Kitabı oku: «Red», sayfa 7

10

“Jack. It’s time to get up.”

Jack cracked open his eyes. His mother stood in his bedroom doorway, her expression troubled. His pulse began to thud in his head. She had found out about last night. But how? He had returned his friend’s car by the stroke of midnight, and had beaten his mother home by thirty minutes. He had heard her come in, had pretended to be deeply asleep when she had looked in on him.

But still, he could see that something was wrong.

“Morning,” he managed to say, his voice a rasp. He struggled into a sitting position. “What’s up?”

She crossed the room to his bed, then sat gingerly on its edge. “We need to talk about what went on yesterday.”

Images of him and Gina flew to his head, and his manhood stirred.

He swore silently and quickly shifted his gaze, afraid that if he looked her in the eye, she would read every one of his thoughts, that she would know.

“How are you feeling?” She laid her hand on his forehead. “You’re a little flushed.”

He jerked his head back, embarrassed. “I’m fine, Mom.”

“Mrs. Green told me you called. Early.” She drew her eyebrows together in concern. “You’re sure you’re okay? You feel a little warm.”

If his mother knew why he felt warm, if she could read his mind, she would have a heart attack.

He sat up straighter and looked her in the eye. “I wasn’t sick, Mom.”

“You weren’t?” She shook her head, confused. “Then why did you call Mrs. Gre—”

“I sneaked out.”

She drew a sharp, surprised breath. “You what?”

“I sneaked out. I had a date with Gina.”

“Gina, the model?” his mother asked faintly.

“I went to her house.” And fucked my brains out. It was the greatest night of my life. “To study with her,” he added, lacing his fingers together in his lap. Surely he could live with the small lie? After all, there were things a son could never tell his mother, even in an effort to be honest. “She invited me over when I was at the shoot yesterday.”

His mother stared at him a moment, obviously thrown off balance by his admission. “Why didn’t you ask me if you could go?”

“I started to, but you grounded me.”

“But you went, anyway.”

He hiked his chin up a fraction at the hint of both hurt and puzzlement in her voice. “Yes.”

She searched his expression. “And you’re not sorry?”

He thought of the night before and shook his head. How could he be sorry? Last night had been the most wonderful experience of his life. “I’m sorry I tricked you.”

“You’re grounded again. For a month.”

“I know. I understood the consequences last night.”

She stood and crossed to his bedroom window. For several moments, she stared out at the day, the bright sky marred by smog. “You could have gotten away with it. I didn’t know,” she said as she swiveled to look at him.

“Yeah.” He lowered his gaze to his hands, then lifted it to hers once more. “But a man stands up for his actions.”

“A man? Oh, Lord.” She brought a hand to her head, making a sound of dismay. “What am I going to do with you? I’m way out of my depth here.”

“It’s okay, Mom. Every kid grows up.”

She laughed and turned back to the window, the choked sound anything but amused. He saw that her fingers shook as she ran them along the window ledge.

“What’s wrong?”

She turned and met his eyes. “You’re only sixteen, that’s what’s wrong. Practically a baby, still. You’re my…” She shook her head and looked out the window again.

For a long time, she said nothing. Then she suddenly faced him once more. “For a long time, I’ve been thinking about making a change. And I… Last night, I came to a decision. I’m getting out of the business.”

Jack stared at her, confused. “What do you mean, getting out of the business?”

“Just what it sounds like. I’m not going to do fashion work anymore.” She crossed to the bed, and gazed solemnly down at him. “This is no life for you, Jack. Lord knows, I should have seen it a long time ago.”

“No life for me?” He shook his head, struggling to digest her words. “I love what we do.”

“We don’t do it, Jack.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “I do. I’m a makeup artist, it’s how I make a living. You’re supposed to live like a kid. Like a regular teenager. You’re supposed to go to football games and dances. You’re supposed to have a steady girlfriend and go to the movies with your friends. You’re not supposed to be surrounded by adults all the time.”

“That’s such bullshit!”

“Jack!”

He threw back the covers and sprang out of bed. “Well, it is!” He flexed his fingers, his heart thundering. “Who says I’m supposed to live differently? Just because your childhood was different than mine, just because the kids at school’s lives are different than mine, doesn’t mean mine’s been wrong. Maybe they’re the ones whose lives are weird.”

She shook her head. “You don’t understand. You don’t see because you’re—”

“This has something to do with him, doesn’t it? After yesterday, he said something to you, didn’t he?” Jack glared at her, furious. “What say does he have in my life? You have an arrangement, remember? I’m yours and he doesn’t give a shit.”

“This has nothing to do with Giovanni. And don’t swear at me.”

“Then don’t do this, Mom.”

Wearily, Sallie brought a hand to her forehead. “I see I’ve made the right decision, only too late. I don’t know how I could have let this go on so long. Taking you out of school so often, away from your friends, from any semblance of a normal—”

“I don’t have any friends at school.”

“Because you’re not there enough.”

“No, because they bore me. I’ve been all over the world, a lot of those kids haven’t been farther than their grandmother’s house.”

“Jack, try to understand. I want what’s best for you. And this isn’t it. This anger you have isn’t it.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking about making this change for a long time. Since you were eight and Giovanni…” She shook her head again. “But I didn’t know what I could do. How I would support us. Now I know.”

She paused, as if giving him a chance to question her. He folded his arms across his chest and refused to look at her.

She made a sound of frustration and crossed once more to the window. “I’m going to open my own shop. Hair, makeup and make-overs. The kind of shop—”

“A beauty parlor?” he said, disbelieving. “Great, Mom. You’re going to go from working on the most beautiful women in the world to doing little old ladies with blue hair.”

She stiffened. “My shop is not going to cater to ‘little old ladies with blue hair.’ It’s going to cater to people of fashion. People from the industry, and people with the money to follow, and make, trends. The work we do is going to be trendsetting, it’s going to be fashion.” She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “Besides, as you very well know, I don’t do hair.”

He didn’t reply, just glared stonily at her, and she went on. “The money will be better. Steadier. Won’t that be nice? After all, you might want to go to college someday. How would I afford that?”

“I don’t care about college. I’m going to be a fashion photographer. You know that.”

“Oh, Jack.”

“It’s not what you think.” He hiked up his chin. “It’s not because of Giovanni.”

“No?”

“No.” He squared his shoulders, determined. “I don’t want to be like him. I’m going to be better than him.”

She clasped her hands together and met his gaze evenly. “He’s financing the shop for me.”

“What?” Jack fisted his fingers, rage and impotence roiling inside him. Unable to stay still, he strode across the room, then back, stopping in front of his mother, shaking with fury. “I can’t believe that after everything, you would do this. I can’t believe you would get in bed with him again.”

She stared at him a moment, shocked silent. When she spoke, her voice quivered with both hurt and anger. “This is a good thing for me. For us. I’m getting too old to travel the circuit, and whether you realize it or not, you need a normal life. I’m grateful to Giovanni for this. He’s not doing it because he slept with me years ago… Lord knows, he’s slept with everybody. He’s doing it because he believes it will be a successful business venture. And because he believes in my abilities, as a makeup artist and a businesswoman. Something you obviously don’t.”

She stalked to the door, turning to face him once more when she reached it. “If you don’t see that, well, it’s too damn bad. Because it’s my life and my career, and I’m the one who makes the decisions around here.”

“I do believe in you,” Jack retorted, flexing his fingers. “More than he does.”

“It’s not a competition, Jack.”

“No? Then why does it feel like one?”

Her expression softened. “That’s a good question, son. It’s one I suggest you think about.”

His eyes burned, and he lifted his chin again, stubbornly, defiantly. He cleared his throat. “When’s this…this thing going to happen?”

“I’m going to start working on it right away. The first thing I’ve got to do is find the right space. Will you help me?”

He let out his breath in an angry snort. “No way.”

“Fine. I would have liked to have you with me on this, but I can do it without you.”

“Go for it.” He refused to look at her. “Have a ball.”

“Do you want to know what I’m going to call it?”

“Not particularly.”

She didn’t take no for an answer but then, he hadn’t really expected her to. “The Image Shop. What do you think?”

“The Image Shop,” he repeated softly, liking the sound of it, hating that he did.

“Well?”

He swung toward her, and met her gaze evenly. A dozen different emotions barreled through him, not the least of which was frustration. “I think it sucks, Mom. I think this whole thing sucks.”

Book Three

11

Los Angeles, California

1984

Becky Lynn stood in the center of the biggest, busiest bus terminal she had ever seen, frozen to the spot in terror. She didn’t know which way to go or what to do next. People, strange-looking people of all colors and in all kinds of dress, wove their way around her. All with purpose, all seeming to have someone to meet or someplace to go. Many shot her angry glances for blocking the way, a few bumped into her as they passed, then continued on their way without a murmur of apology or regret.

She clutched her duffel bag to her chest, afraid someone might try to snatch it. A woman on the last bus had warned her of that possibility and to be careful.

Becky Lynn drew in a deep, fortifying breath. This wasn’t what she had expected but then, so far, nothing about her journey had been—from the one hundred and forty-five dollars the one-way ticket had cost her to the alternating fear and relief she had felt during the course of the two-day trip. With a shudder of apprehension, she wondered what other surprises awaited her.

Taking another deep breath, she started blindly forward, moving with the crowd. She couldn’t stand in one spot forever, no matter how reassuring it felt.

She caught sight of an information counter and angled toward it. She stopped in front of the counter and waited. The woman on the other side didn’t look up from her magazine. Becky Lynn cleared her throat. “Excuse me.”

The woman lifted her gaze. Her eyes widened a bit, as if in horror, then her expression melted back into one of jaded disinterest. “Yeah? Can I help you?”

“Could you please tell me how I get to…” Becky Lynn’s voice trailed off. Where did she want to go? She couldn’t point at the woman’s magazine, opened to a sunny ad and say, “How do I get there?”

“Can I help you?” the woman said again, impatiently.

“Hollywood,” Becky Lynn said. “How do I get to Hollywood?”

The woman narrowed her eyes, fringed with thick, dark lashes, and moved them over Becky Lynn. “Honey, you’re a long way from home, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The woman shook her head, as if in resignation. “Your best bet is a city bus.” She reached under the counter and produced a map and schedule. She slid it across to Becky Lynn, circling a place on the map with a red pencil. “Catch it here. It’s a dollar-ten, exact fare.”

“Thank you.” Becky Lynn scooped up the map. “Oh, and which way is the ladies’ room?”

Attention already shifted back to her magazine, the woman indicated the general direction without looking up. Becky Lynn followed and within moments stood before the bathroom mirror.

She gazed at her reflection, her stomach turning. No wonder the woman behind the counter had looked at her that way, no wonder people on the bus had averted their gaze from her. She looked awful. She looked like what she was, a runaway, a victim of violence.

She moved her gaze over her reflected image. After forty-eight hours on or between buses, her hair was snarled and ready for a scrubbing. Her jaw, swollen and a bluish green, stood out in stark contrast to her unnaturally pale skin. Her eyes were hollow and dark from sleeplessness, her clothes dirty and rumpled.

Her vision blurred, and she grabbed the edge of the sink, light-headed. Except for the half of a bologna sandwich and Oreo cookie that the woman riding beside her between Dallas and Los Angeles had given her, and the few things she’d gotten from vending machines along the route before that, she’d had nothing to eat since leaving Bend.

She sucked in a deep breath, pain mixing with hunger. She hurt so bad, the bruises on her face, the ones on her body, inside her body. She hadn’t wanted to eat, but had known if she didn’t, she would collapse.

Becky Lynn fished in her pocket for the small bottle of aspirin the same woman who had shared her food had given her. The woman had seen her grimace and shudder in pain, and had given her all that she had. Becky Lynn had been touched by her kindness.

Becky Lynn uncapped the bottle and spilled the contents onto her palm. Only two left. She would have to buy more, and soon. Even though they only cut the pain, she didn’t know what she would have done without them. The pain would have been unbearable.

She popped the tablets into her mouth, turned on the water and bent to catch some in her cupped palms. Her hands shook so badly it took three tries to get the water to her mouth, and the aspirins partially melted on her tongue. She gagged, her empty stomach clenching at the bitter taste.

A woman herded her two small children into the bathroom. She caught sight of Becky Lynn, grabbed her children by their collars and steered them away from her. As if Becky Lynn had some sort of disease, she thought. As if being near her would contaminate them. The older of the two children whispered something Becky Lynn couldn’t catch, and the mother hushed her.

Becky Lynn watched them hurry toward the row of stalls, tears stinging her eyes. It hurt, though she couldn’t blame the mother for protecting her children. Lord knew, she wished her own mother had tried to protect her.

She thought of her mother, of the weeping she had heard when she left the house. The tears welled up and she blinked against them. Her mother hadn’t been asleep. Her mother had known she was running away, and had let her daughter go.

Her tears dried. Leaving had been the right decision; she hadn’t had any other choice. Her mother had seen that as clearly as Becky Lynn had. That’s why she hadn’t stopped her.

Becky Lynn turned back to the sink and the running water. She washed her face. That done, she dug her comb, toothbrush and toothpaste out of her duffel. She brushed, combed, then fashioned her hair into a tidy braid, using a rubber band she found on the floor.

After using the facilities and making sure she had all her belongings, she headed back out into the busy terminal, then out to the street.

Her first glimpse of Los Angeles took her breath away. Everywhere she looked, she saw buildings, huge, taller than she had ever seen before, ones made of concrete and steel and mirrors.

She’d never been farther than Greenwood and had never seen a skyscraper. She tipped her head back and stared up at their tops and the perfect Easter-egg blue sky. The height of these buildings dizzied her, the reflection off their mirrored sides caught the bright sun and shone, blindingly white.

She swiveled her head from left to right, taking in everything she could, stunned and astounded and exhilarated. Cars, there were hundreds of them. She had never seen so many in one place, had never seen so many kinds before. Most of them looked expensive, real expensive. They had fancy hood ornaments and gleamed like the one-carat diamond ring Lurline Gentry had flashed around down at the Cut ‘n Curl until everyone had been sick to death of it.

Becky Lynn gawked as a limousine rolled past, brilliant white and as long as two pickup trucks. What would it be like to ride in one of those? she wondered, catching sight of another expensive-looking car, the driver talking on the phone while driving.

She shook her head and turned her attention to the people rushing by her. They looked so different from the people of Bend. In Bend, people were either black or white, rich or poor. Not here. Here, she saw people of all colors, from all walks of life. Many dressed strangely and wore their hair in bizarre colors and styles. Becky Lynn gaped as a man and woman strolled past, both dressed in leather and chains, their hair shaved on the sides and spiked high in front and on top.

Nobody else paid the pair any undue attention.

She wouldn’t be a freak here. Becky Lynn smiled, optimism and excitement moving through her. Here, she wouldn’t stand out as different. Everybody was different. Here, no one would know she was Becky Lynn Lee, poor white trash and outcast of Bend, Mississippi. She could start over, forge a fresh identity, a new life. Just as she had hoped.

She found the bus stop, just as the bus pulled up to the stop. She paid her fare and climbed aboard, smiling to herself. No doubt about it, her luck had begun to change.

12

When the sun set, the streets of Hollywood changed. The tourists went in, businesses closed. The bars and clubs opened and the night people came out. During the afternoon, Becky Lynn had enjoyed the warm, exhaust-scented breeze, the gleam of uninterrupted sun on the sidewalks and buildings, the rush of humanity. She hadn’t felt alone or threatened.

Now, the gleam of sunlight had been replaced by the unnatural glare of neon and by dense, black shadows. Now she felt absolutely alone, and every dark corner, every recessed doorway, threatened.

She had to find a place to stay.

Becky Lynn curved her arms around herself, clutching her duffel bag to her chest. She had wasted precious time this afternoon strolling, seeing the sights, breathing in her freedom. She had stopped at Denny’s and splurged on a real meal, ordering more than she had any business buying, stuffing herself until her stomach hurt. Only then, as the sun had begun to set, had she thought about finding shelter for the night.

How could she have been so careless? she wondered, turning onto Sunset. How could she have been so stupid? She had tried several motels, but none had been cheap enough. At several, one night would have cost more than she even had left.

Forty-five dollars.

She took a deep breath. Not enough, not nearly. If she blew everything she had on one night, what would she do for every other night? She had to be smart; she had to keep her head. If she acted out of fear or desperation, she would be lost.

“Hey, sweet thing.” A frightening-looking man sauntered toward her. He had long, stringy hair and wore tight black jeans and a black leather jacket, open to the waist to reveal his bare chest. “Wanna score some dust?”

She shook her head and scurried around him, her heart pounding.

He swung around and fell into step beside her. “I can fix you up. Just tell Johnny what you need.”

“I don’t need anything,” she said, voice shaking. “Just leave me alone!”

She started to run, remembering the last time she had run like this, remembering being knocked flat, being dragged off the road. Fear choked her, and even as she told herself not to look back, she did.

The sidewalk was empty behind her.

Becky Lynn whimpered with relief. He hadn’t followed her. She was safe. For the moment, safe. She slowed to a brisk walk, even though each breath hurt, even though her legs ached and her head throbbed.

She couldn’t stop. She wouldn’t. Becky Lynn forced away thoughts of her pain and fatigue and concentrated instead on putting one foot in front of the other, block after block.

Up ahead, a motel’s pink neon sign flashed. unset otel. Both the S and the M were burned out, the sign flashed at irregular intervals, as if each time about to flash its last.

As she neared the motel, she saw that it was small and seedy, but infinitely better than the street. And maybe, she thought, daring to hope, just maybe, affordable.

Becky Lynn reached the motel and stepped inside. The lobby stank. Of day-old sausage, sweat and cigar smoke. The latter came from behind the registration counter. Clamped between the clerk’s teeth was the stub of a fat, green cigar.

Becky Lynn wrinkled her nose and crossed to the desk. The man dragged his gaze from the small TV on the floor behind the counter. “Yeah?” He didn’t try to hide his irritation at being disturbed.

“Could you tell me your rates, please?”

“Twenty-two a night, fifty a week.” He spoke around the cigar. “In advance.”

She could afford that, even though it would make a frightening dent in her meager funds—but not nearly as frightening as the idea of sleeping on the street. She dropped her duffel to the floor, weak with relief. “I’ll take a room. Just for tonight.”

“Can’t you read?” The desk clerk jerked his thumb in the direction of the glass doors and the flashing neon sign beyond. “No vacancies.”

“No vacancies?” she repeated hollowly, looking over her shoulder at the sign. She turned back to him, pleading. “But…don’t you have…anything? Please. I have no place to sleep.”

“Sorry, kid. Come back in the morning.” He took the cigar out of his mouth. Ashes floated down to join others on the front of his once-white T-shirt. “By this time of night, we’re full up with hookers, dealers and folks just too messed up to make it home. Come back tomorrow.”

He returned his attention to the television, and she stared at him. “Please,” she whispered. “Anything.”

The man didn’t look up, and gaze swimming, Becky Lynn bent for her duffel. She lifted it to her shoulder and crossed the room, dragging her feet, loath to leave the light and safety of the shabby lobby behind.

She let herself out, but stopped in the lit doorway. Where should she go now? she wondered, shivering. What should she do?

Immobilized by fear and indecision, she did nothing. Minutes passed. A car full of young men honked and shouted an obscenity, another slowed down as if to take a look at her, then drove on.

The clerk opened the door. He’d exchanged the stub for a fresh cigar. He scowled at her. “Listen, kid, you’ve got to move it. You look like you’re hustling, and you’re going to bring the cops down on my ass.”

She looked at him, her eyes swimming. “But I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“That’s not my problem, kid.” He made a sound of frustration. “There’s a police station up the street. They’ll take care of you. Clear outta here.”

He shut the door in her face, then stood on the other side of the glass door, glaring at her. He jerked his thumb, and she picked up her duffel and headed back out onto the street.

The police station. Right. They would call her parents, first thing. Becky Lynn set her mouth in determination. She wasn’t going back to Bend, not ever.

She walked. Minutes became hours; her duffel bag grew heavier, her legs more leaden. Fatigue and desperation became a quiet hysteria. She couldn’t go on. She had to stop, to rest. She came upon a narrow side street, lined with deeply recessed doorways.

Becky Lynn stared at the street, at the doorways, trembling with exhaustion. In one of those doorways, she wouldn’t be visible from the street. She could sleep there. The thought of sleep, of stopping and closing her eyes, pulled at her. If she could rest for just a little while, she would be able to figure out what to do. She would be able to go on.

Even as she crossed to the first doorway, her every instinct warned her from it. She stopped before it, searching the darkness, fearing that someone, or something, hid in its depths. Carefully, slowly, she inched her foot into the shadows, heart thundering, certain that at any moment a hand would circle her ankle and drag her to the ground.

Nothing happened. No clawlike hand grabbed at her; the doorway was empty. Looking quickly to her sides and behind her, she ducked into the shadowed doorway, and sank to the concrete. She pressed herself into the corner, drawing her knees tightly to her chest.

For long moments, she sat that way, heart pounding, waiting for some sort of alarm to go off, afraid to relax or shut her eyes.

If she made it to morning, she thought, fatigue overcoming her, everything would be all right.

In her dream, Ricky stood over her, yelling at her. He had trapped her, and terrified, she pressed herself deeper into the corner of the steel cage. As Ricky yelled, he poked at her with his penis, which was long and hard and hurt her.

“Get up! You hear me? Get up! I’ve got a business to run.”

Becky Lynn moaned and stirred. Ricky swore, and nudged her viciously with his penis.

“You can’t sleep in my doorway. Come on, get up.” He swore again, loudly and with disgust. “You kids, every night it’s another one of you.”

“Stop,” Becky Lynn muttered. “Stop…please.” She lifted her head, her arms with it, ready to ward off a blow. She blinked as light stung her eyes. A man stood above her. Not Ricky, but a stranger. Dressed in a long white apron, he held a broom, handle down, pointed at her. With his thick white hair and beard, he looked like Santa Claus. She stared at him, confused, disoriented.

The man’s expression changed, pity replacing the disgust and annoyance of a second ago. He cleared his throat. “Sorry, kid, but you’ve got to go. I’ve gotta open up.”

She blinked again and looked around her, her dream evaporating. She remembered: the street, dark and frightening, populated by strange people, her exhaustion, this doorway.

Sunlight. Morning. She had made it.

“Look, kid, do I have to call the cops?”

She shook her head mutely and pulled herself to her feet. Her back and shoulders screamed in protest at having been contorted so long; her legs and head ached.

She winced as she picked up her duffel, and fought to get it to her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, darting a glance at the man, then shifting her gaze to her feet. “I had nowhere to go.”

He said nothing—she hadn’t expected him to reply—and she started for the street.

The man let out a long breath, then muttered an oath. “Here, kid.”

Becky Lynn stopped and looked back at him. He held out a twenty-dollar bill. She stared at it, heart thundering. Twenty dollars. A fortune. A miracle.

She crossed to him and reached for the money, hand shaking. Instead of letting it go when her fingers closed around it, he drew back a fraction. She met his eyes, startled.

“If I find out you used this for drugs, I swear I’ll…” He glared ferociously at her, but she saw the kindness in his eyes, anyway. “I’ll kick your butt. Got that?”

“I won’t,” she murmured. “And I’ll repay you someday. I promise.”

“Sure, kid.” He let go of the bill, and she drew her arm away and stuffed it into her pocket. He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something else, then shook his head, turned and went into his store.

Becky Lynn returned to the Sunset Motel. She almost cried with relief when she saw the no vacancies light had been turned off. By the light of day, it looked even shabbier than the night before. The place could be teeming with rats and roaches, for all she cared; the creatures on the street frightened her much more.

She paid for a week in advance. That left her less than twenty dollars for food. How long would that last her? she wondered, staring bleakly at the assortment of bills and coins she piled in the middle of the faded bedspread. Not long.

She had to find a job, and quickly. But who would hire her, looking the way she did? Everyone she had come into contact with had either looked at her in horror, disgust or pity. Just the kind of freak an employer wanted to hire.

Stop it, she told herself, squeezing her eyes shut. If she started thinking that way, she would never find a job. And she would find one. She had to. Tomorrow.

She gathered together the money, folded the bills neatly and tucked them into her shoe, dropped the coins into her change purse. She pulled back the covers and crawled under them, curling into a tight ball.

She closed her eyes and the image of her mother’s face filled her head. She heard her voice, those times when it had been just the two of them, when her mother had run the big brush rhythmically, lovingly, through her hair.

You’re special, Becky Lynn. You’re smart. You could make something of yourself.

Becky Lynn pressed her face into the pillow, holding on to that thought, those words, her chest tight with tears. She missed her mother so much. She wished she could touch her, wished she could hold her for a moment.

Even though her mother had been unable to be a real mother, the way one should be, she was the only one Becky Lynn had ever known. And in her own way, as best she could, she had loved her daughter.

Tears squeezed from the corners of Becky Lynn’s closed eyes. Her mother had wanted her to go, to escape. Her decision to run away had been the right one, the only one she could have made.