Love in Darkness (Castles on the Sand 2)

Six

I want to go for another run, as far and as fast as I can, but another thought pushes that one aside.

The Pelican Bluffs Inn is just a few lots over and clearly visible from where I stand, and it reminds me of Kirsten Beale and her situation. As if on cue, Kirsten steps around the corner of the building, with its gray, clapboard siding, and makes her way to the garbage dumpster, two bulging garbage bags clasped in one hand.

I jog over to join her. Her posture is stooped and she walks with an exhausted drag to her step, then scowls as she hefts one garbage bag into the dumpster, which, even from a few feet away, reeks of hot plastic and rotting food. When she turns to grab the other bag, she sees me, lets out a choked off scream, and jumps back.

Right. I forgot to say anything, so I accidentally sneaked up on her. “Sorry,” I say.

“Alex. H-hi. How are you?” She gives me a wary look as I heft the other garbage bag into the dumpster.

It’s heavy enough that I feel the plastic stretch under the weight and it lands in the dumpster with a squishy thud. “I’m fine. How are you?” I ask. Doing reconnaissance for the Wilkstone Foundation is going to be a lot harder, I realize, now that I’m not in high school or employed in households all over town. Back then it was just a matter of listening to the rumor mill.

And Kirsten clearly doesn’t trust me. She keeps her distance as I brush my hands together. “I’ve been better,” she says. Her gray eyes look pale and washed out and there are deep lines in her face. Her brown hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail, and her jeans and shirt are loose and ill-fitting. It’s obvious she hasn’t been able to update her wardrobe lately.

“Sorry to hear that,” I say.

“No, sorry. I shouldn’t complain. Are you back then? From your mission thingy?”

I nod. “Are you working here now?”

“I don’t know.” She presses a hand to her forehead like she’s got a headache. Her resigned stance makes it appear that she’s had a headache for weeks or months. Or years, even. It’s hard to watch.

If I were in her position, I’d be screwed, but just because I was born into a different family with more assets, here I am surveying the scene, deciding how to bestow the wealth of the Wilkstone Foundation, rather than taking out the garbage and trying to figure out how to get through the next week and feed my kids.

Yet another reason why I couldn’t be director of the Wilkstone Foundation. I’d just give all the money away, run it into the ground, and that’d be that. How can I say no to anyone just because they were unlucky enough to be born to the parents they’ve got?

“I need to work, but no one in town’s hiring and working for my dad…” She jerks her head back towards the door to the Inn. “That’s not turning out so great. My kids have preschool, at least. Thank heaven for Head Start, but do you know of a job with hours short enough that I can just use preschool for childcare, and earn enough to afford to feed, clothe, and house them? Didn’t think so.” She winces and catches herself. “Sorry, that was rude.”

“Nah, you’re right if you think I don’t seem like someone who knows a whole lot about being employed.”

She barks a laugh and I see her shoulders relax a notch. “Come on. You’re not so bad.” Pure politeness. She doesn’t even know me.

“I’ll let you know if I hear of anything. I dunno if Siraj still needs an assistant at the library? That’s only a few hours a day, not full time.” And, I think, even if he doesn’t, he might feel he needs someone to supervise the twins, which is something Kirsten could surely handle.

“I hadn’t thought about that.”

The old me would just leave it at that and go. The new me, post-mission, knows that you have to ask follow up questions. “What else have you tried?”

“I’m trying to negotiate with my mom for some childcare, like, maybe if I cook dinners for them or something, and then I can work a full workday.”

“Well, good luck.”

“Thank you. And thanks for caring.” She gifts me with a weary smile.

Which surprises me. I wouldn’t have thought of my nosiness as a kind gesture. As I turn to go, someone whistles at me from above.

I know who it is, so I don’t want to look, but instinct dictates that I do, just to make sure the noise is real and not all in my head. Kailie Beale leans out of one of the second story windows. “Hey, Alex.” At least she doesn’t sing-song my name.

“You get expelled already?”

“Yes, but what do you mean ‘already?’ I made it to my junior year. Wait up all right?”

For what? I don’t want to talk to her, but there’s no time to get away because she doesn’t take the stairs. Rather, she climbs out the window and lets herself fall to the concrete below. I wince, but she does a knee drop and roll and bounds to her feet again.

“Aw, come on,” she says as she brushes off her jeans. “You were supposed to catch me.” Like Kirsten, she’s got blue gray eyes and brown hair, but she looks about ten years younger, rather than the actual two. Her body is fit and trim and twiggy and her hair is straight as a pin and parted on one side.

I turn and head across the parking lot.

“Okaaay, don’t laugh, fine.” Her shoes slap against the asphalt as she chases after me. “I hear you’re a headcase now too?”

At that I pause and pivot.

“Madison told me,” she explains.

Madison still talks to Kailie, even after the girl ditched her senior year and never returned a single one of her phone calls. Great. Just great.

“Listen, you really hurt her feelings this morning.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Wow, you are a jerk, you know that?”

No point responding to that one. I turn and resume walking, the wind off the ocean pressing my shirt against my back.

But Kailie keeps pace. “Why are you stiff arming her? She’s better than you deserve.”

“Yep.”

“So? What’s your deal?”

“She’s got enough headcases screwing up her life.”

“O-o-oh, so that’s it. Madison’s too stupid to make her own decisions. You’re going to be a man and tell her how it is.”

I roll my eyes.

“Get over yourself, okay?” she says.

Because Kailie is clearly in a position to tell other people how to live their lives. A sidelong glance shows me that she’s wearing a plethora of metal bangles on both wrists, which I know cover the scars from when she tried to take her life.

“Alex, stop walking. Talk to me.” Her fingers lock around my forearm.

In one swift motion I pivot and yank my arm up, breaking her grasp easily, then I turn and keep on walking.

“O-kaaaay,” she shouts after me. “Be like that.” At least she stops following.

*

When I get home and step in the front door, Hiroko darts into the room, sees me, and says, “I can’t find your mother.”