Page 19 of Liar Byrd
Before New Mexico, I wanted a family of my own. I had dreams of having Mom come live so close to me that she might as well have had a room of her own. Maybe then she wouldn’t be running all over the country, searching for someone to love her.
And I’d have a place where I belonged. Ahome. Somewhere I didn’t have to leave every few months. A place that was as much mine as it was Mom's.
But that’s all gone now.
That dream died when she died. I don’t have any dreams anymore. What’s the point when someone will come and steal them from you?
Chapter 8
Byrdie
Sleep meant I didn’t have to think.
I could shut my brain off and drift. Awake, everything hurts. My feet. My empty, cramping belly. My heart when I think of Mom. And my soul.
Everything.
I sway when I stand. Dizzy, I fall. I wretch until my throat burns. Nothing comes up except yellow bile. The smell and the bitter taste start an endless cycle of heave, wretch, and heave some more.
An eternity later, I curl up on the hard ground, wrap my arms around myself, and close my eyes as I wait to die.
“You were in line.”
I crawl away from the harsh female voice, moving on autopilot.
Is it the woman in the business suit who found me and is here to drag me to the townhouse with the man who looked like a pimp?
My eyes focus on a disheveled woman with curly brown hair, more gray than brown. She’s the very opposite of the businesswoman who called me a whore.
And she’s familiar.
It’s the homeless woman with the trolley. The one I followed to the church.
She eyes me from far closer than I should have let her approach, her mouth half open to reveal the hint of yellowed teeth.
Her eyes narrow, squinting at me, as if she needs glasses.
“You had your fill?” she asks, her voice dry and slightly amused.
I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”
“Staring. You’ve been doing it long enough.”
Shame makes my cheeks burn, and I look away. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to?—”
She snorts. “Suspicion is good. Might mean you live longer than some of the others.”
I study her, growing more confused when she settles down on the ground, her back, knees, or some other bone entirely cracking loudly. With her long black tunic-like skirt and a million dark layers, it’s impossible to know what shape she is beneath. Skinny or fat. Round or narrow.
“Susie nearly walked you right into the pimp house, huh?”
I blink at her. “You saw that?”
Brown eyes bracketed with deep lines slide up and down me, taking me in. “Youwere followingme. Figured I should return the favor.”
“You were in a hurry,” I explain. “And you woke me before when you passed me. I was just interested in where you were going.”
She hums. “I take it someone took your food?”
