Page 116 of Ruled Out

“I’m just a girl trying to support her boyfriend.”

A couple of beats pass before he speaks. “I gave him a ride a while back. It was to South Boulevard–Park Row. I gotta tell you, miss, it’s … bad. The house is bad. Are you sure you want to go there? Because your dad sounded kinda reluctant.”

I wipe the tear from under my eye. My voice is way stronger than I feel. “You said you have a family. So, you have someone you love or did once upon a time, right?”

He nods, keeping eye contact with me in the mirror. “My wife.”

“What lengths would you go to for her?”

Without a word, he cranks the engine.

CHAPTER FORTY

MIA

“This is it.”

“Okay,” I say, unclipping my belt and reaching into my purse for the fare, my head firmly down.

I will not show my reaction.

When I finally look up and offer the driver thirty dollars for the ride, he waves his hand in front of him. “Keep it,” he says, passing me his contact card. “If you run into trouble, I’ll be around the area for the next few hours.”

I take the card and push open the door, leaving the cash on his back seat. “Thank you, but I can’t accept the free ride.”

The driver rounds the car, pulls open the trunk, and hands me my bag. “Sure you’ll be okay, ma’am?”

“Yep.” I smile at him, not nearly as convinced as my response sounds. “Thank you again.”

When he gets in his car and takes off down the long street, I turn back to the front porch of the house where Jessie grew up.

It’s devastating.

Honestly, I don’t know what I expected. I tried to imagine what having nothing looked like. What four walls of horror might appear like from the outside.

But no amount of visualization could have prepared me for the dilapidated state in front of me. Homes don’t need to be fancy or big or even tidy. It just needs to feel safe, like love and hope exist there.

By that definition, this isn’t a home.

Pulling the screen door open first, I push at the front door, the handle virtually redundant, and enter the house. The door closes on its own behind me with a creak.

The inside of the house looks like it’s been ransacked, barely resembling a livable space. But it’s not the mess that hits me first; it’s the smell.

If depression had a scent, I’m pretty sure that this house would be it.

Bringing my palm across my face, I peer down at the coffee table in front of me. No one is around, but the ashtray is full of butts, some look fresher than others.

My throat is dry and thick, but when I hear movement from upstairs, my heart beats faster in my chest. “Jessie?”

There’s no response as I stand and wait for a couple of beats. “Jessie?” I try again, feeling sure he’d said he was going back home.

A bang ricochets across the ceiling, followed by, “Fuck!”

The voice is male, but it doesn’t belong to my boyfriend.

Wayne.

As fast as my trembling body will carry me, I turn and head for the front door, pulling it open. When I get to the screen, it’s wedged in the doorframe. I keep pulling on it, but it won’t budge.

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