Strains of Silence Read online

  She should’ve asked those questions long before now. Doubt breathed down the back of her neck.

  Blake stroked the back of her hand. “Your chicken as bad as it smells?”

  “It’s fine.” She poked at a piece of melted mozzarella with her fork. “Do you remember that song I wrote for you the summer we met?” she asked.

  “All I remember is your crazy possessive parents.”

  They were never possessive. Tatuś protected his girls was all. “Overnight stays weren’t the kind of thing his girls did—even at your parents’.”

  Past tense. She hadn’t been back at school long before she spent most nights at Blake’s apartment.

  Tatuś probably still thought she was worth protecting.

  As Blake sat there people-watching, she searched for a trace of his former sweetness—the letters he used to write her! No luck. “I’ll be at Heritage Acres today—running the homework club.”

  He sat straight. “We’ve been over this.”

  “Jen has a doctor’s appointment—just today.” She hadn’t realized how much she missed it.

  “It’s pointless, Kosh. You change nothing for those ghetto kids.”

  Maybe she wouldn’t change anything long-term, but she could certainly make them smile and laugh before they went home. Somebody needed to tell them they could amount to something. She wished someone would offer her the same hope.

  She wadded her napkin and set it next to her plate.

  “Pointless.” He shook his head like a disappointed teacher. “What you need to do is—”

  Enough. She stood. “What I need to do is go. I’ve got to shower before I leave.” She left her tray and stalked off.

  “Do not walk away from me.” Blake’s voice kept on, but she tuned him out. He wouldn’t cause a scene in front of all these people. “Presentation is key,” he always said. Stupid catch phrase.

  Let him feel the embarrassment this time.

  She passed a guy she’d seen in the music building a few times. Kasia smiled, chin high.

  For the first time in months.

  Twice now, in twenty-four hours, she’d left Blake in the dust. And she sort of liked how it felt.

  ~*~

  An hour later, wearing a dressy T-shirt and capris, her curls barely tamed into submission, Kasia grabbed her keys off the desk and headed to the parking lot. Thankfully, the rainclouds had vanished.

  Heat poured out the door of the old sedan Tatuś had given her before she left for Oconee State. Inside, she soaked in the warmth of the sunbaked vinyl. As the engine turned over, she focused on the slight vibration and the hum of the engine, rested a hand on the wheel. The car always felt safe—like a place where her dad watched over her.

  She pulled out and left campus, wound along side streets through east Huntington. She decided to take the bypass around town, merged seamlessly, hit the gas.

  All she needed now was her music. A little Eric Peters would suit her nicely today.

  Thunk.

  The car shimmied and lurched to the left. She yanked the wheel right, fought against its pull toward oncoming traffic. One glance at her rearview mirror and her heart turned percussionist.

  A horn blasted.

  A semi swerved.

  In the right lane, car after car snaked past, kept her from the safety of the shoulder.

  She punched the hazard lights button, slowed to a stop, waited for an opening.

  Show some mercy, people.

  Eons later, she saluted the final vehicle, edged her car onto the shoulder, and parked.

  She got out and checked all four tires. A flat. The absolute last thing she needed. At least it was on the passenger side.

  She ducked in to grab her cell and touched the screen to bring it to life. Nothing but black. Ugh. Now she couldn’t call for help or let Mrs. Peat know she might be late. Could today get worse? At least Tatuś had taught her how to change a tire.

  It was different now though. Last time, she’d done it with him. When he was close by, smelling of aftershave and wood chips, she could do anything.

  She popped the trunk and hoisted the jack. The spare took a little finagling. She gripped the rubber and lowered it to the gravel.

  With the jack crank, she pulled off the hubcap and set it behind the wheel. The stubborn lug nuts held on, though, and the edges cut against her skin. They hadn’t been this difficult to unscrew when Tatuś was here.

  Kasia imagined him coaxing her with his familiar accent. Get some leverage, Kasiu. Use your body weight when you must. She maneuvered the tire iron, shoved down on the left, pulled up on the right. Her arms shook, palms burned. Kasia stood, brushed tiny stones from her knees and considered grabbing one of the hair bands she kept on the gearshift. Hair clung to her neck, prickly, annoying. She placed her right foot on the iron and stepped up, bounced her full 120 pounds.

  The lug nuts moved about as easily as the guilt she kept wishing away.

  What now? If she flagged somebody down, she might get a psycho. If she stood there like an idiot, a psycho could volunteer.

  Tires crunched on the gravel as a black military-style vehicle rolled to a stop behind her. Kasia prayed for someone sane, helpful, gracious. A tall guy about her age jumped down from the driver’s seat and strolled over. His hair was a mess—a haystack all gold and shadow. Laugh lines creased his eyes, and deep dimples punctuated his cheeks as he smiled.

  Careful to keep her distance, she moved to the front of the car.

  “Got a flat?” The barest hint of a southern drawl played in his words—more gentleman than country.

  She eyed the deflated tire. “The lug nuts are too tight.”

  “Mind if I give it a try?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He stepped onto the tire iron and used his body weight to kick-start it. For him, it worked. Of course.

  “I did try that.”

  He peeked from underneath a few strands of gold. “Were you standin’ on the right side?”

  “What?”

  A black sports car blew past and laid on the horn.

  “The correct side? Righty-tighty, lefty-loosey?” He made a letter L with his fingers.

  Her mouth hung open, and she parked her fists on her hips. “Not all women are inept.” In fact, she could change her own oil without any help, thank you very much—if she could get the filter unscrewed.

  Both his hands popped up in surrender. “Whoa, not even going there. Just checking.” He smiled and muttered “inept” as he knelt to work the iron with his hand. He glanced up at her. “And not all redheads are feisty.” The smile in his voice disarmed her.

  “It’s auburn.”

  He wiped his jaw with his shoulder. “Auburn, then.”

  “For the record, I stood on the correct side. And jumped on it.”

  He chuckled. “Sorry I missed that.”

  She watched him work, watched his shirt dampen between his shoulder blades, watched ropey muscles move beneath his tan skin as he turned the iron. Even with the hours Tatuś spent in his wood shop, he didn’t have that much definition in his arms. How did a guy get forearms like those?

  The lug nuts were off in minutes, the last one clinking against the others as he pocketed it. He reached around both sides of the tire to haul it off. “Maybe we could grab somethin’ cold after this.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She spun her engagement ring around her finger and swung her hand behind her, out of sight.

  Mr. Forearms shoved her spare into place and met her gaze as he hand-screwed the nuts back on. “Come on. I’m doin’ you a solid. Cold glass of sweet tea sure sounds nice.”

  She leaned against the hood. “Does that line usually work?”

  “Ouch. Go easy on me, Auburn.” He winked and reached for the tire iron.

  “Kasia.”

  He swiped a hand across his sweaty brow and glanced up at her. “Sorry? Kosh-what?”

  “I’m introducing myself. My name is Kasia, not Auburn.”

  “Zan Maddo
x. How about a truce?”

  She offered a single nod and half a smile.

  He worked in silence until he finished the job and then moved the flat to her open trunk. She caught a scowl as he set it in and wiped his hands on his jeans.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked. “You, um, looked concerned.”

  “I am. You’ve got a nail in your tire.”

  “Oh.” She waved him off. “I’ve run over those before. It’s no big deal.”

  “You didn’t run over this nail.” He pointed midway up the sidewall. “Somebody had to hammer it in there.”

  Kasia swallowed. Blake would never intentionally hurt her. “I have no idea who would…” The words stuck, thick and false on her tongue. She fell silent as a semi blew past, rattling the car windows. Why bother with a convincing story?

  His arched eyebrow told her he knew it was a lie.

  2

  Back in his classic Jeep CJ, Zan cranked up his Amos Lee playlist and followed Auburn awhile. He’d been driving into Huntington to check on Bailey, but his mama had brought him up well enough that he’d still make sure Auburn got where she was headed. He shouldn’t let himself get derailed by a gorgeous face.

  She drove about like he did—five over the limit, window down. He hadn’t been able to get her to go for a drink with him, much less give up her phone number, but he had to admit he’d enjoyed watching her braid that fiery hair and flip it over her shoulder before she took off.

  What kind of loser would put a nail in a girl’s tire? Zan knew the answer as sure as hurricanes in September. Somebody like Mike.

  His brother-in-law was exactly the sort of jackleg who would sabotage a tire. Hopefully, Kasia would be smarter than his sister. Keep herself out of danger.

  His sister usually called every few nights, but a solid week had passed, and that didn’t sit well. “Call Bailey.” His Bluetooth dialed. Again.

  He rolled his neck as it rang.

  And rang. How many times had he called already? At least ten. Possible scenarios filled his stomach with lead. Bailey’d dropped out of contact twice before, and both times, he’d found her messed up—broken nose, busted lip, too hurting to stand.

  “C’mon, Auburn. Let’s move.” Instinct suddenly shouted that it might be a good thing she’d turned down the sweet tea.

  Auburn’s right blinker flashed. Wait. What? She was turning into the projects. Did Nail-in-the-Tire live there? Surely Kasia knew what kind of neighborhood Heritage Arms was.

  He shoved his fingers into his hair, grabbed a fistful. Should he follow her?

  Family trumps everything. His father’s voice blew into his head. And right now? He was afraid Bailey needed him more than an auburn-haired stranger. Zan wished Kasia well and hit the gas.

  A few miles farther into town, at the stoplight across from Bailey’s upscale digs, his neck bristled with unease. Why hadn’t she picked up the phone? Was she hiding somewhere? Beaten senseless?

  Or worse this time?

  He hit the gas as soon as the light turned green. He cranked the wheel, careened into her neighborhood, gunned it toward her house. Everything looked dark. Her coupe sat in the driveway, but—wait. Was the front door ajar?

  He parked at the curb and catapulted out. “Bay! Bailey!”

  At the door, he hesitated, listened. Knocked as he entered.

  Pieces of her splintered rocker littered the living room. Shattered glass glinted in the sunlight. The mirror. He froze. Glass snapped under his shoe. His pulse hammered. Nothing else.

  He charged from room to room, desperate to find his sister. All he found was a mess—a desk flipped, papers strewn all over. The shower curtain torn down.

  The house was empty.

  He whipped out his phone and dialed his mom. Checked the pantry. Checked the closet in the guest room. Answer already.

  “Hey, hon. What—”

  “Have y’all heard from Bailey?”

  “No, not since Tuesday. What’s wrong?”

  “I’m at her place. It’s a wreck, and there’s no sign of her.”

  “Check her closet.” Panic laced her voice.

  He should not have called his mom—she’d fall apart with worry. Better dial it back.

  Inhale. Count to three. Ease her mind now that you got her agitated. “You know? I bet she’s just out of town.”

  No response. He’d better keep talking. “You think? Maybe she was just in an all-fired hurry or something.”

  Still quiet.

  Don’t miss anything, man. Zan’s fingertips traced the walls of the dark hallway once more as he inched toward her bedroom.

  He paused in the doorway, gripped the frame. Catch it all. Every detail. The bedspread lay crumpled on the floor, and two dime-sized drops of blood stained one of the pillowcases. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned away. It didn’t have to be Bailey’s blood. Might be Mike’s. The closet had been ransacked. Hangers and boxes cluttered the floor, and not a stitch of clothing remained.

  “Zan? What is it?” His mother sounded squeaky and scared. He should’ve called his father.

  Deep breath. Be convincing. “Huh. Looks like she’s gone, Mama. Finally packed up her things and left.”

  A shaky sigh was her only response.

  He tried to slip a smile into his lie. “I bet she found a safe place to stay.”

  “She’s safe, you think?” Her voice sounded a little steadier.

  “You know? Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure she mentioned visiting some friends awhile. I’ll track her down and call y’all later to say how she’s doing, all right? Sorry I got you all worked up over nothin’.”

  She tried to laugh. “It’s fine. Good to hear she’s out of there for a while, hm?”

  He wanted to hug her—promise her everything would be all right. “Yeah. I’ll call you soon.”

  “Bye, sugar.”

  His father needed to know about this, but first things first. Zan dialed the police as he stared out the window at his sister’s car. “I need to report a missing person.”

  ~*~

  Whew! She’d rushed, but Kasia had the tables set up in five minutes flat. If Zan hadn’t come by when he did, she’d never have made it. The kids swarmed into the Heritage Acres Community Center and sucked the cool out of the room in a single beat. Kasia opened the last window and wiped her hands on her khakis.

  “You all remember Miss Kasia?” Mrs. Peat called from the doorway of her office.

  Heads nodded, some still half involved in conversations.

  “We’re going to have a great time, Mrs. Peat. They’ll behave.” Eyeing them like Tatuś always did when he needed to be stern, Kasia scanned the room. A tiny freckled girl sneaked in the back and pulled out a folding chair. Her eyes shone with tears. She knocked Kasia’s authoritative façade right off. That girl needed a hug.

  “If you ladies and gentlemen will get started on your homework, I’ll walk around and help wherever you need it.” She’d start with Freckles. “And remember, it’s fine with me if some of you older and wiser guys assist the little ones if I’m busy with someone else.”

  Kasia made her way across the room, pausing only a few times to answer questions. She rested a hand on the chair beside Freckles. “Mind if I join you?”

  Freckles bit her bottom lip, balled her hands so tightly they shook.

  Instead of taking a seat, Kasia knelt beside the girl and reached for a small fist. It stilled instantly, tiny and clammy against her palm. Kasia risked the dam break, traced a tiny knuckle, and whispered. “Need a hug?”

  The girl slid out of the chair and into her arms. The willingness to crumple into a stranger’s embrace saddened Kasia more than it surprised her. She searched for words—anything—to wrap up this frail little girl and warm her spirit.

  “He’s gone.”

  “Who’s gone?” Please say the dog. Let this be as easy as making flyers.

  Freckles settled her head against Kasia’s shoulder. “Daddy. Loves somebody else
now, Mama said.” A shiver ran through the slight frame nestled against her, and Freckles whispered into Kasia’s hair. “It’s my fault.”

  A fire roared to life inside Kasia. “No, ma’am. Not possible.”

  Silver-blue eyes, rimmed with unshed tears, lifted to meet her gaze.

  “Nothing you did made him go away. Wherever he is, he misses you. I’m positive.”

  Freckles blinked. She dashed away a tear with the heel of her hand. “If Daddy doesn’t love Mommy anymore, he’ll stop loving me next.”

  Lord, forgive me if this is a lie. “Daddies never stop loving their little girls. No matter what.”

  A mournful tune wound its way into Kasia’s head, and she hummed softly, sifted through mountains of sweet childhood memories and identified it. A song like that hardly belonged. Oh. It was the one Busia, her sweet grandmother, had sung all those summers ago.

  Busia. Kasia ached to see her. Had it been too long since she’d visited?

  It didn’t matter. She’d go tonight. Busia would know exactly what to say to a little girl who needed to believe she hadn’t wrecked everything.

  3

  It was a waiting game now. Platitudes were useless. “Every possible lead” had produced squat. Even by Thursday, Zan couldn’t shake the effects of Tuesday afternoon—Kasia on the roadside, Bailey’s place deserted. He constantly wondered where they both were. Whether they were safe.

  And he needed to get his head in the game.

  Lungs on fire and calves aching, Zan tagged the fence and spun, sprinted back toward the dugout. His team was a force to be reckoned with, but the playoffs required skill, 110 percent effort, and a decent bit of luck. Postseason, more than ever, every hit counted, every run stoked the team, and every error put a target on somebody’s back.

  Tonight a slow jog back to his apartment suited Zan better than a locker-room shower. He could do without the ruckus…and the praise everybody kept tossing Firelli. First-year student or no, the kid was unbelievable—should’ve been drafted out of high school. So Zan was a glorified benchwarmer now. What could he say? It stung.

  He followed the guys in and grabbed his duffel from his locker. He dried off, draped the towel against his neck. “Later, Adams.”