I forced a jerky nod. I did not want to have a problem with him. “Got it.”

He stared at me a moment, and then his gaze narrowed over my left cheek. “You’re Mona’s kid, aren’t you?”

I didn’t answer because I wasn’t sure if that would mean I’d have a problem with him if I did.

“Shit sucks for you,” he said, and then dropped his hand. Greasy Guy climbed the stairs.

Against common sense, I followed him up the stairs and into the loft bedroom—my old bedroom. Greasy Guy knew what he was looking for. He went straight to the closet and ripped the door open so hard I was surprised it didn’t come off the hinges. Then he dropped to his knees and leaned into the tight space. Holding my breath, I crept behind him, debating if I should go for the lamp on the nightstand and knock him out.

Greasy Guy reached in, brushing shoe boxes out of the way, and then I couldn’t see what he was doing when he grunted and jerked back. He tossed a piece of the wall aside—a piece that had been cut out, which probably hid a cubbyhole.

Oh no.

“Fuck yeah,” Greasy Man breathed as he scuttled back out of the closet, stumbling to his feet. “Jackpot. Motherfucking jackpot.”

I didn’t want to look, but I had to. Greasy Guy was holding, not one, but at least eight Ziploc bags in his hands—bags full of something off brown that reminded me of clumpy brown sugar.

“Oh my God,” I whispered.

Greasy Guy didn’t hear me. He was staring at the bags in his hands like he was seconds away from ripping one open and shoving his face into the crap.

My knees felt weak. There had been drugs in the house, drugs hidden in a secret spot in the closet of my old bedroom. Not pot or something else relatively harmless, but something I bet was real bad and real costly.

Greasy Guy seemed to forget that I existed, which was okey-dokey fine with me. He headed down the stairs, and then a few seconds later, I heard the front door slam shut, causing me to jump.

I don’t know how long I stood in the bedroom, staring at the open closet door before I forced my feet to move. I went downstairs and into the bedroom, dragging my cell phone out of my purse. My hand shook as I called Clyde.

He answered on the third ring. “You okay, baby girl?”

It was late, and he was probably still at the bar. “Some guy was here.”

There was a pause, and then his voice got real low and real serious. “What happened?”

I told him everything in a rush, and then he told me to make sure the door was locked—good point—and to hold still. He was coming over. There wasn’t anything he could do now, but I appreciated it. Admittedly, I was freaked-out. Way freaked-out.

I made sure the closet door in Mom’s bedroom was closed, reapplied my makeup even though it was only Clyde, and then the next twenty minutes or so, I sat on the couch, clutching the phone to my chest until there was a quick, loud knock on the front door.