HARDCORE: Storm MC(180)

“Oh, honey. That doesn’t mean you’ll never see her again. She’ll come back for you.” I didn’t believe myself, but it didn’t matter. From the look on Gigi’s face, she didn’t believe me either.





Chapter Thirteen



Lance





My heart sank when I pulled up to Rae’s house. It was so tiny, dirty looking. It made me think of the house I grew up in with my mom. They could have been the same house, with the same dirty siding and the same broken shutters. The same dead lawn. No toys out front.



I looked around. There wasn’t anybody outside, which worked for me. I needed to get inside the house, and I didn’t feel like getting caught doing it. Who would believe the criminal was breaking in to find out where his baby mama disappeared to?



First, I looked around. I decided to go through the back door—less chance of getting caught that way. I stopped at the front window with the broken blinds first, looking in. The house was dark, just like Jamie said it was on Friday. “Where are you, Rae?” I muttered as I looked through the window.



I walked around to the back door, hopping the chain link fence with no problem. The storm door didn’t have glass in it—just an aluminum frame. What was the point? I worked the lock on the wooden door and it opened with no problem. After one more look around to be sure nobody was watching, I went inside. I didn’t think anybody would call the cops even if they did see me breaking in—it wasn’t the sort of neighborhood where people looked out for each other. They knew better than to keep their eyes open. It was easier that way.



The kitchen was tiny, dirty, and pretty much empty. I couldn’t help but look in the fridge to see what was inside, and I scowled when I saw mostly bare shelves. A tiny bit of sour milk. A splash or two of orange juice. Takeout containers, probably empty or moldy—I didn’t have it in me to look inside. The smell was bad enough.



The cabinets were practically bare, too. How did either of them live? I remembered how Jamie told me about the two lunches she would make, one for her and one for Gigi. She probably kept my daughter alive. I would have to thank her for that.



The only other room on the first floor was an open living room, with space for a dining room table. The table was old, scarred, covered in junk—magazines, ads, newspapers, empty cereal boxes. The living room was pretty empty except for the couch and a small TV. There were ashtrays around the place, all full. My stomach turned. I told myself to stop looking around, since all it did was piss me off. I couldn’t help myself, though. I needed to know how my daughter lived.



I walked upstairs. Rae’s room was at the end of the hall. It was like I expected it to be—pretty much empty. Just the necessities. A bed, a small dresser. A bare overhead bulb. I shook my head in disgust.



The only other bedroom on the floor had to be Gigi’s. The door was closed. I turned the knob, closing my eyes. Preparing for what I would see on the other side.



What I found was the biggest surprise I could imagine. It was beautiful. Pink walls, pink sheets and blankets. A TV and DVD player, with stacks of Disney movies on top. Toys, books. That much, she actually tried to give her daughter. Of course, the kid spent most of her time in her room, with mom getting high downstairs. I hardened myself against her again. I couldn’t let myself feel sorry for her or think she gave a damn about the kid. I thought back to the empty refrigerator. If she gave a shit, she should have made sure there was food in the house. That was more important than pink walls and stuffed animals.



I went back to Rae’s room and opened the closet, the drawers. There was hardly anything in there, but was that the norm? Or did she pack up to leave? There was no way to tell, though I thought the room would be a little messier if she left in a hurry. It might have been empty, but it was tidy enough. Unlike the rest of the downstairs, which was a shithole.



I went downstairs. It was obvious she hadn’t been back to the house. The place was dark, dusty. Cold—the heat was off. Was it ever on? I looked around, sad and angry at the same time. She never even told me she had a kid. Like I couldn’t have given Gigi a much better life than she had. It was insulting.



The dining room table caught my eye. There was a stack of mail on it.



I looked at the front door—a mail slot, but nothing on the floor.



She was here. Otherwise, there’d be a pile on the floor.



I went to the table, flipping through the stack. Some of it was postmarked as late as Friday. “Damn it!” I whispered. She had been there over the weekend. Or maybe even earlier in the day.



Underneath the mail was an envelope with a picture of a bus on the front. Greyhound. I picked it up, opening it. It was empty except for a receipt. For a bus ticket.