Kirsten’s cheeks caught fire. She lowered her gaze, staring at the mud on her shoes for a while. She hadn’t run from home to sell her body to some freak. The thought of a stranger touching her was so horrifying she shook her head as if to dislodge the nightmare. She squeezed her eyes shut, pushing away the images that rushed into her mind, bits and pieces of recent memories, Potbelly’s hands on her, Ink Skin holding her down on her back on the dining room table, the burning touch of the man’s stubble, his slimy tongue leaving trails on her abdomen, lower and lower.
She willed all those images away, reminding herself that was why she’d run. It would never happen to her, not again. When she opened her eyes, letting the sunshine dissipate the memories, she met Hazel’s concerned glance.
The woman quickly turned her head, looking straight ahead at the road.
“Did I tell you where I’m going, hon?” she asked, drawing another lungful of smoke from the cigarette, then flicking the butt through the open window. “I haul farm equipment for Caldwell. Have you heard of them?”
“Um, no,” Kirsten replied.
She waved the lingering smoke in the truck’s cabin with a swat of her hand. “They’re a big farm,” she continued, rolling up the window. “As soon as we cross into California, you’ll see their land. It stretches on and on for miles, on both sides of the highway.”
Kirsten looked out the window, passively listening to Hazel’s stories about the farm, the Caldwells, and the farming equipment she hauled, for sale or lease. Before long, she’d be dropped off on the side of the road, and she’d be alone again.
She almost missed the WELCOME TO CALIFORNIA sign, yellow, cursive letters on blue, adorned with what seemed to be three flowers. She couldn’t be sure; Hazel was going 70 miles per hour, and Kirsten didn’t dare ask; it wasn’t important. But soon Hazel started to slow down, pulling to the side of the road.
“This is where you get off, hon,” Hazel said, sending a lurch of dread throughout her body. She pointed at a side road to a large gate, off the next ramp. “Your chances are better here, on the highway, than on the service road.” She squeezed Kirsten’s hand with both of hers. “I wish you the best of luck.”
She thanked the woman and got out, watching the truck grinding its gears back into its lane, then disappear on the off ramp, and through the farm’s gate.
Putting on her jacket, she zipped it all the way up. The air was crisp, and the wind blew from the north, catching speed along the highway. She shoved her hands into the pockets and felt something unfamiliar in her left one. When she removed her hand, there were five crumpled, twenty-dollar bills in her palm and a note. It had a phone number under Hazel’s name, and a few words: For when you need to stop running.
Blinking away tears, she started walking with her hand in the air, hoping someone would stop. A flatbed honked loudly as it passed her by at high speed, covering her in dust and small pebbles. Startled, she took a few rushed steps sideways without looking. Her foot slipped on loose gravel and her ankle twisted. She shrieked and tumbled into a deep ditch, rolling underneath the guardrail into the tall grasses, where she slammed straight into a boulder.
10Next of Kin
It was mid-afternoon by the time Kay pulled in front of the nursing home. One look was enough to see what kind of facility they were about to enter. The front sign, spelling “Glen Valley Commons” in rusty cursive letters above a rain-stained stone block was only the first hint of the property’s condition. The building’s windows were foggy, probably the place’s budget for window cleaning a big fat zero, the paint was cracked, and pieces of siding were barely clinging to the walls.
She braced herself before going in, hesitating in front of the door Elliot held open for her. A whiff of the smells awaiting inside gave her chills, bringing back painful memories of her mother’s final battle with cancer. Disinfectant struggled to cover the pervasive stink of defeated human bodies, of urine and feces and acrid burned food.
Stepping inside, Elliot followed, hat in hand. Approaching the front desk, Kay presented her identification. A large woman in a tight lab coat met them with an unwelcoming gaze from under bushy eyebrows and a narrow forehead.
“Detectives Sharp, Young, here to speak with Mrs. Harrelson,” Kay said.
The woman stared at the ID, then, pressing her lips together in a crooked lip curl, picked up the phone and dialed an internal extension.
Several minutes later, a tall and bony nurse rolled in Mrs. Harrelson, who was seated in a wheelchair that had seen better days. The nurse beckoned them to follow her into a room, then closed the door.
The woman in the wheelchair looked absentminded, staring into nothingness, seemingly unaware of their presence. Her skin was pale and wrinkled, as if the time spent in that horrible place had run at a different rate than outside, where the air was fresh, and the sun still shone in the sky. Her knees and shoulders poked through her gown like sticks; she couldn’t’ve weighed more than 80 pounds.
“Mrs. Harrelson had a stroke twelve or thirteen years ago,” the nurse explained, not at all concerned whether her patient heard. “She retains some cognitive abilities, but don’t expect much. She’s paralyzed on her left side and can’t handle the most basic tasks without help.”
Kay noticed Elliot’s justifiable frown as he
