Page 9 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name

She cast her eyes across the cracked linoleum floor. Nothing gold glinted up at her. Her spirits sank even lower. The necklace had been a gift from her dad; she hadn’t taken it off since she was a kid.

But she couldn’t stay here any longer to search for it. She had to get out of this trailer before its owner returned.

Her handbag and heels were lying on the floor near the end of the bed. She scooped them up, then tiptoed to the door and cracked it open. Its old hinges squealed.

She paused in the doorway, shielding her eyes against the bright sunlight, and looked around.

The trailer sat in the far corner of a weedy lot. A chain-link fence separated it from the next property. Objects poked above the shin-high grass. An overturned wheelie bin. An old car covered by a blue tarp. A rusted motorcycle that looked like it was returning to the earth.

Still barefoot, she stepped down onto a dirt path. Taking her phone out of her purse, she checked her messages.

None. Nothing from her mom or sister. Not one of her so-called friends had phoned or texted her, wondering where she’d disappeared off to last night. No one had noticed that she hadn’t gone home, or checked that she wasn’t dead in an alley somewhere.

A volley of barking came from her right. She got such a fright that she felt her body cleave from her skeleton.

Whirling around, she saw a white Rottweiler emerge from under the trailer. It was tethered to a piece of metal rebar stuck in the ground. Suddenly, it tested the limits of its chain by launching itself at her legs. It was short by about a yard, but she stumbled backwards anyway.

From behind her, a man called out, “¡Tequila!¡Cierra la puta boca!”

Heart pounding, she spun back around.

But there was no one there. Just the old wreck of a car, covered with the tarp and propped up on concrete blocks.

Then she spotted a pair of denim-clad legs sticking out from under it. The man attached to them scooted out on a trolley. He sat up, shielding his eyes against the sun.

It was the man with the gun. She took a few stumbling steps backwards.

He pushed himself to his feet. He was tall. Latino. Dark hair in a high fade. No shirt, just low-slung jeans revealing the top of his white boxer briefs. Tattoos covered his torso and arms.

He had a tool in his hand, some kind of wrench. Both his hands were black with engine oil.

“Don’t worry about her,” he called, gesturing to the dog. “She’s just being friendly.”

Julia looked at the dog’s bared incisors and raised hackles.

Friendly. Right.

She looked back at the guy. He didn’t look friendly either. But he was keeping his distance, so she resisted the urge to bolt.

“You okay?” he called in a soft Spanish accent.

She nodded, not looking at him. “I’m fine.”

He dropped the wrench on the ground, wiped his hands on a rag. She realized they weren’t black with oil, but black with more tattoos.

He slid one hand into his back pocket and pulled out a baggie of white pills. “You sure? You took a shitload of benzos last night.”

She stared at the baggie, feeling sick at just the sight of them. “Those aren’t mine.”

“I know,” he said, shoving them back into his jeans. “They were in that asshole’s pocket. I’m guessing a bunch of them wound up in your drink.”

She swallowed hard and looked away. Part of her brain registered the sinister notion that this guy had gone through her attacker’s pockets. A far larger part realized she didn’t care.

A cool breeze rattled the trees along the fence line and raised goosebumps on the bare skin of her legs. She crossed her arms over her chest in their overlong sleeves.

It occurred to her he must have dressed her in his hoodie after she’d passed out. Then put her in his bed and slept…where? In that old car?

“I’m Daniel, by the way,” he said. He had a small cross tattooed under one eye, and the word ALONE running along his jaw up to his ear.