I didn’t tell my mother about Jenna. It’s not as if I’ll ever see her again.
But as the day goes by, I can’t stop thinking about her. The thought of holding her in my arms, feeding her a bottle, doing all the things her mother used to do for her.
In the evening, my mother and I eat pizza together, and after we watch the news, she falls asleep on the couch next to me.
My eyes land on her phone. I pick it up. There’s someone I need to call.
I left my phone at the ranch. The cops took it in as evidence. I didn’t get a chance to buy a new one. Since I’m calling from my mother’s phone, Carmen will not recognize the number. She will hopefully answer the call.
I don’t want to disturb my mother, so I take the phone with me to my room.
I sit on the bed with the phone in my hands, trying to gather up the courage. When I feel brave enough, I enter the six digits of my mother’s password. 121212. She has used the same password since I was a child. My father had urged her to get a stronger password, but she was too paranoid about forgetting it and locking herself out of her phone.
I know Carmen’s number by heart. I’ve called it enough times. And now I type it in with shaking fingers. At first, the phone rings for a long time, then when I think no one will pick up, her voice comes over the line.
A baby is crying in the background. My tears come so suddenly that when Carmen asks who it is, I’m too choked up to speak.
I hold the phone to my ear, listening to Jenna. She’s not crying from pain or discomfort. It’s a hunger cry. Carmen might not know her different cries, but I do.
“Feed her,” I finally say and hang up.
Holding the phone tight, I bring it to my chest and keep it there for a moment. I almost drop it when it beeps.
Thinking it’s Carmen telling me to stay away, I open the message and skim it.
I want my money. You have until tomorrow to pay up. If not, I’ll tell the cops that you killed that girl.
* * *
When my mothercomes looking for me, I’m sitting in the same spot I have been in for over thirty minutes, still holding the phone.
Her eyes linger on my face, then move to the device in my hands.
“My phone,” she says, rushing to the bed. “I was wondering where it went.”
I hand it to her, my eyes never leaving hers. “You received a text.”
“Oh, great. I’ll... I’ll read it.”
“No need.” I get to my feet. “I already read it. I can tell you what it said.”
She puts on a brittle smile. “Okay. What did it… Was it your aunt?”
“No. It was someone who said you killed a girl.” I blow out a breath. “What does it mean, Mom? Which girl did you kill?”
“I didn’t.” She fumbles with the phone, probably looking for the message. Her entire body tenses up when she reads it. When she looks back at me, the fear in her eyes is gone and anger has replaced it. “You have no right to read my personal messages.”
“I didn’t mean to. I wanted to make a call, but—”
“You don’t understand.” She goes to the window and opens the blinds as though she’s looking for something outside, then after a few seconds she turns around and meets my eyes. “You will never understand what a mother goes through when they think their child is unsafe.”
“Who did you kill, Mother?” I ask, blood roaring in my ears. “What does that message mean?”
“It’s nothing. Just a joke.”
“Don’t lie to me.” My voice is hard. “You’ve lied to me long enough. What is going on?”
“I didn’t kill anyone.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “I didn’t do it.”
