Page 115 of Corpse Roads
“What are you doing?” I hiss at him.
“Checking her story out,” he replies with a whistle under his breath. “That’s one piece-of-shit old Beamer. Interesting.”
“Why?”
He glances at me. “She kept the money when your dad got convicted. What happened to it all?”
“Well… I don’t know.”
“Maybe we’ll find out.” Hunter rests a hand on the door. “Ready for this?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
I shrink into his side as he raps three times. Seconds later, the lock snicks and the door cracks open. Two green eyes run over Hunter, already sparkling with tears.
“Giana?” he prompts.
“Mr Rodriguez,” she rushes out.
Holding the door open, Giana Kensington steps out onto the cluttered porch. She’s short and slim—not much taller than me—but she wears her miniature-sized look with elegance.
Her silky, off-white blouse is tucked into her skinny jeans while her nutty-brown hair is pulled back in a loose knot that frames her middle-aged features.
Taking a deep breath, I step forward from behind Hunter. The moment she spots me, the tears begin to fall. Her hands clamp over her mouth as she takes thirty seconds to study every inch of me.
“Um, hi,” I say awkwardly.
“Leticia?” Giana whimpers from behind her hands. “My God, you’re so… so big.”
“It’s Harlow now. Not… that.”
Hand flicking to her throat, she fingers a delicate silver locket as we stare at each other. I desperately try and fail to recognise her. Her hair is lighter than mine, our eyes are different colours.
She could be a stranger.
This person isn’t my mum.
That title belongs to another woman, cruel and careless, beating my little body until her fists cracked and bled. Mrs Michaels has stolen the right to a loving parent from me. I can’t get that back.
“Come in,” Giana blurts, backtracking inside her home. “Gosh, don’t stand out in the snow. I’m so sorry.”
I let Hunter take the lead. He pulls off his coat and turns to me, an eyebrow raised. When I don’t move, he gently pulls me inside and eases the parka from my shoulders. I can’t lift a finger.
“Breathe,” he whispers.
Pushing me in front of him, I catch the moment Giana sees my broken arm. The colour drains from her face.
“What happened?”
“As I said on the phone, Harlow is still recovering,” Hunter answers diplomatically. “She contracted sepsis and underwent surgery for her broken arm around two months ago. She’s due to have the cast off next week.”
Giana can make all sorts of deductions from those brief slivers of information. I’m not sure I want her to know so much about me.
“How are you feeling, Letty?” she asks with a forced smile.
“Harlow,” Hunter reminds her.
“Right.” She ducks her head, flushing again. “I’m sorry… shall we make some tea? My husband, Foster, should be home soon with the dog.”