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“Up there,” she whispered, her mind caught in the net of the
past.

Jude reached out, turning the music down until it was only a
low drone. Indigo barely noticed. She was focused on counting houses the way
she had as a child, each one alive in the stories they held.

There was the once-pink house with white trim (now repainted
a dull grey), hidden in a forest of elm trees. That was the house where Cody
Palmer had fallen off an upper branch, and his arm bone had torn through the
skin of his forearm. Beyond that was a house which had a yellow, slatted bottom
and a rock-dash top. Indigo and her friend Kelly Leniszek had once picked out
the chunks of glass, pretending they were a pirate’s treasure of sapphires,
emeralds, and diamonds. Two houses down was a house with windows covered in
tinfoil. In Indigo’s mind, this was the house where she and Tatem O’Keefe had
snuck through the Mortenson’s garden, stealing raspberries and eating the
sun-warmed fruit before they could be caught.

Her eyes rose to the end of the street where a small house,
sided in blue, sat neatly back from the curb. Indigo swallowed the stone in her
throat, eyes bright.

“That one up there,” she said thickly.

Jude parked the car two houses away.

“You want me to help you get some footage?” he asked.

Indigo nodded mutely. She couldn’t speak. Not yet.
Everything was too painful now that she was back.
This place
had been
home. Despite all the years that had passed, that had never changed.

She set up the tripod, fumbling as she attached the foot to the
camera, and taking several pans of the street.
Indigo was three, catching
ladybugs while Nan gardened… Indigo was five, walking hand in hand with Poppy…
Indigo was eight, riding her bike in the rain… Indigo was ten, sobbing in the
backseat of a taxicab..
. She stepped back from the camera, breathing hard,
eyes closed as she fought to breathe.

Jude touched her elbow, and she jumped. He was watching her
with concerned eyes.

“Do you want me to get some footage of you reacting?” he
offered.

“No,” she growled, turning off the camera. “This is fine.
I’ve got enough.”

Indigo had just started to break down the tripod when the
front door of the house pushed open. An aging woman with curly orange hair,
fading to grey at the scalp, came down the steps, hands on her hips.

“You there!” she said shrilly. “What’re you doing on my
lawn?”

Indigo’s eyes widened, fear gripping her chest in a vise.
She could feel herself slipping into the
old
Indigo, back to the past
where she didn’t like to go.

Jude strode forward, offering his open palm.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” he said, all gentility and good
humor. “Sorry to bother you, but my friend and I are working on a university
project.” He chattered on, his voice taking on the sophisticated tone Indigo
had noticed the first time she’d spoken to him. “I was wondering if you could
tell us a little about your house.”

The woman launched into a story, talking about her husband’s
retirement from the army, and their decision to move to the suburbs. She
rattled on about children and grandchildren, while Jude oh’ed and ah’ed at her
descriptions. As the story ended, he leaned closer, grinning down at her
mischievously. Seeing it, Indigo realized that Jude Alden was
very
good
at getting his way when he wanted to. He knew exactly what to say to talk
himself through a situation. In that way he was
exactly
like Cal.

“…and I was wondering,” Jude said, “if we could take a few
photos inside.”

The woman looked from Jude, over to Indigo, brows rising.

“Well, I… I don’t know, I mean—”

“My friend here used to live in your house,” Jude explained.
(“Don’t!” Indigo hissed, but no one seemed to notice.) “And if we could just
get a bit of footage, that would really help with the film project.”

“Are you Sherry?” the woman gasped. “I knew your mother. We kept
in touch even after we bought the house.”

Indigo felt the ground fall away. This wasn’t supposed to be
happening.

“No,” she muttered. “I… I’m Sherry’s daughter.”

“Oh my goodness!” the woman chortled, her hand fluttering up
to her chest. “Then you must be Indigo! Your grandmother used to talk about you
all the time before she passed away.”

 “She did?” Indigo whispered. The realization that Nan
was dead slammed into her with the force of a truck. She struggled to absorb
it, to shuffle it into the facts she knew, but nothing would fit in place.

“Yes, honey,” the woman tutted. “Of course, she did.” Her
voice dropped, and she leaned in. “She worried when you ran off. It took a lot
out of her, hearing you’d run away... and then when it happened again. But she
never lost hope you were okay.”

Indigo dropped her gaze to the ground, her voice swallowed
up by more than a decade of lies.
Nan had never given up.
Old memories
began to rise inside her, rattling against the door where she’d locked them
away. She blinked again and again, eyes burning.

“And now you’re back,” the woman breathed, her eyes soft and
maternal. “I’m just sorry your grandmother didn’t live to see it.” Indigo
looked back up. She needed to focus on something else –
‘anything!’
– or
she was going to fall apart. “So yes, by all means, come in!”

She took Indigo’s arm, but she jerked away.

“I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I can’t, I didn’t know. I
just…”

Indigo stumbled backward, panic rising. Jude turned to the
woman, patting her shoulder.

“On second thought,” he said gently, “we should probably go.
We’ve got to drive back into the city and all.”

“Well, it was great to see you!” the woman said, beaming up
at him. “I’m glad you stopped by.”

Indigo walked back to the car on stiff legs, leaving Jude to
gather up the equipment. When she sat down in the seat, she began to shake, her
entire body wracked by tremors. She took slow breaths, forcing the tears away,
fighting the urge to break. Her gaze was lost in the middle distance, the day
reappearing.

Sherry had taken Indigo’s hand, dragging her down the
steps while she cried.

“It’ll be just like home, Indie Baby,” she’d said
anxiously. “You watch, you’ll love it.”

“But I’ll miss Poppy and Nan,” Indigo had sobbed.

She’d wrenched against her mother’s arm, trying to
escape. Unwavering, Sherry had dragged Indigo to the waiting cab, hustling her
inside. The taxi had pulled away and Sherry’d begun crying. Both of them
trapped together.

“You can’t stay here anymore,” Sherry had whispered as
the cab had pulled away from the only home Indigo had ever known. “I wish you
could too, but you can’t…”

The door opened, the sound dragging her back to the present.
She could breathe again, though her chest ached, cheeks flooded with tears.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” Jude said. “I didn’t know.”

Indigo stared at the floor, voice hollow.

“My mother had me at sixteen, and left me with her parents
when she moved out. They were good people, and I loved them, but when Pop had a
stroke, Nan couldn’t take care of both of us.”

“I’m so sorry,”Jude repeated.

“My mother didn’t want to be a mom,” Indigo said wistfully.
“She was young… younger than I am now, actually, when I was sent back to her.
And she just couldn’t handle having a kid.” Jude put his hand on her shoulder,
but she shrugged it off. “I ran away for the first time when I was fifteen,”
she said. “Lived in foster care after they caught me. I hated the family.
Shoplifted and got caught while I was there too. Spent some time in juvenile
detention, and got moved again. Hated that family. Hated them all, but I
couldn’t go home.”

“Sorry.”

He reached out a second time, his knuckles brushing her wet
cheek. Indigo closed her eyes, wondering how crazy it was that Jude reminded
her of her long-dead grandfather.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he said quietly. “I never knew…”

She let out an angry laugh. There was so much more to the
story, she couldn’t even start to tell it.

“The second time I ran away,” Indigo said, turning to stare
out the window. “I made sure I stayed lost.”

: : :
: : : : : : :

It was midday when the impromptu meeting took place. Gina
Cerritos stood before King, an envelope in hand. If it hadn’t been for the
company she kept, one might assume she was on her way to an art gallery. Her
wool suit was haute couture, her shoes special-ordered from Europe from the
same leather shop that served the Queen of England. All elements of Gina spoke
of refinement and culture, and that’s how she thought of her position: as
maintaining a particular caste system. The mob, in one form or another, had
existed since the earliest years of settlement in America, and Gina’s heritage
went back four generations into its history.

“I have the information from Brodie,” she said, placing the
envelope on the desk and smiling at the group that surrounded her. “The
informant is Elliot Baird. He’s a friend of your programmers.”

She smiled at the man behind the desk, only a hint of
distaste in the expression. Her connections here went further than blood ties.
Marriage had once connected her brother, Rocco, with King’s sister, Sonia, but
no longer.

“Which one?” King asked. He didn’t bother to hold her eyes.

Gina’s lips curled down in irritation. With Rocco’s
disappearance, three years before, any pretence of a familial bond between the
two of them had died. Though people might say otherwise, rumor was that King
had ordered Rocco’s death.

“Baird used to be roommates with Jude Alden,” she replied.
“But their association goes back further. I ran a background check this
morning. It turns out the two of them grew up together in Brooklyn. They both
attended the same private high school, though Alden was expelled in his senior
year, and had to finish his coursework online,” she explained. “They’ve lived
together since graduating from college. My guess is they had some kind of
falling out. Jude isn’t living at their apartment anymore.”

“He’s living with Marq Lopez now,” Luca interjected. All
heads turned, and King glowered. Luca stepped back. “Sorry, sir. Not my place.”

King nodded, turning back to Cerritos.

“Keep going.”

“As I was saying, Jude is no longer living with Elliot
Baird. I’m guessing
that’s
what precipitated this. Elliot’s report to
Officer Brodie was mostly conjecture.”

“Meaning?” King growled.

“Meaning he had no names or details,” Gina answered
smoothly. “He’s just a kid with a grudge, making wild guesses about what his
friends were up to.” She gestured to the envelope on the desk. “Brodie has
included a complete report of the conversation.” She gave a catlike smile. “I
could dig up more given a day or two, but I thought you should see this right
away, Tyrone.”

His eyes flicked up, catching the use of his first name.
Gina smirked, flaunting the informality.

After a moment, King tore open the envelope. He shook the
paper into his hand, reading while the rest of the people in the room waited in
silence. His expression grew dark, fingers crumpling the paper.

“This kid already knows more than he should,” he snarled.
Gina’s calm smile wavered as King’s head snapped back up, black eyes flashing.
“Why didn’t you report this sooner?!”

“The information only came in this morning, sir,” she
replied, reverting to deference in light of his anger. “I let you know as soon
as I had the background information.”

“Does anyone else know?!”

“Brodie doesn’t think so,” she said. Her voice had lost the
insouciance of seconds before.

King turned, pointing to the man on his left.

“Patel,” he growled, “go talk to the usuals. I want to know
what the word is on the street.”

“Yes, sir,” he said quietly, stepping away from the group,
and disappearing like a dark ghost.

King swivelled the other direction, smiling malevolently. He
held the paper out.

“Luca,” he said gruffly. “Go teach this talker a lesson.”

“Yes, sir.”

“A lesson?” Gina asked.

“He’s going to work the kid over,” he said knowingly, “but
not kill him. I want Jude Alden to see his friend afterward.”

Gina paled, her thoughts on her brother Rocco.

The drive back into the city passed in uneasy quiet. Jude took
surreptitious glances at Indigo, trying ineffectively to read her mood. She
slumped up against the window, arms wrapped around herself. It was like Indigo
was somewhere else, a shell left in her place.

Jude wanted to say something –
anything!
– to make it
better, but he had no idea what. Barring his father’s death, Jude had led a
relatively cushioned life. Uncertain how to bridge the gap, he focused on
driving, not speaking again until they reached the highway. He had never been
good at talking about his emotions. Growing up, he and his father had connected
through activities: playing basketball and going to the movies. His mother,
absent for most of Jude’s childhood, had talked
at him
, rather than to
him.

That hadn’t changed when fate had thrown her back into his
life.

“Your dad knew something bad was going to happen,” his
mother had explained, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “He knew, but he went
anyway.”

His mother had been sobbing ever since Jude had arrived,
and for some reason that infuriated him even more than her words. She had no
right to grieve him! Not when she’d been the one who left. Not when she didn’t
care.

“What do you mean, Dad called you?” Jude had choked.

“He had a bad feeling when the call first came into the
station,” his mother had explained. “He phoned me on the way down to the docks.
Told me to take care of you if anything happened to him.”