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CHAPTER ONE
Cayla
I don’t mind too much that I have to walk for the next month. I’m grateful, actually. I think Mom’s really changing, and it’s wonderful. I can’t say she’s finally over Dad dying but she’s going to meetings and she’s been sober now for nine and a half months. She’s got her license back and she even managed to convince Arthur Lake, her boss, to give her another shot. So, she has her old job back as a receptionist at his law firm, and if that means I have to walk to my college courses and to my kids, I’m fine with that.
My kids.
Babysitting.
I have four families I work for. Monday and Wednesday, I watch Caitlyn and Tommy, two little cuties who are just starting to crawl. Tuesday nights, Mr. and Mrs. Hanson go on a date, and I watch their little rascals, Robbie and Jimmy. Those two are wonderful but wild little boys. On Thursdays, I watch Mary and Minnie, the cutest kindergartners you’ve ever seen. Today is Friday, which means I’m walking over Diablo Ridge on my way to take care of Joey and Helen Winters. Joey’s eight and Helen is six. Their mom works out of town every Friday and Saturday. I’ll be staying at her house until Sunday morning when she gets back.
I miss my dad, and it’s hard not to be just absolutely filled with anger because of the drunk driver responsible for his death. On the other hand, I think I’m happier to have my mom back from the brink than I am angry about losing my dad. I guess I’m also really grateful while she was drinking the last three years away, I got this babysitting gig off the ground. I’m really grateful to Mom’s boss, too. Mr. Lake helped take insurance money to pay off the house and create an annuity. He structured it so the utilities are all paid first and then the rest of the monthly amount is disbursed.
My babysitter kept food on the table and clothes on our back. The rest of the money is in the landfill twenty-five miles outside of town. You can find it in thousands of beer bottles, wine bottles, and booze bottles.
I guess I don’t really need to babysit anymore except that I want to have a very nice contingency savings in case mom relapses. Right now, I have almost five thousand dollars in the bank. I’ll be more comfortable when I have another five.
God, I feel good.
I mean, I still miss Dad but Mom getting her life together changes everything. It’s a wonder I don’t skip as I cross the ridge on the way to the Winters’ house.
Oh, I’m crossing Diablo Ridge, the actual ridge. I don’t mean I’m just making my way through the town, also called Diablo Ridge. The town is built at the foot of the mountains. I guess the ridge, from a geography standpoint, extends for many miles. The part we call Diablo only has an elevation of about a hundred feet and it ranges for four miles, splitting the town in two. When we talk about crossing Diablo Ridge, we mean taking the footpath from one side to the other.
I smile a little bit as I think about the little foibles that all small towns share, like a downtown that is really just an intersection with a few bars and boutiques, an “other side of the tracks” that is rarely any poorer or sketchier than the rest of town and almost never involves railroad tracks, and the tendency to give mundane things exaggerated names: Devil’s Creek, Diablo Ridge, Heartbreak Hill.
That’s just part of the charm of living in a small town. There’s this tongue-in-cheek acknowledgment that nothing is as exciting or special as we pretend it is, but at the same time, it’s special to us because it’s home. The neighbors might be nosy, but only because they really care.
I’m in the middle of these wholesome thoughts when I hear a shoe scuff on the pavement behind me. I turn to see who’s out and see three men I don’t recognize.
Not recognizing them isn’t such a big deal. The town isn’t that small. What is a big deal is that they walk abreast so they cover the entire path and look shiftily around as though making sure they’re not being watched or followed.
I turn my head forward and try to appear casual as I quicken my pace. I’m still a good ten minutes from the Winters’ house, and I’m beginning to feel that the men behind me are up to no good.
My feelings are confirmed when I hear a voice call after me, “Hey, baby! Where are you going?”
I ignore the voice and keep walking forward. A moment later, another voice calls, “Hey, wait up!”
I hear the footfalls quicken and begin to run, but I’m too late. The three men end up in front of me, standing in a half-circle so they block the footpath. They stand close to me, grinning evilly and I feel my heart begin to pound as they catcall me.
“Hey, mama, where you going?”
“Come on, hang out with us.”
“Hey, you ever do ice, baby?”
“You know how to show us a good time, don’t you sweetness?”
“Please,” I whisper. “I don’t have anything.”
“Nothing?” One of them says, stepping closer. “You sure, baby?”
He reaches for me, and I reflexively slap his hand away, prompting laughter from him and the other two. “You can take my wallet,” I say. My voice comes out as a squeak, and I hate that the terror I feel is so obvious in my voice.
“Why would we want your wallet?” one of the others says. “You said you don’t have anything.”
“Oh, she’s got something, all right,” the third one says. “It ain’t money, but she’s got something.”
He smacks my ass and I yelp and try to run. I make it about three steps when I feel arms wrap around me from behind and lift me off the ground. I can smell rotten breath and hear the wheezing breath of my attacker as he says with no more trace of laughter in his voice, “Where are you going, sweetheart? Huh? Where do you think you’re going? You’re going to let us taste that,”—he cups my groin and I whimper and shudder with disgust and fear. “Or we’re going to have to hurt you. You don’t want us to hurt you, do you?”
“Let her go,” a new voice says, a deep and dangerous one. “Or lose that hand.”
