Every nerve in her body stiffened as she waited for the girl to finish. She moved forward slowly, as though waiting to make a call, taking deep breaths to calm the tension in her chest. She was a journalist, albeit usually one who hid behind a lens. Still, on more than one occasion, she’d collected some pretty hard-to-come-by information to complete a story.
Francesca was right there at the door of the phone booth just as the girl emerged.
“I’m sorry, were you waiting to make a call?” the girl asked. Her smile was sweet. The look in her eyes made her seem older than Francesca’s mother. And she was at least six months pregnant.
With no ring on her finger.
Choking back the animal wail that rose to her throat as she stared at the girl’s belly, Francesca detached herself. She was a professional—and nothing but. It was a trick that had become habit years ago.
For the first time since…well, for the first time in many weeks, Francesca almost wished she had a camera. This girl was a story that needed to be told.
Just a story. Not a person.
“Uh, yeah,” she said, watching the girl. “I, uh, need to call a cab.”
The girl, standing just outside the booth, smiled again. Her petite features would have been beautiful if life hadn’t tampered with them far too early. Her unlined skin was rough where it should’ve revealed the freshness of youth. And those eyes…
Would her little sister have eyes like that? Could Francesca bear to find out? Could she look in Autumn’s eyes and not lose what little hold she had on any desire to live?
She could only look at the girl’s eyes. Not her belly.
“Well, if that’s all you need, save yourself the fifty cents and just walk a block up there,” the girl was saying, pointing toward the Strip. “There’re always a ton of them milling around.”
“Thanks.” Francesca wondered what someone her sister’s age would say. It had been less than fifteen years since she was a teenager, but it seemed like fifty. She’d felt more confident as a prostitute. “You need a ride?” she asked. “We could share.”
“Nah,” the girl said. “My ride’s coming.”
On a street corner? Was that the call the girl had made?
“I had an appointment up the street. They’re picking me up there.”
And she hadn’t been able to use the phone at her appointment? The reporter in Francesca asked questions while the big sister prayed this child could help her. She’d talked to more than a hundred people in three days.
But before she could haul out her picture, an unmistakable look of fear appeared on the younger girl’s face. “I gotta go,” she called as she turned, and ran across the street—against the light. She’d been watching a navy sedan stopped at the corner of the Strip, waiting to turn toward them.
If she hadn’t had only one mission left in life—to find Autumn—Francesca would have followed her. Followed the blue sedan to see if the girl climbed inside. And to see who was driving.
Could’ve been her mother, of course. And maybe the girl had sneaked away to call her boyfriend.
But somehow Francesca didn’t think so.
This girl had seen too much of life to be afraid of a little parental displeasure. And the fear on her face had been more than concern about being grounded.
Sliding down the familiar brick wall, welcoming the heat against her back and ignoring the light scrape of brick against skin, Francesca wondered, not for the first time, if she had the stomach for what might lie ahead.
Or, more accurately, if she had the heart.
Because she’d figured something out during these days on the streets. If Autumn was more than a passerby, if she’d been living in this town, finding her means of survival here, she wasn’t going to be anything like the young girl Francesca remembered.
And chances were, she’d done things, seen things, her older sister had never, in all her travels, done or seen.
Deciding to give the dinner she’d packed in her satchel to the next homeless person who passed, Francesca leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes. She’d covered some pretty brutal things during her career. Natural disasters. Murders. Fires. Crime scenes.
Those she could handle.
The death of innocence she could not.
“You have today off, don’t you, Luke?”
Finishing the toaster waffle and coffee he’d fixed himself before dawn Thursday morning, Luke didn’t even lift his glance from the morning paper as he nodded. But the muscles in the back of his neck, and everywhere else he could possibly feel tension, stiffened. He’d hoped to be gone before she got up.
With things growing more tense at work every day that an explanation for the big wins eluded him, and no news on the baby front, he’d made plans for a little stress relief.
“What are you going to do?”
Be free. Out. Away from you.
“Jump.” He spoke almost belligerently, hating himself for doing it even while he deliberately chose the word.
She sank into the chair next to him, her short gray hair askew, her lined face bare and ancient. “Please, son,” she said, watery blue eyes filling with tears. “Please don’t.” She took a deep breath, looking down at the table, one shaky hand clutching the other. “Not ever again,” she said, her voice stronger as her gaze turned on him. “I can’t stand it,” she said. “I can’t sit here knowing that you’re up there, jumping out of planes, falling to your death. I just can’t stand it.”
He’d known his announcement would upset her. He hadn’t expected the shrill voice, the panic in her eyes. He’d been skydiving for years. Had honors packed away in a box from his years as a marine, when he’d been one of the best jumpers they’d had.
It was the one thing he did on a regular basis, just for himself.
“Mom,” he said, his voice softening even as his chest constricted. “You know I’m not going to fall to my death.” He’d expected a fight today—about her wanting him to spend his day off at home, with her. He’d assumed that if she’d caught him before he left, their argument would’ve been about his leaving the house. Not this.
“Luke, no!” Her translucent, bony hand clutched his forearm. “You have to promise me! You’ll never go up there again. You can’t! If you jump, you’ll die. I just know it!” She was sobbing, screaming. He didn’t have to look at her to know the lost, glazed look that would’ve come to Carol Everson’s eyes.
“Mom,” he said, trying to emulate the calm but firm tone his father had always used. Trying, and—as always—failing. “I’ve been jumping since I was sixteen. You’ve watched many times—as recently as last month. Dad explained it all to you, remember?” Turning from the table he leaned forward, holding both of her cold hands between his own warm fingers. “You’re okay with this,” he reminded her.
Jumping was the only thing that had kept him sane during his years as a teenager in this house. He’d joined a club at school and, with the help of his father, had managed to hide it from his mom until he knew for sure he was going to like it. Then they’d had to convince her he was perfectly safe doing this.
“No, Luke!” Her eyes glistened wildly, her entire body starting to shake in the long flannel nightgown she was wearing in spite of the fact that it was summer and she lived in the desert. “I can’t allow it! Please, Luke! I saw a documentary on deaths from skydiving on television last week. Please tell me you won’t go! Not ever again!”
Tears streamed down