For the first time in Carmen’s long, terrible life, she felt what it was to hope. And that’s exactly what Lacie became to her: a promise for a better future, a chance to love and be loved.
True to her word, when her father finally came to pick her up, he somehow finagled Carmen’s release as well, and she didn’t have to lose Lacie after all. They traded their shared room for a shared backseat, and over the years their friendship dove deeper and deeper until the lines began to blur into something else entirely. Carmen spent over a decade with Lacie and Warren on the road, and it was the greatest joy of her life.
She kicks a rock into a tree, watching as it ricochets and falls back to the ground. Carmen knows better than to let memories of Lacie flood through her like this—it’s always a damn struggle to stuff them back down, to lock them back into the mental chest she keeps them sealed tight in. Frowning toward the river, her head pounds against her temples, her throat clenching with thirst.
She wonders if she’s done enough today to deserve another drink, and then almost laughs at the thought. She most certainlyhasn’t—but when has that ever stopped her?
CHAPTER 6
The cheap whiskey burns going down Carmen’s throat, flaring the needling disappointment in how unsuccessful today’s search went. Slamming down the now-empty glass, she signals the bartender for another pour. He eyes her warily, and she doesn’t blame him—not with the way she keeps leaving this bar at the end of the night.
Carmen knows her current level of alcohol consumption is concerning. She hasn’t gone a day without drinking in . . . she can’t even remember how long it’s been. But she finds it difficult to care much about herself these days. Every scrap of energy she has is centered on one purpose,onefucking last task, and she’s losing time.
She reaches for the gold pendant that hangs from her neck, rubbing the pad of her pointer finger along the gold surface and doing her best to tamp down the anger that flares from another shitty day. She’d been so goddamn lucky to discover Cody survived, to find and convince him to show her around the campsite where he and Elijah endured an attack. But what good was a lead if it led nowhere?
The bartender ambles over, thick biceps bursting from the ripped-off sleeves of a leather jacket, resembling a makeshiftbiker’s cut. Tribal tattoos snake across his skin, a foot-long goatee hanging from his wide chin. It’s almost laughable that a man likehimcould run a bar likethisin a town so fiercely opposite in every way. Not that Carmen’s complaining—without this bar, she’d be drowning out her troubles alone in her dark motel room with a bottle scored from the liquor store. At least being at a bar is a more socially acceptable way to get gloriously drunk.
“You closin’ us down again tonight, honey?” the bartender asks.
She pushes her glass toward him. “So what if I am?”
He pulls a bottle from the well below the bar and pours a double shot. “We get all sorts of troublemakers in here.” He shrugs. “Butyou. . . you’re an interesting one. I haven’t seen a girl ever drink Ralph under the bar like you did last night.”
The thought makes her queasy. “Who’s Ralph?”
The bartender looks at her, eyes wide. After a beat, he bursts into laughter. “Shit, sweetheart. Maybe go a little easier tonight, yeah?”
Carmen frowns. “What’s your name?”
“Teddy,” he says.
This surprises Carmen—he doesn’t look like a Teddy. “Well, Teddy, how about you mind your own business and just keep focusing on pouring drinks, okay? I’ll worry about myself.”
He shakes his head, chuckling as he taps a thick knuckle against the bar in front of her. “Got it,” he says. She keeps her narrowed gaze on him as he moves down the bar to help a man who just sat down.
This time, Carmen only shoots half the whiskey in her glass. She knows Teddy’s right, that she should slow down. Still, nothing else quite balms over the never-ending pain that lives inside of her like a fucking drink.
“Sheriff Meyers,” someone calls from down the far side of the bar. Carmen looks to see a familiar old man who was definitely here last night. He’s looking at the man who just sat down, a fresh pint of beer in his hands courtesy of Teddy.
“Frank.” The man dips his head in acknowledgement. Carmen eyes him up and down, taking in his street clothes, the beer. If he’s a sheriff, he’s clearly off duty. Still, she and law enforcement have never gotten on that well.
“How’s Cindy?” Frank asks. “My Martha was just asking after you both.”
“Cindy’s fine,” the sheriff answers. “Please give Martha our regards.”
“Good to hear,” Frank says. “You know, Martha’s been pretty spooked about all the racket coming from that old abandoned factory. We can hear it all through the night from our house.”
The sheriff nods before taking a long pull of his beer, his disinterest written all over his face. “Yeah, we’ve heard a few complaints. A deputy went out a couple nights ago and didn’t find anything, but we’ll be sure to keep an eye on it.”
Frank frowns. “He didn’t find anything? How could that be? It sounds like a damn house party with all the loud music and howlin’ going on through all hours of the night.”
Carmen sits up straighter. She keeps her gaze focused on the whiskey in front of her, trying not to look like she’s listening to every word.
“Maybe we missed them,” the sheriff responds. It’s clear by his tone he couldn’t care less.
“Are you talking about that old eye-sore out on the edge of town?” another man from a nearby high-top asks. When Frank nods, he says, “I heard that place is ‘bout to be torn down to the ground. God-awful structural issues. If someone’s hanging out in there, they’re flirtin’ with quite a bit of danger.”
“Exactly, Dennis,” Frank says, waving a hand out. “I swear, the music alone is probably enough to send those walls crumbling down. It’s too damn loud!”
