured herself in a shower too. Blood washed off pretty well, but the painful ugliness stuck. A smile wasn’t much better than a Band-Aid.

  “But you said you were in a safe house,” Sloane said, thinking this girl must be spending Russian money too. From the small remaining portion that hadn’t been so violently retrieved from Sloane’s pantry. She fought a shudder, remembering the bits of sugar-frosted cereal scattered around Paul’s body. “Don’t they take a head count in those places?”

  “My head was counted. Before I went out the window. I have great skills in that area—in and out. Stack . . . Paul, he made sure of that.” There was a flicker of something sad in her blue eyes before she turned to inspect the food carton Harper left behind. “Eww. What is that?”

  “Oxtail soup. A friend brought it over.”

  “Some friend.”

  Sloane smiled, really smiled, for the first time in hours. At odds with everything, it felt better having this outlaw kid here.

  “Anyway,” Zoey continued, picking at her chipped black nail polish, “you told me where you were staying, and I thought maybe I’d stop by. Kind of decompress. Isn’t that what they call it? The shrink version of ‘chill’?”

  “I guess.”

  Zoey leaned her backpack against the bed. “Better if you had beer.”

  “We had this conversation once before. Right before you raided my rooster jar.” Sloane raised a brow. “You want the cash back?”

  “Nope. It’s yours. And I know you don’t drink.” Zoey boosted herself up onto the mattress. “You had those AA chips in a drawer. I left them for you. They’re not easy to come by.”

  Easy does it.

  “Nope.” Sloane sat cross-legged beside Zoey. She glanced sideways at the girl. “How’d it go with the police?”

  “It went. They’ll probably go easy on me because I’m underage and was sort of forced into stealing. At least that’s what they said. Because there was always a threat of being sent back to Viktor.” Zoey shook her head. “It makes no sense, but it was hard to snitch on Stack.
” She frowned. “Do you care if I call him that?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Anyhow, I know he was a crook. And sometimes he was a jerk to me. Treated me like I was his snot-nose kid sister.”

  Relief washed over Sloane. Paul hadn’t taken advantage of her in all ways.

  “But still, I know he thought I was smart. He said so, plenty of times. And he looked after me in his own way, I guess.” Zoey’s voice cracked a little. “Like I was worth the trouble. That’s something, right?”

  Sloane’s stomach wrenched. Was that all she’d expected from her own relationship with Paul?

  “I told the police and the agents a lot. Stuff Stack and I did. Things he said about what he did with the Russians—he hardly told me anything, really. They asked me what I knew about Viktor.” Her lips twisted. “Which is hard to deny with his brand inked on your butt.”

  Sloane hated that she’d guessed it right.

  “So I told them what I knew. How it worked. The ‘modeling.’” The fleeting look in Zoey’s eyes made Sloane ache to hug her. But the girl kept talking. “I was only working for him a few weeks before Stack got me out of there. Barely out on the street. Most of what I knew I heard from Oksana and the other girls.”

  “Do you know how much she told the authorities?”

  “Not yet.”

  It would be in the news, no doubt. Sloane hated everything about that. Unless it actually put Viktor away. He was “low-level,” according to Paul. So were cockroaches if you compared them to a rabid dog, but they still needed to be taken out.

  “You know . . .” Zoey’s voice had softened. “When Stack was coaching me for the hospital job, he told me stuff about you. Like how you used to wear your hair all spiky and purplish.” She glanced sideways at Sloane. “And how you were all tough-like, with thick skin and attitude. Because you didn’t have a father. And your mom died. A lot of hard knocks, Stack said.”

  Sloane’s throat tightened.

  “He wanted me to kind of seem like you. So you’d relate. Feel for me.” Zoey gave a small shrug, but there was nothing offhand in her expression. “It was Stack’s idea to do my hair pink. And pretend like I’d been kidnapped by a pervert.”

  She’d never told Paul about Phillip. She’d never admitted it to anyone. Except her mother.

  “So I did all that,” Zoey said, “and you took me home. Fed me, gave me clean clothes, and offered me bus money. More than Stack even expected. It was one of the times he said I was smart. A great little actress. But I really didn’t have to try that hard.” Zoey picked at her nail polish for a few seconds. When she finally met Sloane’s gaze, her eyes were filled with tears. “The thing is, so far my life has been a lot like yours was. I’m like you. Or I could be, if I ever find my way through this mess. I guess I’m saying I wish I were more like you are now. Brave. And really decent.”

  Sloane’s heart lugged. “Aagh . . . you’re killing me, Zoey Jones.”

  “Not actually my name. The Jones part.” She brushed at a tear. “It’s Atkinson. Zoey Jayne Atkinson from Boulder, Colorado.”

  “Well, okay then.” Sloane smiled and extended her hand. “Good to meet you, Zoey from Boulder.”

  “Same here.” The girl grasped Sloane’s hand. “I’m glad I met you. Regardless.”

  “Yes. Regardless.” Sloane nodded. “Is that why you sneaked over here? To tell me all that?”

  “And to give you this.” She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out the silver chain and cross. “I shouldn’t have taken it,” she said, laying it in Sloane’s palm.

  “Paul let you keep it?”

  “I never showed it to him.”

  “It was my father’s,” Sloane told her. “I think he gave it to my mother as sort of a promise they’d be married. But he was killed before I was born. Now . . . they’re both gone.”

  “And you wore it.”

  “I never did. I just kept it.”

  “Oh.” The girl was quiet for a few moments. “I don’t know why, but I felt sort of safe having it with me. Protected, maybe. With everything that was going on with Oksana and the girls. And when I felt alone. It’s hard to explain, but it made me feel like things could be okay.”

  “You . . . believe in God?” Sloane heard herself ask, not sure if she was repeating what she’d been asked by Piper . . . or by Micah? She wasn’t sure she should have asked it at all but—

  “I want to,” the girl said as if she’d been thinking about it for a while. “It wasn’t part of my life . . . before. I never bought into any of that hard sell, the things some of those church ladies would say when they’d see us on the streets. Calling us sinners and saying we’d be judged. How we’d better get ‘clean and purified’ before it was too late.”

  Sloane saw an image of the two of them at Paul’s side, blood on their hands, fighting to save him. Her fingers closed over the cool metal of her father’s necklace.

  “They scared me, I guess,” Zoey continued. “It felt more like an extra helping of shame.”

  Sloane nodded. She’d had it by the plateful.

  “But there was this woman once, one of those volunteers who help get girls off the street. I think that’s what she was. Maybe part of that crisis team. Anyway, I was in a foul mood. Some creep had kicked me in the ribs the night before. Like I was a stray dog or something.”

  Sloane winced.

  “I told this woman that I didn’t need her to tell me I was going to hell. But she said she wasn’t there to preach. She wasn’t supposed to do that, but since I’d mentioned it, she said she knew for a fact that I was special in God’s eyes. Just the way I was. That he loves me like a father because that’s what I am—his child.” Zoey shook her head, but there was no hiding the wonder on her face. “I didn’t trust it. Not with everything I was seeing back then.” She glanced down at Sloane’s hand, holding the necklace. “But lately I’ve been hoping it’s true.”

  “You remember that little girl . . . my landlady’s granddaughter?”

  Zoey nodded.

  “Her name’s Piper. Funny, confident, happy little kid. She said something to me once—that God has a picture of her on his fridge. He has a ‘ginormous’ refrigerator in heaven and he taped her picture on it. Because he’s crazy about her.” Sloane smiled at the look on Zoey’s face. “Yeah, I know. But I think that’s a lot like what the volunteer was trying to tell you. In God’s eyes, you’re more than worth the trouble.” Sloane blinked against tears, then held the necklace out. “I want you to have this.”

  “What?”

  “It’s yours,” Sloane said despite an ache that threatened to choke her. “Because I’m completely sure that if God does have a fridge, your picture—whatever color hair—is right there on it. And . . .” A tear slid down her face. “I don’t want you to ever forget it. You hear me, Zoey from Boulder? Promise you’ll remember that.”

  “I’ll try.” Zoey took the necklace and flung her arms around Sloane’s neck, hugging her. “Thank you. For this. And for everything.”

  “No problem.”

  Zoey gave Sloane one last squeeze, then pocketed the necklace and glanced toward the door. “I should go.”

  Sloane nodded. “Right. Get back to the shelter before they count heads again.”

  “Not yet. First, I’m going to look around for Marty.”

  “With an Uber ride?” Sloane asked, touched.

  “I’ll have ’em park and wait.” The girl shrugged. “I can afford it. And then after that I’m going to the hospital.”

  “The hospital?”

  “To see Oksana. I heard she was moved out of intensive care.”

  “Even if that’s true, they wouldn’t let you visit. You’re not family, it’s late, and there are police posted there.”

  “Not a problem.” The girl’s smile was definitely impish. “I’ve got skills, remember? In, out. You can’t imagine how many places I’ve done that.”

  “It won’t work. Only staff—”

  “I hav
e scrubs. Swiped them from the hospital that day we met.” She shrugged. “The cops took me to the bus station to get my backpack, so now I have everything I need. They said they’d take me to see her tomorrow, but I’m not going to count on it. Besides . . . I kind of like the challenge.”

  There was nothing Sloane could do but shake her head.

  They said their good-byes and Zoey was gone, leaving Sloane alone with the slim choices of cold oxtail soup, risking TV, or turning out the lights to toss and turn.

  Her phone buzzed—a calendar reminder she’d set weeks back for October 17.

  The State Prison parole board meeting was only two days away. In the current shambles of Sloane’s life, it was the one thing that still felt right.

  She glanced at the messages she’d already seen. Then tapped Play to listen to one last voice mail. Her heart turned over at the sound of Micah’s voice.

  “It’s me again. I just need to know you’re okay. I have to know if there’s anything I can do.”

  She listened to it again, remembering how he’d looked standing at her back door in his crisis team jacket. As the police swarmed in and out, laying bare the ugliness of her past and exposing her miserable mistakes as graphically as the lifeless body on her floor.

  “I wish I were more like you . . . Brave. And really decent.”

  Zoey was so naive.

  Micah wasn’t.

  Sloane closed her eyes, wishing she could forget the things he’d said before it all came crashing down—how he’d called her special and how he’d said they would take their time and get to know each other. She wished she could forget his kisses, the safety she’d felt in his arms, and most of all, the hope he’d made her feel.

  But Micah’s texts, his calls, especially this last one, were because he’d been assigned to cover a tragedy on Ernest Court. Her screwed-up life had become tonight’s crisis call. He’d left that business card at the scene with a jotted message—Call me, please—because Micah Prescott was dedicated and thorough and wanted to know if there was anything left to do. There was. He’d probably already figured it out.