What She Left Behind ✔️

chapter eight

"Can I get two scoops?"

"One scoop."

"Fine." Evangeline rolls her eyes so hard I swear they're going to pop out of her head. "Can I at least get whipped cream and a cherry?"

"Um, is ice cream even ice cream without whipped cream and a cherry?" I laugh as she claps her hands together. "Bowie, would you mind running in and grabbing it? It's freezing. I don't want Evangeline to catch a cold."

Truthfully, I'm enjoying my heated seat too much to step out into the frigid January air, but the fact that we're one of three cars parked outside the little ice cream parlor shows that it really is too cold for the frozen dessert. Besides, Bowie didn't think it was chilly enough to wear more than a sweatshirt. I trust he'll be okay.

"Sure. What flavors are you girls getting?" he asks.

"Cotton candy!" Evangeline yells.

"Vanilla for me," I reply, not really in the mood for ice cream, anyway.

Bowie turns to Evangeline and makes a face. "She's so boring. I'll be right back." He gets out of the car and runs inside, rubbing his hands together the whole way. Maybe next time, he'll wear a proper coat.

Evangeline sits in the backseat with her head against the window. I realize that she isn't wearing a seatbelt. Has she not been wearing one this whole time?

"Gemma," she says, forcing me to look at her face instead of the unused safety belt, "can I ask you something?"

"Go for it," I say, curious to hear what her inquiry is.

"Before we go back to your parent's house, could we stop by my house?"

My eyes widen. "Um, your house? You mean the apartment you and your mom were renting?"

"Yeah. I didn't get a chance to grab all my stuff."

"Well, what do you need?" I ask. Raelyn and Evangeline lived in a crappy studio apartment in South Side. Even with Bowie, I don't feel comfortable going there. "I'm sure we can replace most of it."

Frowning, she shakes her head. "Not this stuff. I left some pictures behind, and my journals."

"Journals?" This piques my interest. "Did you keep a diary?"

"I'm writing a story," she clarifies. "I stopped after my mom died, but I'd really like to finish."

Evangeline's a writer, huh? That's interesting, because Raelyn had no interest in the subject. For someone as beautiful and imaginative as she was, she never had a creative outlet.

Since the journalist in me can't let Evangeline's story go unfinished, I say, "Sure, we'll go pick them up, but we can't stay long, okay?"

"Thank you!" she squeals, visibly delighted.

Bowie returns with our ice cream. He did get Evangeline two scoops, despite my disapproval. I don't know much about children, but the parents always refuse to buy their kids more than one scoop of ice cream in movies.

We eat while we drive. As I speed past the road to get back to my parent's house, Bowie shoots me an inquisitive look.

"Pit stop," I say.

"Where to?"

"South Side."

Levi would have been begging me to turn around. Bowie doesn't even flinch.

I pull into the vandalized, litter-filled parking lot. Evangeline and I step outside—I force Bowie to stay here and protect my Nissan—and cross the pavement. I expect to need a key or at least be buzzed in like at my apartment, but the door is already wide open, blowing back and forth in the wind.