The Second Chance (Inferno Falls Book Three) (6 page)

“That thing doesn’t need saving. It’s a badass.”
 

“It’s hurt, man. Look at its ear.”
 

To his credit, Jack squats to look at the trapped animal with interest. It’s literally cornered this time, behind a dumpster. I’ve been trying to catch it for fifteen minutes, but now I have an advantage because as much as it runs, it’s too scared to flee the alley. Though it’s obvious to me, Jack can’t see that this isn’t a street cat. If I had to guess, someone’s cat had kittens then the asswipe got rid of them. This cat might be six months old, and it probably had siblings that were eaten by predators.
 

“It’s wild. Wild animals get hurt.”
 

“It’s not a
wild animal,
Jack. It’s a
cat
.” I say the last in my most exasperated tone.
 

“A wild cat.”
 

“It’s not a stray. I mean, it is now. But … don’t you know anything about cats?”
 

“I know they keep people like you from going to nickel beer night at the stadium.”
 

“My uncle had a cat. You know what it did?”
 

“Pooped on the rug?”
 

“It had kittens. And do you know what my uncle did with the kittens?”
 

“I don’t know, Grady. What?”
 

“Drove out somewhere and dumped them. I was in the car with him because even though I was sixteen, he wouldn’t leave me alone.”
 

“You’re breaking my heart, man.”
 

I give Jack a glance. It sure broke mine. I liked that cat. I watched the kittens make slowly for the bushes as we drove away. And because we kept the cat, I got to see her stalk the house for weeks, looking for kittens that weren’t there.
 

I point. “If you’re going to stay here and irritate me, go over there so it doesn’t run that way again. I’ll bet I can get grab it if it runs out from under.” I flex the gloves. I’ll probably get scratched or bitten, but they should help the worst of it.

I know how this will go. We tried this a few times already, and I have a feel for how the cat wants to move. It is, as far as I can tell, terrified. That makes it hard to catch, but it also means it won’t run indiscriminately. This little dead-end alleyway isn’t much, but this cat seems to think it’s the closest thing to home it has.
 

I rustle a wad of paper. I reach with one hand. The cat lunges to the left, away from where Jack is standing. I reach out and manage to grab it around the middle, and though the thing flails plenty, the attack lasts only about five seconds. Then it’s spent, panting through an open mouth, which isn’t something a healthy and happy cat does. I can feel its ribs beneath my fingers. Its eyes are vacant. It seems to have given up, as if my hands are a dog’s hungry jaws.
 

I give it a look then place it in the box. I anticipate a fight, but the cat goes more or less willingly. Then the box is closed, flaps folded over-under to keep it sealed against all but the most aggressive wall thrashing, and I’m pulling the gloves off to lay atop it, heart thumping.
 

“Thanks,” I tell Jack.

“You happy now?”
 

“Plenty.”
 

“So you want to drop it off somewhere? Like a vet or shelter or something?”
 

“Vets don’t let you drop off, and shelters will eventually kill them. Have you seriously never had a pet?”
 

Jack shrugs. “So what then?”
 

“I guess I own a cat now.”
 

Jack laughs. “Vince is never gonna let you have a cat.”
 

“I’ll keep it in my room.” Which is to say the laundry room. I bought a cot at Walmart. In the past, as nomadic as I am, I’ve been able to find friendly beds or even couches, but this time I had to spring for furniture to sleep on. I always get the minimum I can stand. Even traveling as I have the past nine years, I’ve added to my net worth, careful with the little my parents left me in their will. Unlike Jack and the others I’m with at the moment, I know now isn’t all there is. Some day, I’ll settle down. I’ve seen all forty-eight of the contiguous United States, so this chapter could close any time. I don’t know what’s next, but the Grady Dade story won’t end with me sleeping on someone’s laundry room floor.
 

“Vince hates cats, man. I don’t mean to be an asshole or anything, but you’re not paying rent. I know nobody asked you for any and you’re cool, but dude, you can’t just show up with a cat and expect Vince to like it.”
 

I’m about to suggest that maybe it’s time for me to pile into my truck (my mobile home, on more than one adventurous trip) and head for new horizons, but I don’t get the first word out before my phone rings.
 

“We going to the stadium or not, man?” Jack asks me.
 

I look at the box before I pull my phone from my pocket. I want to ask if he seriously thought I’d try to enter with a cat box under my arm, but the call is more pressing.
 

I look at the screen. I recognize the area code because my phone uses the same one. The number, however, is a mystery. It’s not in my contacts.
 

“Hello?” I say, accepting the call.
 

I talk while Jack watches me. Beside me, on the top of the dumpster, the cat shuffles inside the prison, its every noise pathetic. When I hang up, Jack stares, waiting.
 

I match his eyes. I’m less annoyed with his impatience now than I was a minute ago because I realize that my time looking at Jack Crawford and his buddies has drawn to an end.
 

I don’t want to do what the caller said I should. I resent it, in fact. But I’m all that’s left, and there’s something inside me that won’t leave things alone, like this cat, when I know it’s my responsibility.
 

“My uncle died,” I tell Jack.
 

“Ah, that sucks.”
 

“He was a bastard. He’s the main reason I left home to begin with — because after my parents died, the state decided I should live with him.”

“Then … it
doesn’t
suck?”
 

I shake my head. I pick up the box and plod off toward my temporary home, soon to be the last in a string of my former residences. I have to go back and sort my uncle’s shit. As much as I hated him, it’s what Dad would have wanted. He was always trying to save Uncle Ernie, like I saved this cat. And just like the cat so far — though hopefully not forever, as far as cats are concerned — all Uncle Ernie did was thrash and bite.

“No, you were right the first time,” I tell Jack, sighing. “It sucks plenty.”

CHAPTER 6

The day is hard.

When I’m occupied, things are fine, but I’m used to a certain degree of chaos. The ability to juggle orders, customers, and crises, alongside Ed, Roxanne, and my actual friends at the Nosh Pit has trained me to handle ten things at once, but when I’m with Mackenzie, there’s really only one thing at a time. This is supposed to be a good thing, and mostly it is, but still I find my mind wandering because I’m not quite busy enough to make myself forget.
 

We make breakfast together, her seldom-asked but always-present inquiries about her father running laps in my head.
 

We take a morning walk down to the creek, where I come alone to think on the mornings Mackenzie is at school and I’m alone, and I wonder if I’m being realistic or pessimistic. He’ll never come back to us. He’ll never claim his daughter, scoop her up for a piggyback ride, tell her she’s pretty and worth having. Wondering makes me feel weak. Of course it’s over with him. Of course he’s good for nothing. Of course we’re on our own. Allowing doubt — and
hopeful
doubt, at that — makes me feel weak, pathetic, and sad.
 

We make cupcakes in the afternoon, and I find myself thinking of the good times. There were a few, before Mackenzie’s conception. Back when I was a girl, the world was full of promise. I was looking at a scholarship to a great school. I would have had a reason, with that scholarship, to finally leave Inferno. I don’t want to abandon my roots forever, but long to see more of the world than this tiny corner where my shackles were forged. I’ve always been a reader. I love stories of other places. And since I was small, I’ve wanted to see them. Grady left, supposedly to go and live that life for himself.
 

I hate him for leaving me when I needed him most.
 

I miss him so much, it hurts.
 

Before Grady, I wasn’t like this. I felt confident. I’d only had a few boyfriends, and the luck of the draw — or maybe good judgment — had made them all good guys. Grady was the best of them. We were together for years before I got pregnant, and during that time, he always stood by my side. Back then, I sneaked out at night so we could be together, but we were just dumb kids, fooling around in ways too mature for our years — but only with each other, and always with thoughts that some day, we’d share a future. Back in those naive daydreams, I imagined I’d be something: an architect, maybe, or a travel writer. I was rarely specific back then. With so many dreams, it didn’t matter which I picked.
 

We’d come to Reed Creek, where Mackenzie and I went this morning. We’d lie down together, my head in his lap, and talk about what came next. School for me, definitely not for Grady. He was never a rule follower, and his family was a shaky foundation even before his parents’ death. He wasn’t just handsome; he was
cool
in a way that set off the school’s stodgy alarms, like he was a loose end. He grew facial hair before any of the other guys and refused to shave it. Just one act of defiance in a chain.
 

Grady wanted to get out. But it worked because so did I. We’d get out together. I’d go to school; I’d get my dream job; we’d settle somewhere nice and travel when we could. Grady always had wanderlust. I caught it from him, from my books and dreams, like a virus.
 

But then Mackenzie happened.
 

And Grady left.
 

And everything evaporated. I knew my priorities had to shift, so I declined my scholarship and focused on making a more immediate living. My parents never threatened to disown me, but their disappointment was a lead apron. All at once, I went from having everyone behind me to having no one at all.
 

I came and went at home without speaking to Mom or Dad, both of whom were having the church pray for me, whispering in ways that weren’t much better than gossip. I moved out on my own as soon as I could. It was obvious I’d be a single mom, raising a kid without her father in the picture. Grady, always my rock, ran away and left me alone.
 

I haven’t always turned to sex for comfort. It didn’t used to be the compulsive, addictive need it’s become after a decade abandoned. I suppose I learned that you can’t count on anybody, so you get what you can, then you run.
You
run. Before anyone can run away
from
you.
 

In the afternoon, I smile with Mackenzie as we ride our bikes in Dalton Park — the fancy-pants park near Cherry Hill. We rack our bikes afterward, and I spring for one of the little remote control boats so Mackenzie can pilot it around the pond. I’m feeling like SuperMom, having checked off so many of the Good Mother boxes.
 

Never mind that I work too much for too little money and have been forced to abdicate raising my daughter to my parents, who I swore to never take charity from. Never mind that I’ve disappointed Mackenzie so many times that it’s now the norm, and keeping my promise is a rarity worth noting. And never mind that I’m a wolf in sheep’s clothing even now, as my mind strays to the texts deleted this morning.
 

I’m SuperMom. I can do it all. I can ask about Brownie registration while baking and biking. And never mind that the entire time, thoughts of what my life has become are mixing into an internal stew, making me crave someone’s touch the way a person craves water in the desert. Almost
anyone’s
touch.
 

I catch myself, at the park, pulling my phone from my pocket to check the lock screen for new messages or texts.
 

I catch myself thinking of what might have happened last night, if I’d answered my phone instead of Chadd leaving a message.
 

Or what could, if I still had his number, happen right now.

The thought warms me. I remember how he looked at me. I imagine how he’d look at me again. His eyes were all over me last night because I encouraged him, because I made it obvious that his attention was wanted, craved, anticipated. I picture myself somewhere, with all that attention, making the world go away for a while. Transforming me for a while, from Maya the mother into Maya the woman. Killing my responsibilities for the duration of five thousand sweaty heartbeats.

I’m leaning over the railing, watching Mackenzie’s boat circle the pond, when I begin to plan.
 

It’s barely 2. I work at 5, and the drive to my parents’ and the drive to the diner are both just five minutes. We could stay here for another full hour, and I’d still have plenty of time to get Mac to my mother’s by 4, probably 3:30.