‘Your Sugar sounds like a proper bossyboots. But maybe he’s got the right of it. Start digging and who knows what creepies you’ll unearth.’ She pulls in a strong lug of her re-lit joint. Smoke spiralling prettily from her mouth, she finishes with, ‘It might change you forever. I stopped looking back into the past a long time ago. I got sick and tired of the interiors of rabbit holes. Nasty places. No more being dragged into the dark for me. But,’ Miriam adds, holding the joint up to emphasise what she’s about to say, ‘finding your mother is important to you. I get it. And I get that Dad may not be able to do that, so if I was in your shoes I’d go for it. I’d start looking into who those four women are.’
‘But I promised Sugar—’
‘Promises are made of glass, darling; they’re meant to be broken.’ She pulls in smoke. ‘Plus, Sugar may be your adoptive dad but you aren’t a kid. Make your own decisions. He needs to respect that.’
Should I listen to Miriam? Or should I keep my nose out of this business?
Hope.
Amina.
Sheryl.
Veronica.
The Good Knight.
Was baby Eva meant to die?
This is my business. Determination steels my spine. If Sugar won’t tell me what’s going on I’ll have to find out for myself.
My phone pings. It’s a text message from my manager, Janice Baker:
The lawyer is working out brilliantly.
What lawyer? I frown. I haven’t got a clue what she’s talking about. And now’s not the time to find out. As I put my phone away something catches my attention on the TV; it’s Sugar’s friend, John Dixon, speaking. He’s wearing all the regalia of a police uniform. And if I’m not mistaken he’s a very senior cop. Then his title comes up at the bottom of the screen: Commander John Dixon.
It shocks me a little. I thought that Sugar was done with the police, including all the people he worked with at the time. Then I recall the uniform in his room. Was Sugar asking this top cop to re-open an investigation if Sugar supplied a new piece of evidence? A case about four missing black women from nearly thirty years ago?
Miriam scoffs in utter disapproval at the screen. ‘It’s about time they let that girl rest in peace,’ she says.
My head whips away from John Dixon’s face to hers. ‘Who are you talking about?’
‘Poppy Munro.’
The infamous case of a young, white woman who disappeared in 1994.
‘It’s yet another documentary about her disappearance twenty-eight years ago,’ my half-sister continues disapprovingly. ‘I think this one’s called “Poppy: What We Now Know”， but you can bet there’s not one stitch of new info on this garbage. It’s just another cynical chance to rehash her tragic story, turning her life into some snuffed-out porn flick for our Thursday evening family entertainment.’
I think the porn-movie reference is a bit harsh, but has Miriam got a point? Every couple of years there’s a new programme or headline on poor Poppy’s disappearance. God, how do her parents stand it? Then again, it’s the price they have to pay to keep her name alive in case it jogs someone’s memory.
‘If you want my support helping find your mother’ – Miriam grabs my attention from the screen – ‘I’m here.’
‘Would you have the time?’
Miriam takes a final drag on the joint. ‘Let’s just say I’m in between jobs.’
The thin ice that lies between me and my blood relatives cracks. For the first time I’m so grateful for my new family. Danny will be using his contacts to find my mother and I will be pursuing finding her from a different angle. I’m going to start looking into what happened to Hope, Amina, Sheryl and Veronica.
CHAPTER 14
‘A crowbar?’ Joe splutters. His mouth flaps and gapes like an abandoned fish on the shoreline.
I’m sitting at the breakfast bar while he paces. And paces. Joe is usually Mr Uber-calm, the rational one that sees things from all the angles before making a decision or judgement.
He hunches down beside me, his brow furrowed. Gently, Joe tips up my chin to look at the welts on my throat. Wincing, he growls, ‘It looks sore.’
Anger vibrates through his fingers as he runs them over the skin on my neck. I clasp his hands in mine. I hate seeing him like this. Our eyes meet. I recall how we laughed when we shared his DNA test results, jokingly calling himself the whitest dude in town. I wrap my arms around him, nestling his head into the soft comfort of my belly. I close my eyes. Breathe. A moment of peace with the man I love.