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She held up her hands in a placating gesture. “No, I just mean it was a nice dick, that’s all. I think I’m going plastic for a while. The real thing just isn’t worth it sometimes.”
“Ain’t that the motherfucking truth.”
My phone buzzed on the nightstand, and I grabbed it, catching Becca’s barely concealed excitement at the sound.
“Is it him?” she asked, scorching closer.
I shook my head. “Just an email.”
I almost set my phone back down before noticing who the email was from.Vicky. I didn’t know a Vicky. I clicked on it.
To:Ava Jade Mason
From: Vicky Doyle
Subject: Swap Notes
Hey, Ava Jade, it’s Vicky from English Lit. I was hoping we could swap notes for the upcoming project like we talked about. Can we meet? I was thinking maybe Sunday morning. I’m not going to be able to help you if you don’t help me. Last chance. I’ll send you the address later! Thanks.
My stomach dropped.
Vicky.
Officer Vick. He was trying to covertly set up a meeting without drawing suspicion.
Crafty fucker, and maybe a bit smarter than I gave him credit for. I had no idea how he got my email address. He was giving me exactly a week to make my decision.
An impossible decision, but one I think I’d already made.
“You good?” Becca asked. “Is it your hag of an Aunt again?”
I clicked off my phone and shook my head. “Nope, just a stupid scam email.”
“Ugh, I hate those.”
Becca jumped up from the bed to check her face in the small mirror on the desk, rubbing a mascara smudge from beneath her eye.
Her phone went off, and she lifted it eagerly, only to frown at whatever was on the screen.
“All good?” I asked.
“Yeah. Just my dad. Asking if I’m coming home for Thanksgiving.”
“Will your mom be there?” I asked, realizing she only ever talked about her dad, never her mom. I assumed they were separated, but I honestly had no idea.
Becca stiffened, swallowing as she turned back to me, a sadness in her brown eyes. “No.”
“Oh, you don’t get along, or?”
“We did,” she said with a somber smile. “Before she died.”
My heart twisted.
“Guess we have that in common,” she pointed out, and it was easy to tell she was trying to play it off like it was no big deal when it was. She immediately began picking at her fingernails, an act I’d come to realize was one of her stress responses.
“You have a dead dad. I have a dead mom. And our other parents are mostly MIA, other than when they want something.”
I hadn’t told her much about my mom. Only that I hadn’t seen her in years, and only heard from her exactly once. A phone call from a payphone asking me to bail her out of jail.
