Piles and piles of cash are stacked on the table, rubber-banded and messy, sitting next to several unmarked pill bottles and bags.
Just like that, I’m reminded exactly what kind of mess I’ve pulled Harvee into, and how far I’m already in. Fuck.
“I got the cash, and I already exchanged some of it for more to push as well.” Raul motions to the drugs spread out on the table.
“I only want the cash, cuz. I don’t want the drugs.” I shrug, but my jaw’s tight.
“I know, I set aside your cut, but I’d love for you to help me out here if you’re open to it.” He hands me a canvas tote, heavy with cash organized by rubber bands.
“Aye - this is for your mom, before I forget.” He tosses me a bottle. The pills look similar to what she’s been taking, but a knot forms in my gut. I make a mental note to inspect every last one before they get anywhere near her.
“I’m gonna bring the rest of the stuff to the storage units to disperse,” he adds, like it’s nothing.
I picture the storage facility my uncle’s had in his name for decades. Massive, old, damp. Rust, mold, the smell of rot. I wouldn’t store furniture in there, let alone something people put in their bodies. But people will. And they’ll pay. And that money will help both of our families.
“Thanks, cuz. We really appreciate this. That-” I nod toward the panels peeling off the wall, warped and soft from moisture, “can be one of the first things we fix with this money.”
Raul rolls his eyes. “Fuck, when?”
“I’ll be here Wednesday with the panels. Be sober and let’s take care of your pops, yeah? Since you guys always take care of Ma.”
“Aight, fine,” he sighs. “See you then.”
On my way out, I tighten my grip on the tote, the bottle of pills rattling in my other hand.
I hate how easy it is to fall back into this life. I hate how good the money feels when I know exactly where it’s going.
I peel out of the driveway and head back toward the firm. It’s almost lunchtime now. Perfect. More foot traffic, more chances to see her, less chance of being noticed.
I park, take a long swig from my water bottle, and settle in to wait.
I can’t clean up the whole mess I’m a part of. But I can make sure my family is taken care of. And I can make sure Goldilocks doesn’t get swallowed up by it.
CHAPTER 18
HARVEE
"Donna, I think I need to go home."
The clock reads 11:45. Lunch isn't for another forty-five minutes but the room keeps tilting and the fluorescent lights are doing something specific and cruel behind my eyes that has graduated from headache to migraine without asking permission.
"Of course, hon. It's not like the boss man is going to yell at you." She catches herself almost smiling and straightens her face.
She's not the only one in this office quietly relieved not to see Turner today. He'd made emotional punching bags of half the staff at one point or another, and everyone knew what he aimed at me specifically. The comments. The looks. The accidents that weren't accidents. He was shameless about it, and most people looked the other way, but Donna never did. She'd text me every time he said something that made my skin crawl, just to confirm I wasn't imagining it, that I wasn't crazy for hating it here and still showing up every morning. She made this place survivable. I don't know what I would have done without her.
I scribble a note for my desk and wave at her on the way out. Her smile back is warm and her eyes are worried, whichis exactly what Donna's face does when she can't say what she actually means.
Something stops me in the parking lot.
A patrol car at the far edge, engine idling. The officer inside looks up as I walk past. We make eye contact. He drops his gaze to his phone, then looks back up, glasses sliding to the bridge of his nose, then looks down again. Writing something. Or typing.
I get in my car and tell myself it's nothing.
The drive home feels heavier than it should. The air thick, the city too loud, every red light lasting a beat too long. I make it to my building, park in my spot, step out, and the prickling starts immediately. The back of my neck. The particular crawl of feeling observed from a direction I can't identify.
I move fast to the door.
Inside, I throw the latch, the lock, the deadbolt. My back hits the cold metal and I stay there, fingers curled around the knob, sliding down an inch before I catch myself.