“This is she.” Instead of speaking louder, she raises her pitch an entire octave higher than usual. “What is it?”
“Mrs. Rutherford, I was about to contact you. Unfortunately, there’s been a problem.”
Halfway to bringing the wine glass to her lips, her hand freezes. “Excuse me?”
My jaw clenches, and I grip the phone tighter.
“Ms. Rutherford is no longer with me. She took off when I stopped at a gas station. I expect she had other plans, seeing as she took her suitcase with her. I’m sorry to relay this, ma’am, and, of course, I won’t accept payment for an incomplete job.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, you’ll be paid. This is my oversight. I should have expected she might run away.” My mom sighs and presses her fingers to her temples. She mutters something else, but I’m not listening.
All I can hear are the same words on repeat.
Ms. Rutherford is no longer with me.
By the time my mom hangs up the phone, anger and anxiety run rampant.
“Well,” my mom says, picking up her glass, “there you have it. The girl is a runaway. I suppose she’ll return when she realizes how good she had it. Hopefully,beforeanyone we know spots her.”
“That’s it? What if she’s hurt? What if she’s in trouble?”
“What would you have me do, Easton? Call the police?”
I don’t mention the fact I already called them on my way here, or that I plan to call them again to tell them she’s now missing. If my mom knew I involved the police, she would only think of one thing: her reputation.
“Do you honestly think they’ll take this seriously? She came from the streets, and she’s almost an adult now. She took her suitcase with her, Easton. This is certainly not her first rodeo. She knew exactly what she was getting into when she decided to act like a delinquent.” She finishes the rest of her glass and mutters, “After everything I’ve done for her.”
“Everything you’ve done? You’ve treated her like she’s nothing since the first day you saw her.” I shake my head in disbelief and toss her phone onto the photo album. “You know what? I don’t have time for this.”
Turning around, I head toward the exit.
“Where do you think you’re going? I swear, Easton, if your answer isn’tschool, we’re going to have an entirely different conversation when you get ba—”
I slam the door behind me.
Maria, balancing a tower of folded towels in one arm, pauses by the stairwell when she sees me heading to the front door.
“Easton.”
I look over my shoulder.
“Por favor.”Concern crosses Maria’s eyes, and she says softly, “Vete con cuidado.”
Be careful. Something Maria rarely tells me, but she’s said it enough I’ve remembered what it means. She’s worried. That makes two of us. After a moment, I nod and yank open the door.
I can’t think straight as I pace to my car, slide inside, and call the police station back. It wouldn’t surprise me if Eva did run away. I’d understand the inclination, even as pain flares in my chest at the thought of her willingly leaving. But none of that matters right now. Until I know she’s safe, nothing else matters. Five minutes later, I hang up and throw my phone onto the passenger seat. Twenty-four fucking hours before they can file a missing persons report. An hour before an officer shows up to get more details in person. Anything can happen in an hour.
I start the car, and my grip on the steering wheel tightens as I pull onto the street. I can still feel the weight of Eva’s frail fourteen-year-old body in my arms when I caught her fall in my backyard. The texture of her hair when I brushed tangled curls from her cheeks. The thumping of my pulse when she looked at me, her harsh breaths slowed, and her body relaxed against mine.
Thehopein her gaze when I promised she was safe.
If she has really run away, there’s one place I know she might go. Somewhere she’s familiar with. Somewhere she has contacts. My knuckles whiten as I get nearer and nearer to The Pitts. I know this route better than I should. But this time, when the buildings shrink and potholes litter the street, I look closely at my surroundings. Closer than I ever have.
A few women loiter at the corner, and I slow slightly. Two of them look old enough to be my mother. Their cheeks are sunken in, and a cigarette hangs idly between one woman’s lips as she watches me. She winks, and her heavy-lidded gaze slides appreciatively along my car. When I shift my attention to the third, something unsettling stirs in my stomach. She barely looks like a woman at all. Her eyes are hollow, like she’s seen more than anyone should in their life, and the pregnant swell of her stomach is a watermelon on her bony limbs. She can’t be older than seventeen. The same age as Eva. My jaw tightens, and I avert my gaze before passing them completely.
Time stretches, suffocates any hope from my lungs, as I weave through streets I’ve never seen. I circle block after block, ignoring threatening stares from leering men and provocative calls from eager women.
There’s no sign of her.
