Page 74 of Hooked on Trouble

Genius, Shay writes. Come shopping with me. Lily’s organizing flowers, and I told her I’d take care of the centerpieces. We can talk bachelorette party.

My Saturday afternoon plan consists of snapping enough photos to neutralize the images of Nico crowding my brain. Time with Shay might prove more successful, and I can still bring my camera.

We decide where to meet, then I pull out the boxes from my closet—two left from my move. I drag them by the couch and sit on the floor. I leaf through the items: a cubist sculpture I made in high school, my first sketchbook, and the squished fishing hat Shay gave me that reads Bite Me. Underneath the memorabilia is my coveted camera and a few rolls of film. I rescue them and frown at a white box below. An unfamiliar white box.

I’m about to pull it out when thumping comes from my front door.

Hope floods me at the sound, irrational in its force. Maybe Nico has changed his mind. Maybe he’s stopped being such a pigheaded man and has decided helping me isn’t a big deal. That leaving me was the worst decision he’s ever made. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Scrambling to my feet, I reach the door in six long strides. When I swing it open, my hope sinks like a rock.

The man who was at my apartment a while back is shifting from foot to foot. The one Rose wouldn’t talk about. He scratches his neck and sniffles up a storm as his gaze darts over my shoulder. The November air is cool and damp, but a sheen of sweat beads on his upper lip. His bloodshot eyes are visible this time, as is the pallor of his gray skin. Again, his familiarity itches at me. Again, I come up short. But the unease I felt the day I saw him here returns. Tenfold.

“Rose around?” he asks.

The second he opens his mouth, it clicks. No, not clicks. The gravity of awareness crushes me with dread. His gapped teeth poke out, teeth I remember seeing outside the shelter the day I found Rose. The creep with the shaggy hair and hard eyes. Rose was awkward and distant that day, until this man appeared with his wife beater and gapped teeth, and she hugged me, facing him. She sang a different tune after that, a tune that included claiming she didn’t know the man.

I shift back and close the door an inch, enough to slam it shut if need be. “Rose isn’t here. She doesn’t live here anymore.”

He winces as if I’ve slapped him, then he mumbles to himself and pulls his hair so hard I’m surprised he doesn’t yank out a chunk. “Maybe she’s got some stuff still here, left behind? I don’t need much. Just enough to get by tonight.” He sinks his hand into the pocket of his hoodie and emerges with a handful of crumpled bills. “Just enough for the night. Just to get by,” he repeats.

No. No. Oh God, no. Bile collects in my throat, and I almost heave. He’s looking for a score. At my apartment. The apartment he visited recently and left clutching a white box like the one I just found. Holy fucking shit. “There’s nothing here,” I shout and slam the door.

I double lock it and press my forehead to the cold wood as the implication sinks in. Rose took my charity and thanked me and told me how happy she was, then she used my place to sell drugs. Am I that naive? Was it all an act? I’ve met with her lawyer, tried umpteen times to set up meetings to see her, but she’s frozen me out. With each rejection, I cursed Nico. If he had only said yes, if he trusted me and believed in my sister, she wouldn’t be in jail.

Failing her has saturated me with misplaced guilt.

My shock hardens into red-hot anger, my pulse raging as I stomp over to my living room. I yank out the white box and kick the rest away, then I fall onto the couch and drop the offending package on the coffee table. I fold my arms and stare at it. The thing taunts me like a time bomb, tick tick ticking toward a truth I loathe to face. Praying this isn’t what I think it is, but knowing better, I pick it up and slice my black thumbnail under the taped edges. I lift the top.

And whimper. It’s a wretched sound, weak and shaky.

Tiny crystals are tucked inside, a neat Ziploc full of treachery. It screams sucker, chump, and a thousand insults I deserve. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. I can’t piece through her lies, can’t even decipher what was real and what wasn’t. She used me. My home. My love. My need to have her in my life. My guilt over the dragonfly brooch.

And I let her.

If I’d remembered why that guy was familiar, I wouldn’t be here now. If I’d listened to Nico, I could burrow into his arms instead of wishing I could sever mine. I drop the bag and jump to my feet, practically hyperventilating. God, I wish I could scream at her and tell her this is worse than anything our parents ever did. Worse than the neglect. Worse than the sting of my father’s backhand across my cheek. This is betrayal of the soul.

Since I can’t scream at her, I simply scream. Once. Loudly. So forceful my throat burns. The aftermath is cathartic. Briefly. Until I remember Nico and everything I messed up. I lost him in defense of a liar. He was right to look at me with disdain. I opened my door to Nikki. Let her into my apartment. That creep could have returned that day. The sight of him could have dragged her back to a time she struggles to forget. Rose could have sensed Nikki’s history, read into the dark circles always cradling her eyes. Seen her as an easy mark.

Every concern Nico had about me could have come to life.

I pace a hypnotic rhythm, fisting my hands and flexing my joints. There has to be a way to make this right. Apologize to him, admit I was wrong—oh, so wrong—and get these drugs and any memory of my sister out of this house. Shaking out my hands, I take a deep breath, then a few more.

Panic won’t help me. I need a plan.

If Nico’s not working today, he’ll be at the rec center; Saturday afternoons are always busy there. But I have a key to his apartment. He gave it to me when Rose moved in. An escape, he’d said. If only I’d listened. He hasn’t asked for it back, and I haven’t offered. Hope, maybe? Neither of us ready for this to be the end?

I practically dive into the kitchen and wrench a notepad from the drawer. Taking my time, I write him a letter, each word thick with remorse: what Rose did, my fear of losing the only family I had, how blind I was. How sorry I am. The last part blurs with moisture from my tears. What if he says no? I fold the paper, stuffing my hope and heart in an envelope, then I tape it to the offending box. Instead of canceling on Shay, I text that I’ll be late. There’s no way I’ll survive alone this afternoon.

* * *

The second Shay sees me, her already large eyes pop wide. “Are you okay?”

I must look as horrible as I feel. “Nope. Not okay.”

We’re in Chinatown, pedestrians brushing against us as they hurry by. The day is as gray as my mood, the stores packed with spices and piled vegetables, exhaust billowing from the traffic. Shay grabs my wrist and drags me into the nearest restaurant, a small place with barbecued ducks hanging by their feet, their reddish-orange skin glistening in the window. We sit at a small table against the wall.

“Is it Rose or Nico?” she asks.

I cradle my purse on my lap, needing something to grip. “Both.”