Broken (3 page)

If there isn’t and if he really is a good guy deep down, then he shouldn’t have anything to do with her.

She knows this and can’t even begin to explain it to him.

After another bout of silence, Kyle finally nods and tightens his lips with a smile. She finds it compelling how comfortable
he seems to be, how secure yet equally sincere. His look says he’s giving in and that he’s okay with giving in.

“You working tomorrow?” he asks.

“All day.”

“Well, you’re lucky then.”

“You’re working?”

“Nope,” Kyle says. “You won’t have me to harass you.”

“I never said you harass me.”

“It’s a joke, Laila. They are designed to make people laugh. Or at least smile. See this? This is called a smile. And sometimes
they’re contagious.”

He’s charming too. She’ll admit that. Not in any sort of fancy way. Just simple, straightforward charm.

“I can see it in your eyes,” Kyle continues. “You’re wanting to smile.”

“I smile all the time.”

“Yeah, but not at me.”

“Smiling at a man can be a dangerous thing.”

“Well, yeah, if you put it that way. You make it sound a bit creepy.”

“They can mistake a smile for something else.”

“I’m Kyle, not the ‘mysterious man’ you refer to. And ‘they’ can do anything. I, on the other hand, think a smile looks very
pretty on your face. It just fits, you know?”

“How do you know what fits me and what doesn’t?”

Laila regrets the biting tone after the words come out. Kyle gives her a peaceful glance. She knows he wants to say something.
Surely he wants to ask something, to probe deeper, but something prevents him.

Maybe it’s his Southern politeness. That could be it.

But then again, maybe it’s because Kyle knows. He might act younger than his age, but perhaps deep down, in places where nobody
usually goes, Kyle knows that there’s something there. And he’s curious, but knows now is not the right time.

For Laila, there will never be a right time.

“I hope you have a good evening,” he says.

“You too.”

He stands and starts walking down the sidewalk. Even his walk seems carefree and light. She watches him disappear down the
city street and finds it interesting that he doesn’t look back. Kyle is the type to turn around and wave and give a flirtatious
smile. But he doesn’t. And that’s another reason for her to find him interesting.

She hasn’t found anything interesting in a very long time.

When is it time to let go?

Walking among the racks in the clothing store and looking at the summer sales, Laila feels guilty as something foreign stirs
in her.

Hope.

It’s been six months since New Year’s Eve when she fled with the fragments of her life from Chicago. Six months of silence,
of being guarded, of keeping a façade, of waiting.

She wonders if it’s time to let go of the reins, perhaps just a bit. She thinks maybe it’s time to stop waiting for the door
to open and bloodshed and hurt to walk in.

Holding up a blouse, Laila thinks this would look good on her. Maybe she will buy this, and maybe she’ll take Kyle up on his
offer.

But as quick as the thought enters her mind, Laila stifles it.

It doesn’t matter if it’s been six months or six years. She doesn’t need Kyle just like she doesn’t need anybody else. It’s
too soon. Too soon to let down the wall and settle in.

Laila thinks of the backpack she found during the weekend and feels a dread smother her caffeine buzz.

“Can I help you out?” a lady asks her.

Laila puts the blouse back and shakes her head, then walks out of the store into the afternoon warmth.

She sees the ghost on the walk home.

At first Laila believes the resemblance is simply coincidental. Not even that. It’s more mental. She’s been seeing images
for some time now. In her dreams—nightmares—whatever they can be called. Sometimes during the day when she closes her eyes,
sometimes simply by remembering. Then last weekend at the church. And now after the conversation with Kyle that somehow triggered
a memory back to the last few hours of last year, the face still haunts her mind.

So seeing that face shouldn’t come as a surprise.

The walk home from the bank is fifteen minutes if she takes her time, less if she’s in a hurry. One of the reasons she took
the job was because of its proximity to her apartment, which she took because of the price. She knew the owner had lowered
the rent simply to have her in his building so he could occasionally maul her with his eyes just like he had the first time
they met. Normally she would have found another, not wanting to deal with some creepy landlord, but she had wanted and needed
a quick and easy transition without many questions or complications.

The crowd downtown is typical. She finds herself slowing down behind a couple strolling, holding hands, looking perfect in
their love. Just as she’s about to pass them, she sees the figure across the street.

Standing.

Looking her way.

And that’s when for a brief second, she knows.

Just like she knew at church.

She turns away and passes the couple. As she does Laila glances across the street.

He still stands there, arms at his side, just staring. Waiting.

That square face and those desolate eyes. They were lifeless before she shot him. And they’re lifeless now.

She can’t shake the fact that the face looks the same. That the figure—tall, lean—looks the same.

Then he smiles at her, and she stops.

The strolling couple almost run into her.

“Excuse me, I’m sorry,” she says, turning around and seeing the amused faces looking at her.

If it had been New York, those faces would look a lot different. But this is the heart of South Carolina, where a walk down
a sidewalk is just that.

Laila turns, knowing the figure will either still be there but look completely different or be gone.

But he’s still there, still smiling, still staring.

Laila doesn’t move.

The man waves.

He waves gently, deliberately. She can see those eyes even though they’re far away from her, can see them probing her with
delight.

A man walking a dog—a big dog, the kind that weighs three times what she might—pulls the dog and its drool away from her.
The leash gets wrapped up around her leg as the friendly mouth brushes spittle across her thigh.

“Hold on there, Harley! Oh, look, I am so sorry about that.”

“It’s fine, really.”

The man doesn’t want to invade her space as Laila delicately tries to step out of the leash.

“Can I get—I’m sorry, he likes people.”

“It’s okay, really.”

“Come on, Harley,” the man says as she pets the dog.

She smiles in a polite way, not feeling like talking. For a moment she glances across the street and this time finds the figure
gone.

Laila continues walking, wondering if she really saw him. She recalls his smile and his wave and knows she saw someone.

She wonders if this is what purgatory is like. A feeling of fear in
every waking moment of the day, feeling that just around the corner a ghoul might jump out and grab her.

The feeling that anything is possible when you take the life of another.

•   •   •

Lex watches the woman smoke the cigarette in a manner that is as natural and necessary as breathing. The image makes him sad.
Her sitting on the couch, legs crossed, wearing a T-shirt and tiny shorts that he thinks might be the clothes she slept in,
her mass of highlighted hair cascading over to one side, her body nervously fidgeting the way a teenager might. She looks
younger than she did when she came up to his table at the wine bar. The eyes that stare back at him may have once been beautiful
and maybe they still are, but they’re hard. They’re hard and unflinching.

“What do you want to know?” she asks.

“What happened to her.”

“It’s been three years. Hell if I know.”

“Three years since you spoke with her?”

“No, since she moved out.”

“And that was the last time you talked to her?”

“No—let’s see—it’s been—I don’t know—a couple years maybe. I think she called me a few times.”

“From where?”

“Last I heard she was in Chicago.”

“Doing what?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Why’d she call?”

The woman seems distracted by something on the table. She takes a drag and stares at him, disbelief shading the pale face.

“You sure you’re not lying?”

“I showed you my license.”

“Got anything else?”

He takes a photo out of his coat pocket and hands it to her. “That was taken when I was seven.”

“How do I know…”

The woman’s face changes in midsentence. She knows. Even though Laila was only ten at the time, the photo leaves no doubt.

“God, Laila’s beautiful. I mean look at her. Even then she was so incredibly beautiful.”

“What was she doing in Chicago?”

The woman hands back the photo. “She was earning a living.”

“How?”

“Does it matter?” She pauses for a moment. “Do you really want to know?”

Lex breathes in and doesn’t answer the question. He’s torn because he fears the answer, just like he fears where this trip
will lead him.

He is afraid, but he knows he has to get these questions answered. Fear has held him back for a long time, but not anymore.

Ever since the unnamed man appeared out of nowhere a couple of weeks ago asking all sorts of questions about Laila, Lex has
known he needs to find his big sister.

Silence is no longer an option.

“I need somewhere to go. Somewhere to start looking.”

“You might not want to go looking around. You might not like what you find.”

“I know that,” Lex says. “Has anybody else come looking for her?”

“No.”

“Did she tell you where she was living? Where she was working?”

“She didn’t tell me anything. It was just high-end. That’s all I know. She was making a lot of money. A whole lot more than
I make. But of course it was Laila. Of course she was making more money. You know? All I know is that she sounded busy.”

“Did she sound happy?”

The woman laughs. “Happy as in how? I don’t even know what that word means anymore, you know?”

“Any names? Anything?”

“No.”

He slips the photo back in his pocket.

“You’re from Texas?”

Lex nods. He left a couple of days ago, flying into New York with only a name and snapshot. He wonders if Jenna is her real
name.

“She never said anything about being from Texas.”

“Guess it wouldn’t really impress anybody, not around here.”

“Why now? Why start looking for her after all this time?”

“Something happened that I need to tell her.”

“What? Like a death in the family or something?”

Lex looks away. “Yeah. Something like that.”

“I can tell the resemblance now. Should’ve come out here when she was living with me. You would’ve had a fun time.”

“Yeah, I know I should have. Lots of things I should’ve done. Hope it’s not too late.”

“Too late for what?”

“For a lot of things,” Lex says again, staring out the window.

He hopes the stranger who interrogated him a couple weeks ago hasn’t gotten to Laila first. There was something about that
man—something unspoken, something unsettling—that made Lex worry. It wasn’t in what he said but how he said it.

Lex knows the man has unfinished business with Laila, just like he does.

My father wanted to call me Isabella, but my mother chose my name. Instead we gave it to the Arabian horse that was designated
mine when I was only ten. Bella was the closest friend I had growing up.

I knew the grit of dirt and sand well, the vast open land of Texas, the emptiness that could fill fenced-in walls. There’s
a loneliness in the country, in the wide-eyed skies, in the desert roads. A loneliness that no city sidewalk can ever fill.

I know because I’ve tried.

And as much as I’d like to write in this journal “I can’t go back. I don’t want to go back,” I hear the winds calling out
for me.

Perhaps the sand and the wind and the open skies call for me.

Perhaps that’s where I’ll end up when my last breath comes and I’m laid into the earth for one last time.

E
ven behind the counter, in dress clothes that don’t stand out and her dark hair pulled in a side ponytail, Laila Torres is
stunning. The kind of stunning that makes you stop and wonder if you’re really seeing what you’re seeing. The kind that makes
men do many, many things, but not things like this.

James waits in line, even letting someone go in front of him. He is not here for any other reason except to speak to her.

It took him six months to find her. A few more moments won’t matter.

He eventually approaches her and glances into delicious, delicate eyes.

“How are you today?” she asks.

“Fine, thank you. And yourself?”

“I’m doing well. How can I help you?”

“I just want to know what it feels like to kill somebody.”

There is a blank look on Laila’s face. No color, no emotion, no anything. And James can imagine she’s given this look before.
That she’s gotten used to stepping out of her beautiful, sleek skin to go somewhere else. It’s protection. It’s her way of
coping.

“ ’Cause see, I don’t really know what that’s like. It’s gotta give you a sense of empowerment, doesn’t it?”

For a moment she glances around, but he’s not talking loudly enough for anybody else to hear.

There is color and emotion in her face now. White fear. That’s what it is, white blazing fear.

“What do you want?”

James nods. She’s smart. And she’s strong. She’s not playing a game. She’s getting right to the point. Again, probably out
of practice. Lots and lots of practice.

“There’s a lot of things I want,” he says.

Those hazel eyes don’t back down.

This is the first time he understands who he might be dealing with. And he can’t help breaking into a smile. He likes her
already. Laila’s a fighter.