His smile was grim. “I’ll be around, Lily.” He shot a quick glance toward Rose. “There’s no way I’m letting Kokbiel get his hands on that key. So I’ll be back. But you may not be happy to see me.”
EIGHT
I sped through the late-afternoon traffic on my vintage Triumph Tiger, Rose’s arms around my waist and her face pressed tight against my back. There was fear in her grip, and so help me, I was glad. Glad to be scaring my little sister by going too fast on the motorcycle she’d never liked and had always refused to ride.
Because so long as she was scared, she wasn’t Johnson. And so long as she wasn’t Johnson, her touch didn’t nauseate me.
“What are we doing, Lily?” she asked, as I idled at a red light.
“Alice,” I said. “You have to call me Alice. And I told you. I have to make things right with Joe.”
“Oh. Right. I remember.” But her words were fuzzy, as if she was picking over complicated memories. I fought the urge to ditch the bike, pull her into my arms, and promise her that I’d get things back to normal. I couldn’t, though. That was all I’d ever done—make promises. Now I had to act on them.
I reached our shabby neighborhood of run-down clap-board houses with neglected lawns and beer-can yard ornaments. Once upon a time, our house had been tended, our mother making sure the paint was crisp and clean and the plants watered and blooming. A comfy swing with plumped-up pillows once dominated the front yard only a few yards away from a neatly printed sign that announced, The Carlyle Residence—Welcome!
Now the sign was weathered and nearly unreadable, and the swing was stained with rust, the cushions dotted with mildew. The place felt dull and lifeless, and for the first time I was truly happy to have a new life. A new home. Even a new me.
I killed the bike’s engine. “Come on,” I said to Rose.
She dragged her teeth over her lower lip. She was nervous. She was Rose. And I couldn’t be happier about that.
As we walked toward the front door, I wondered vaguely why Johnson had retreated. Had I done something to make him pull back? Could I do it again on purpose?
Not that I had much time to ponder these inscrutable questions. Our house is not a mansion, the approaching sidewalk not a private drive, and we had reached the porch in six long strides. “Will he be home?” I asked, for the first time remembering that Joe had a job. An easy thing to forget considering that, after my mother had died, he’d spent more time on the couch than he had framing houses and installing drywall.
Rose shrugged. “Usually is, ’specially since you died.” Her forehead creased at that, but she didn’t look too freaked.
I grimaced, guilty once again. My decision to go out and kill Johnson that night had affected more than just my life. I’d been selfish, and now I was paying the price. Big-time.
We climbed the steps, and I rapped hard on the door with my left hand. My right hand was otherwise occupied, as Rose had snaked her fingers through mine and was squeezing tight. I understood why; she wanted this. Wanted to leave with me even as much as I wanted her by my side.
Joe hadn’t always been a shit—when he’d married my mom, he was actually kind of cool. I remember him giving me piggyback rides and taking me and Mom for long rides in his convertible.
All that had changed after my mom had died. The Joe I’d liked had been replaced by the Joe who drank. The Joe who sometimes hit. The Joe I would have completely walked away from but for the fact that Rose was stuck living with him, and I’d promised my mother that I’d look after my little sister.
I was beginning to think he’d actually sucked it up and gone to work when I saw movement behind the glass of the front door. Moments later, I could make out his form, distorted through the frosted glass. “Whaddya want?” he demanded.
I cocked my head at Rose, silently giving her the floor.
“It’s me. I’m, um, I’m back.”
The lock rattled, and the door creaked open, revealing Joe in filthy jeans and a stained wife-beater. I’d expected him to at least appear relieved. To look at Rose with concern, silently checking her out for cuts and bruises. She was only fourteen, after all, and she’d been gone for over a day.
He did none of that. Instead, he hocked back a wad of spit, then let it fly into the yard. “You forget your key, little girl?” He swung his head toward me, the motion exaggerated from the drink I could now smell on his breath. He looked me up and down, and I shifted uncomfortably, realizing that it might have been a good idea to change clothes. I was still in grimy jeans, an equally filthy tank top, and my red-leather duster. As a rule, the coat hid the knife I had strapped to my thigh. Right then, though, because of the way I was standing, I could see the hilt peeking out. Joe probably could, too.