Needy Little Things(23)
CHAPTER 9
We pull up to the precinct and Jude’s mother is by the car before he can even get the door open. She pulls him into a hug, then steps back and grabs his chin, looking him directly in the eye. “Everything is going to be okay.” She glances at me, then looks back to her son. “Come talk to me for a minute.” She leads him by the wrist, both disappearing behind an overgrown bush.
Mama waits for me by the door. She’s working a night shift and should be asleep right now, and it shows in the form of dark circles under her eyes. She has no words of encouragement for me, but I don’t need them. She’s here. I know how hard it is for her to get out of bed some days, but she’s here. That’s enough.
Once Malcolm and his mother arrive, we all go inside together. Ms. Jasmine is in the lobby speaking with an officer but stops midsentence when she sees us. Her eyes narrow, and she charges straight for us, teeth bared. The aggression is jarring. She wasn’t like this last night.
“I ought to beat each and every one of y’alls asses!” she screams, jabbing a finger in our faces. A few people in the waiting area gasp as the officer grips her shoulder, easily holding back her small frame. She’s sweaty and shaky like she exercised on an empty stomach, but the only need coming off her is for painkillers. I don’t offer any. There is nothing in Santa Bag that could ease her pain.
“How could you leave my baby out there?” Ms. Jasmine cries. I don’t know if it means something that she looks directly at me when she says it. “How could you leave her all alone?” She begins to outright wail. Maybe it’s my own defensiveness, but there’s something off about it. Something put on.
“They found blood out in them woods,” she sneers in between sobs.
“Blood?” My mouth forms the word but no sound escapes my lips. “B-blood?” I stammer.
Jude’s skin takes on a grayish hue as the officers usher Ms. Jasmine down the hall.
“Still want to convince them she ran away?” Malcolm asks with a nasty scowl. His voice is like nails on a chalkboard, instantly enraging me.
“Shut the hell up, Malcolm. Shut—”
“Hey!” our mothers scream all at once.
Mrs. Hawkins gets in her son’s face. “We ain’t doing that. Not now. Not ever. Go sit your ass down. All of you.”
We take a seat on the old orange terry cloth chairs, our heads bowed in shame.
Mrs. Hawkins straightens her shirt. “Now, I didn’t want to mention it at the house because I didn’t want to get y’all worked up before we know all the facts. Yes, they found some blood. We don’t even know if it’s hers, but even if it is—babies, it wasn’t much. You hear me? Not enough to start catastrophizing.”
No one speaks.
“I said, do you hear me?” Mrs. Hawkins’s tone is even sharper now.
“Yes, ma’am,” we all mumble.
“What we not gon do”—she pauses to look at my mom and Jude’s mom—“is tolerate y’all fighting among yourselves. You think Deja wants that? Huh? You think that’s helpful?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I’m sorry,” Malcolm whispers to me, head still bowed.
“Me too,” I say, even though I don’t feel ready to.
We all sit in silence for over half an hour before two different detectives come out. One takes Jude, the other takes Malcolm. Their mothers go with them and I’m left waiting. I get one last glimpse of Jude’s red, irritated hand before he disappears into a private room.
I want to believe Jude’s story, but I’d be lying if what Ms. Jasmine said didn’t arouse new suspicion in me. I take out my phone, careful to angle it so Mama can’t see, and deep dive into Google searches about pepper spray and poison ivy. A small bit of relief washes over me when I read that Malcolm was right about how long the effect of pepper spray lasts—until I find some images on Reddit of someone who had an allergic reaction to it. The pictures are indistinguishable from a reaction to poison ivy. People in the comments even suggest the original poster made up their story about pepper spray and rolled around in the woods somewhere.
I switch gears, this time typing Jude Abrams into the search bar. Of course, I get nothing. His name isn’t unique enough. I try Jude Abrams Florida. There’s an obituary for someone named Desiderio Moreno. The Google preview says he leaves behind his sons, Joaquin and Elian Moreno, his daughter-in-law Evie Abrams-Moreno, and his grandson Jude Moreno.
I know this is Jude’s family. Coincidences don’t come in this size. But it doesn’t have to mean he is hiding some horrible secret. His parents are probably divorced. Maybe it was ugly and he wanted to take his mom’s name. Or maybe not. I erase Abrams from the search bar and replace it with Moreno. There’s a hit on a Jude Moreno in the news section. An article about some school fight gone wrong. But it was in Texas, not Florida. My thumb hovers over the link, but before I tap it, Detective Habib calls my name. I wonder how odd it is to be relieved by his timing. To be more eager to discuss Deja’s disappearance with a detective than to potentially uncover some ugly truth about my new friend. A new friend I never asked for, but one my brain—with no good reason—has categorized with the unrivaled likes of Malcolm, Tessa, and my need-silent family.