Page 37 of Minted

“How did we win? We didn’t enter a contest.”

“It’s a customer appreciation award,” he says. “We chose randomly from our best customers over the past year.”

“Oh.” There’s some kind of back and forth, but then I hear it.

The sound of a lock sliding in the door, and the grinding and groaning of the door being opened.

Exactly as I asked, Bentley shoves his way through.

“Hey,” Nikki says. “Why’s a pizza guy wearing a suit?”

“They made me,” he says. “It’s part of the award.”

“You have to wear a suit?” Ricki shakes her head. “Just hand it to me.”

“Look, I have to get a photo,” he says. “With you holding the pizza. Do you want it or not?” He pauses like he doesn’t care.

He’s pretty good at this, if I’m being honest. I’m not sure I’d have come up with that. He hands the pizza to Nikki, and waves for Ricki to come over.

I whip out my phone, realizing what he’s doing. He’s getting me my evidence. As I come around the corner, the open door coming into view, I nearly freeze in place.

Their apartment would make a landfill look nice.

There’s so much trash that I can’t see a clear surface. Pizza boxes. Delivery cartons. Bags. Discarded and half-eaten food. I snap a few photos, and then I move closer.

“Hey,” Nikki says. “Why are you still here?”

“Actually.” Bentley turns around. “She’s with me.”

Ricki—I think, since her hair is in a ponytail—scowls. “I knew it. I told you we didn’t win any contest.”

“Girls.” When I step inside the room, the smell’s overpowering. I’m not sure how it didn’t slap me in the face when they cracked the door earlier. “Is your mother really here?”

Looking around at the trash, and holding as steady as I can when a cockroach runs across the pile right in front of me, I’m virtually certain there are no adults present.

“Is she at the hospital?” Bentley asks.

“She was.” Ricki’s eyes flash. “Before.”

“Before what?” I almost don’t want to know.

“She died three months ago,” Nikki says. “But we’ve been living here alone for almost a year, and we’re fine.”

“Where’s your dad?” Bentley asks.

“Who knows?” Ricki asks. “And who cares?”

“You can’t live here alone,” I say. “It’s not safe.”

“Yeah, creeps could pretend we won a prize and break in.” Ricki tosses the box on the sofa and folds her arms, glaring.

“Touché,” I say. “But I did that because I was worried about you.”

“Well, you don’t need to worry,” she says. “We have more money than ever now that we don’t have to pay the medical bills.”

I hate that I left my phone on, videotaping what she said, but it’s the evidence Alice will need, I imagine. I text it to her—photos, the video.

“Girls, I’ve been talking to a social worker, and—”

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