“Hallie, wait.” I reached forward and snagged at the sleeve of her sweatshirt, but she pivoted away from me.

“I can’t. I have to go.”

I watched her walk away, her eyes on the sidewalk. Frustration pounded through me, and I could feel the part of me that belonged to my mama wanting to race after her and grab a handful of her red hair in my fist. Jerk her bald-headed until she talked. Someone yelled to her from the bus, and she picked up her pace, grabbing the handrail on the bus steps to swing herself inside. Just before she disappeared, she looked back at me. “Talk to your brother,” she called, barely loud enough for me to catch the words. By the time the syllables had sorted themselves out inside my head, the door was closing. As the bus pulled away, I caught a glimpse of Hallie’s face in the window, her eyes skating away from mine.

Cal. Who loved Junie like his own. Who’d grown up breaking the law—stealing food when I was hungry, fighting kids who wronged me, running drug errands for Mama so I didn’t have to—and now lived to follow it. Cal, who all the women wanted but could never seem to catch. He always said it was because he was focused on work or they were too needy, wanted too much of him—a shudder ran through me—but maybe they were just too old.

NINE

Thomas almost bowled me over with a stinking bag of trash when he barreled out through the back door of the diner. “Jesus Christ,” he said, pivoting to avoid me at the last second, the plastic bag thunking against my hip. “What the hell are you doing out here, Eve?”

I leaned sideways, wrinkling my nose at the smell. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to trip you.”

Thomas heaved the sack over the railing and into the open dumpster, the lid closing again with a hollow clank. He wiped his hands on his apron. “Didn’t answer my question,” he said.

I shrugged. “Having a smoke.” Truth was, after talking to Hallie, I hadn’t known what to do with myself. I’d called Cal, but he hadn’t answered. I couldn’t stand the thought of going back to my empty apartment. The diner was the closest thing I had to a home. And if that thought wasn’t depressing enough, sitting out here with the smell of rotted trash in the air and broken bottles and cigarette butts at my feet really sealed the deal.

Thomas lowered himself next to me, wincing a little. He was getting too old to be on his feet all day, bent over that cooktop. But I knew he’d never give it up. Would work that kitchen until the day he keeled over on the cracked linoleum floor. “Since when do you smoke?”

“Since my kid got murdered.”

That would have shut most people up. But not Thomas, who never was shy with his opinion. “Nasty habit,” he said with a shake of his head. I felt him look at me, his dark eyes running over the side of my face. “How you doing, sweet girl?” he asked finally.