Burned

CONTENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ONE

It would be so easy to kill her.

So easy.

So simple to pass by her on the street, take her breath with the same ease I’d take her wallet. I’ve been on the streets for two years, and I’ve learned how to pick pockets and steal apples, which alleys are safe to sleep in and which ones to stay away from. I know which pizzerias leave their leftovers for the homeless and which ones watch over their garbage with the zeal of a miser guarding his gold.

And I know how to use a knife.

How easy it would be to bump into her. Instead of slipping my fingers into her purse, I’d slide my blade between her ribs, and I would whisper, “This is for Emily and Danny and Emma.”

And she would look at me, startled, shocked.

And I would smile and walk away, leave her bleeding on the streets, the red stain of her life dripping from the smooth edge of my knife.

But I can’t.

I won’t.

Death would be too easy for her. A cop murdered on the streets. She’d get a hero’s burial, and people would cry. The department would decorate her, and the police chief would make speeches about her
sacrifice and loyalty to the people she served
. Newscasters with their helmet hair would use their the-world-is-ending voices and talk about the need for better policing. People would rally for tougher laws. Cops would roust the homeless.

I live with these people.

They’ve been rousted enough.

I won’t bring pain and torment to their already tortured lives.

Besides, if she died on the street, no one would know the truth of her.

The lies of her.

I will not kill her.

She will not die.

Not by my hand.

But.

I.

Will.

End.

Her.

Burn her. Burn her with the same heat she used to set my life on fire, and the orange-red flames that scorched the breath from my family will cauterize her soul.

TWO

Head down, a worn baseball cap covering my hair and sunglasses hiding my eyes, I entered Tron’s, a small family grocery store on East Georgia Street in Vancouver. The electronic bell dinged as I stepped through the door and left the fall sunshine behind me. My gaze flicked to the cashier. This time of day was the best for me, the worst for her.

People rushed in for milk and bread. The line of customers stretched six people deep and irritated-end-of-the-workday wide. In the back, at the
ATM
, was the kid. One look said he’d been born with some kind of genetic disorder. The stocky body
and hands said he’d inherited the dwarf gene. But the larger-than-normal forehead said there was something else going on in his
DNA
. And the way he moved screamed leg surgery. Whether the operation had been an act of mercy or cruelty, I didn’t know. And really, I couldn’t allow myself to care. We all have our sob stories. The way he was dressed said the kid had money, at least; everyone in the store figured he was the usual rich kid, coming at the end of the day to drain his trust fund of some coin.

I knew there was more to him. I had seen the infinity tattoo on his wrist. I’d watched him long enough to know that, trust fund or not, the money he took wasn’t from his account. Maybe I should’ve said something, but I had other things to worry about. I ignored him and, turning from his form, hunched in his private-school blazer, surveyed the crowd. I moved past the doors and kept casing the store. By the chocolate aisle, I focused on a guy with a goatee. One who didn’t know me, but a man
I knew too well. A guy who was about to pay for a bad decision he’d made regarding my friend Amanda.

My gaze went back to the lineup. A man in a business suit glared at his vibrating smartphone, then scowled at the clerk, who gulped and rushed to finish ringing in the current customer.

Perfect.

This cashier was new. She didn’t know to look up every time someone came through the door, didn’t know not to be intimidated by the middle-class and middle-aged. I took my time, pushed up my hockey jersey and stuffed my hands in the pockets of the boys’ jeans I wore. As a girl, I don’t get baggy jeans. As a pickpocket, wearing pants big enough to hold three of me comes in handy.

I got to the candy and started grabbing chocolate bars, breath mints and anything else in my reach. Walking out of a store with a five-finger discount is all about timing and finesse, and I have both.

I overfilled my hands—almost. At the right moment, when the twentysomethingyear-old guy with the goatee walked by me, I twisted, spilling the bars.

He jerked to a stop. Candy and chocolate littered his path.

“Sorry.” I grunted the word, kept my gaze on the floor. Big difference between guys and girls? We chicks love to talk. Man, are we vocal. Dudes, on the other hand, not so much. It took my first year on the street to realize that if I was going to pretend to be a guy, I had to
shut up
.

“No problem,” the man said and gave a short laugh. “You’re hungry, I guess.”

I shrugged. That was the other trick to being a guy. Men don’t explain. They give information, but they don’t give speeches. “Yeah.” The nice thing for me is my voice. It’s already deep. I scooped the chocolate bars into a pile—step one in my con game, with this guy as my victim and accomplice. The man crouched to help.

Perfect.

He blocked me from the cashier’s view, and I’d already positioned myself so my face wasn’t in the camera’s lens. As the man handed me the bars and treats, I made a show of putting some back on the shelf and holding on to a couple of others. I made sure we bumped into each other as he moved to grab a bar and I went to put another back. I mumbled my apology, and he nodded. When he wasn’t looking, I slipped two bars under the leg of my jeans and tucked them into my white tube socks. By the time we were done, I had three bars in my hand. He nodded at me, and I moved off.

Part one, complete.

Part two was trickier. I returned two bars to the shelves, then went to the cashier and waited in line to pay. This was the hardest part. Playing it cool. A few minutes’ wait was all I needed. I gave it a couple of minutes, faked impatience, stuck the bar on the counter and left the store.

The hum of rubber tires on asphalt mixed with the chatter of pedestrians as I stepped into freedom. At the corner I hung a right and found the back entrance to Tron’s. I knocked. Pulling the candy bars out of my socks, I waited.

A few seconds later the metal door opened. Tron was in his mid-forties, with graying hair that was wispy on top and a belly that spoke of home-cooked meals and a comfortable life.

“I wanted to Take Five.” I showed him the first chocolate bar, grinning at my clever use of the chocolate bar’s name in the conversation. “But I was worried I might be a Butterfinger.” I showed him the third bar. “I think I Skored.”

Tron rolled his eyes, turned and ambled down the narrow hall to his cramped office. I followed. The fluorescents buzzed overhead as we squeezed past shelves of inventory. “Did you pay for any this time?”

“Nope.” I slipped my sunglasses off.

He grunted. “Suggestions?”

“Nah. She’s new. She’ll learn, but I’d add another camera by the soda section.” I kept my sentences short, information without explanation. I’d never told Tron I was really a girl. Spending my time pretending to be a boy wasn’t my favorite choice, but changing gender seemed the best way to hide in plain sight.

He grunted again and sat in the ripped office chair. “Usual fee?”

I nodded.

Bending, he pulled a bag of cans from under his scarred desk. “Soup, mostly.” The light in his dark eyes softened. “Maybe a couple of chocolate bars and cookies.”

The girl in me went soggy, but I held to my macho side and nodded.

“The people you collect this for. They’re grateful?”

I nodded.

“Good.”

I left the bars on his desk and grabbed the bag.

He cleared his throat.

Not moving my body, only lifting my gaze, I made eye contact and took in the uncomfortable lines of his body. “Yeah?”

“A couple of months back, you—uh—mentioned this girl you knew.” He stopped, took a short breath. “She was having—”

“A small emergency.”

“Yeah.” He moved his bulk. His round face, and the kindness and softness in him, made him look like a panda cub who’d lost track of where his mother had gone. Tron sighed, then bent and tossed me another bag. “Just in case.”

I didn’t need to open the bag to know what was in it. I could see through the translucent plastic. Feminine items. There was a time his kindness would have moved me to tears. These days, I didn’t think a jumbo jet could move my heart. I said, “Yeah. Thanks.” I turned away from him.

He cleared his throat again. “Uh, you might want this too.” Tron shoved a black box into my hand. “I don’t know what’s
going on with you and this girl, but the streets are no place to raise a kid.” He watched me for a second. “And you don’t seem the kind who’d give up a baby.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” I shoved the box into the bag.

“Listen, buddy.”

I hadn’t given him a name three months ago when I’d first approached him about a deal: I’d occasionally steal from him to show the gaps in his security, and he’d pay me in food. It was a good arrangement. A sliver of clean honesty in the waste and mud that was my life.

“There are shelters, you know—”

I shook my head. “Price is too high.”

Tron knew I didn’t mean money. He sighed. “Look…just be careful, okay?”

I nodded.

“And if you need—if you need anything, tell me.”

Two years on the streets, I’d learned fast not to trust anyone. Kindness always came at a price, and I couldn’t afford the cost.
I liked Tron, but he had an agenda. We all had agendas. The trick was to make sure yours was the one people followed. “Thanks.”

He didn’t push the conversation.

“I just need to grab something.” Leaving his office, I went into the store through the back entrance, to the
ATM
machine. There was a rack of boxed caramel popcorn, covered in dust. I reached for the box at the back, slipped my hand in and pulled out a cell phone. Good. It had recorded everything. I slipped it into my pocket and headed to the door.

Tron followed. If he wondered what I’d done, he was smart enough not to ask.

“Oh.” I turned and dug into my other pocket. “A man dropped his wallet.” I handed him the leather billfold of the goatee guy who’d helped me pick up the candy.

Tron stared hard. “He dropped it?”

“Right in my hands.” I’d made sure of that. One thing I’d learned about being
homeless was to look out for those who looked out for me. Amanda had been my protector and educator for surviving the streets. This guy had used and abused her. No way was I going to let him get away with it.