Construction beats the hell out of every other job I’ve had.The pay’s better, for one thing, andthere’s something satisfying about building something that stays when everything else in my life is temporary. I focus on the burn in my shoulders and keeping the screw gun straight, and not on howheavymy phone feels in my pocket. I bet if I check my email right now, my inbox will be full of reporters desperate for their annual update on the sole survivor of the Callahan Family Murders. What is Stanley Daniels’s only surviving victim doing today? Where is she now? If they really want to know, they should check the ShopRite parking lot.
At lunch, Ray finds me with a brown paper bag. I peek inside to find an honest-to-God deli sandwich in wax paper. The smell hits me: pastrami, provolone, and whatever vinegary concoction DiNapoli’s puts on their specials.
I try not to look as pathetically grateful as I feel. “Thank you.”
Ray turns away before I can say something else or,God forbid,get emotional over deli meat like an unstable girl.
I find Tio sitting on the curb by himself. He’s an older guy—in his seventies, maybe?—and my friend, even though we’ve never had an actual conversation. His English is about as good as my Spanish, which is to say nonexistent, but he always says hello in the mornings and helps me when I need it. I never see him bring lunch, so every day I’ve been giving him half of mine.
I drop onto the curb next to him and hold out half my sandwich.
“Para ti?”I say, which is probably wrong, but he takes the sandwich, and we eat together on the curb.
Once I’m done eating, I let Bob out and walk him around for as long as I can until the end of my lunch break. When I get back to work, that sandwich sits heavy in my stomach, like my body forgot what that amount of food feels like. The screw gun feels twenty pounds heavier, each shot sending vibrations up my arm as I secure drywall to the metal framing. My hands are shaking a little, but I force them to be steady.
I’m so focused on not messing up the measurements that I don’t notice someone watching me until a low whistle cuts through the noise.
“Careful with that thing.”
I turn to find Dylan standing in the doorway and roll my eyes.Dylan is an electrician for the company wiring this building, so he’s been working here for the past two months. He’s twenty-two with copper hair and forearms corded with muscle that look really good when he’s carrying big coils ofwire, which is why I keep making terrible decisions. But he has an actual apartment with an actual shower that he sometimes lets me use after we’re done with the only thing we’re okay attogether.
I line up my next shot, focusing on getting the screw placement right. “I am being careful.”
He pushes off the door frame. “You get my text?”
Yep. He sent it at one o’clock in the morning. I saw the textbetween nightmares.
“You do realize‘uup?’ is the mating call of the desperate fuckboy, right?” I snap, then immediately cringe at myself. Just because I’m having a bad day doesn’t give me a free pass to be a jerk to him. “Sorry, today is just not a good day.”
He moves closer, reaching for my hip. “Lucky for you, I can turn it around.”
I glance toward the doorway where other crew members are passing by, and I give them what I hope is a normal “nothing to see here” smile before spinning back to Dylan. “Could youbeany louder?”
“You could be,” he says. “Based on recent evidence.”
My face feels so hot with shame that I bet even the tip of my nose is red. Dylan drops a hand to my lower back, and I do everything I can to ignore the treacherous heat blooming low in my stomach.I don’t like that my body responds so easily to him.I don’t likehim. He’s not nice to me, but it’s true his hands are the closest thingto oblivion I’ve found without chemical help.
“You seem like you need a distraction,” Dylan says. “Want to come over tonight?”
I open my mouth, not sure if I’m about to say yes or no, when he adds, “Unless you got plans with Bill.”
I step back, and his hand falls away. “His name is Bob.”
“Doesn’t matter, that dog hates me anyway,” he says, and I want to shoot the screw gun in his face. I spend so much time with Dylan, and he doesn’t care enough to even remember Bob’sname?
I guess he doesn’t spend much time with Bob. Dylan won’t allow Bob inside his apartment. I wrap Bob in my sleeping bag and go upstairs with Dylan for a couple of hours before coming back to my car to sleep, changing parking lots so Dylan doesn’t figure out my living situation.
“I’m just saying, you could stay over if you want,” Dylan says. “Actual bed. You’re welcome to it. Well, you’re welcome to me, and the bed comes with the package.”
My laugh comes out sounding breathy and forced. Ray doesn’t know, but somehow,Dylanfigured it out?
Ray hasn’t told any of the guys my real last name. The construction worker demographic isn’t exactly known for loving true crime, but still, I asked Ray to keep my identity a secret to avoid anyone leaking to a journalist that I’m working here.
Dylan doesn’t know the truth about my family’s murders, but hedoesknow they’re dead. I’ve always known in the back of my head that all it would take is one recommended news story about the murders popping up in his Facebook feed for him to figure out who I am, which could happen, especially since my phone number is in his phone, so Facebook knows we know each other. If he does find out who I am, I hope he cares enough about me not to sell me out, but deep down, I don’t know how much I believe that.
I’ve successfully avoided any reporters or podcasters ever since I aged out of foster care. I could always change jobs if they found me here, but now that Dylan knows about me living in my car… I’d prefer to avoid any big stories coming out about me being homeless.
“I have my own bed,” I say, but my voice comes out too defensive, and he smirks.
