Her mind wandered back to the lethal cornucopia of drugs in her backpack. Meeting Kurt Cobain would be amazing, but her desire for self -harm had passed. Or at least had simmered down to her usual quest for self-harm, the kind that didn’t end in certain death, only possible death, and then maybe she could be brought back so why not bump it up a little more, right? The police would come in time, right?
What Callie wanted tonight was to take a long shower and curl up in bed with her pigeon-snacking cat. She had enough methadone to get her through the night and out of bed in the morning. She could sell on the way to work. Dr. Jerry would have a heart attack if she showed up before noon anyway.
Callie was smiling when she turned the corner because she seldom had an actual plan.
“’Sup girl?” Trap was leaning against the wall smoking a joint. He gave her the once-over, and she reminded herself that he was a teenager with the brain of a five-year-old and a grown man’s potential for violence. “Got somebody looking for you.”
Callie felt the hairs go up on her neck. She had spent the majority of her adult life making sure that no one ever looked for her. “Who?”
“White dude. Nice car.” He shrugged, like that was enough of a description. “Whatchu got in that backpack?”
“None of your fucking business.” Callie tried to walk past him, but he grabbed her arm.
“Come on,” Trap said. “Mama told me to collect.”
Callie laughed. His mother would kick his balls into his throat if he took a cut off her piece. “Let’s go find Wilma right now and make sure that’s true.”
Trap’s eyes got shifty. At least that’s what she thought. Too late, Callie realized he was signaling someone behind her. She started to turn her body because she could not turn her head.
A man’s muscular arm looped around her neck. The pain was instantaneous, like lightning striking down from the sky. Callie’s hips jutted forward. She fell back against the man’s chest, her body levering like the hinge on a door.
His breath was hot in her ear. “Don’t move.”
She recognized Diego’s shrill voice. He was Trap’s fellow meth freak. They’d smoked so much crystal that their teeth were already falling out. Either one of them alone was a nuisance. Together, they were a breaking news rape-and-murder story waiting to happen.
“Whatchu got, bitch?” Diego yanked harder on her neck. His free hand slipped under the backpack and found her breast. “You got these little titties for me, girl?”
Callie’s left arm had gone completely numb. She felt like her skull was going to break off at the root. Her eyes closed. If she was going to die, let it be before her spine snapped.
“Let’s see what we got.” Trap was close enough for her to smell the rotten teeth in his mouth. He unzipped the backpack. “Damn, bitch, you been holdin’ out on—”
They all heard the distinctive click-clack of a slide being pulled on a nine-millimeter handgun.
Callie couldn’t open her eyes. She could only wait for the bullet.
Trap said, “Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m the motherfucker who’s gonna put another hole in your head if you assholes don’t step the fuck off right now.”
Callie opened her eyes. “Hey, Harleigh.”
5
“Christ, Callie.”
She watched Leigh angrily dump the backpack onto the bed. Syringes, tablets, vials, tampons, jellybeans, pens, notebook, two library books on owls, Callie’s dope kit. Instead of railing against the stash, her sister’s gaze bounced around the dingy motel room as if she expected to find secret stashes of opium inside the painted concrete block walls.
Leigh asked, “What if I’d been a cop? You know you can’t carry this much weight.”
Callie leaned against the wall. She was used to seeing different versions of Leigh—her sister had more aliases than a cat—but the side of Leigh that could pull a gun on a couple of junkie teenagers hadn’t reared its head in twenty-three years.
Trap and Diego had better thank their fucking stars that she was carrying a Glock instead of a roll of cling film.
Leigh warned, “Trafficking would put you in prison for the rest of your life.”
Callie stared longingly at her dope kit. “I hear it’s easier for bottoms inside.”
Leigh swung around, hands on her hips. She was wearing high heels and one of her expensive ladybitch suits, which made her presence in this shithole motel somewhat comical. And that included the loaded gun sticking out of the waistband of her skirt.