Very Wicked Things
Page 33

I drew up, expecting a hatchet or a gun with a silencer or maybe even a chainsaw. You never knew with the stories I’d heard about him over the years. What I didn’t expect was the Ziploc bag of vials he tossed in my lap.
“I’ve been thinking. Perhaps, there’s another way you can repay your debt.”
My fingers were stiff as I picked the bag up and peered at the white substance inside. Hello, Dovey the drug dealer.
“You want me to sell coke? You think your addicts will trust me?”
He waved away my comment. “I have plenty of corner boys. You’ll be selling much more. You’ll be peddling to those rich kids at your fancy school. Establishing a new clientele. To pay off your debt, of course.” He smiled, and chills feathered up my spine because it was so damn genuine.
“How much of my debt? What’s the value? I need numbers.” There. That was the Ratcliffe girl talking.
He shot me a look loaded with what seemed like approval. Did it take selling drugs to make him love me? Would he be interested in me as a real daughter then? I didn’t know what to do with that thought, so I pushed it away.
“There’s ten vials, and each one is cut into an eight-ball. They cost two-fifty each. Normally, eight-balls might be cheaper, but rich kids aren’t junkies. They aren’t looking for Wal-Mart prices.”
“There’s twenty five hundred dollars worth of coke in this bag?” I gripped it tighter. That was half of what my car cost.
He inclined his head. “Yes. And, your deadline is Saturday. I want you back here at the warehouse with the cash, and we can talk about giving you more.”
I stared at the vials, feeling desperate as I imagined me turning my classmates into addicts like my mama. And if I got caught there’d be no ballet in prison. All my dreams would be destroyed.
“Failure to do this will bring dire consequences, Katerina.” Had he read my thoughts?
“I am your blood,” I heard myself say, hating the admission, hating the neediness in my tone. “Part of you is in me. Doesn’t that count for something?”
He shrugged, his shoulders elegant in his jacket. “You’re a beautiful example to the neighborhood.”
I forced down the bitterness that rose up. “Please, just listen to me. I hate drugs. They killed Mama. I—I don’t want to sell—”
“Do not beg me,” he hissed.
Prey! My breaths came as shallow inhalations. “Please. Have some mercy. Sarah is sick—”
He slapped his desk, making me jerk. “Do you want Sarah to disappear? Or your friend Heather-Lynn?”
I shook my head furiously. No, please.
“How about one of your friends at that school?”
God, no.
“The list is long of things I can do, Katerina,” he said silkily. “I think your imagination can figure it out.”
I stared at him, heart pounding, my mouth dry. Somehow, I had to pay back the money.
Could I push dope?
He checked his Rolex, the conversation obviously over. “You work for me now. Until I say you do not.” He gave me a blindingly beautiful smile. “See you soon, dotchka.”
He nodded his head and walked out, done with me.
I rubbed my arms, trying to get warm, trying to hold myself together. My mind swirled, wondering if this had been his plan all along, to loan money to Sarah he knew she couldn’t pay back just so he could get a dealer into BA. But, I didn’t think so. He’d never paid attention to me before. It seemed more likely that Sarah had fallen into his web, and he’d grasped the opportunity to play with us.
Blondie marched to the door and motioned for me to come on. With sweaty hands, I picked up my destiny and followed him.
BY THE TIME I got home, it was one in the morning. I tried to be quiet as I came in the door, but it didn’t make a difference because Sarah was up. Alzheimer’s messes with your internal clock, so I wasn’t surprised. But her appearance sucked the wind right out of me.
Dressed in her yellowed, thirty-year-old wedding dress, she sat on a chair in the living room, clutching a faded wedding photograph of her and David I recognized from the mantel. With the billowy gown and her white face, she resembled an eerie ghost from the past, making the hair on my scalp tingle.
“Dovey,” she breathed, wiping her cheeks with quivering hands.
“What happened?” Trying to not stare at the oddness. And then trying to not glare at the bruise on her cheek.
“I woke up because I had this horrible dream about David with smoke and flames everywhere.”
I nodded. He’d died in a fire on an oil rig.
She gazed at the picture of them. “He wasn’t in bed, so I got up to look for him. And then, I couldn’t find his shoes by the door or his coat in the closet. I didn’t see his aftershave or any of his things. I don’t know why, but I wanted my wedding dress on. To feel closer—” she fisted her hands, making little gulping noises.
She’d forgotten.
“And then I came in here and saw our picture, and I remembered—everything. I remembered the police coming to this house and telling me he was dead. It was like he died all over again.” She sank back into the chair, her face twisted, tears flowing.
Her pain cracked my chest open, and I nearly broke in front of her, but I reined it in, knowing I had to be strong for her. And in that moment, her despair reminded me of Cuba’s grief tonight when he’d talked about Cara. It hammered home the fact that no matter how different we were, death comes for us all, rich or poor, young or old.