Page 3 of The Last Lost Girl

Even though the moonlight spills silver, I see that her eyes are bright spun gold, indignant and brimming with fury.

It’s better that she hates me in this moment, than die the next.

Flashlight beams blind us as the officers ask questions, which neither of us answers. But I know when my sister fully returns to me after wresting the shadow back into submission because the streetlights flicker back to life, the whirring of air conditioners begins again, and the bustle of traffic reemerges. A tiny moth flutters through the air between us and crickets sing from the rooftop’s darkened corners.

Best of all, Belle’s chest heaves. She’s breathing, even if she wastes her breath by cursing me for keeping her here. For getting us into this mess. For not getting us out of it quickly enough for her liking.

A smile tugs at my lips. Belle isn’t and never has been patient.

When the struggling dusk to dawn light spasms near the door, the two broad men holster their Maglite flashlights.

“Ladies,” the youngest of the two begins. Worry weighs upon his tawny brows. “We received a call that someone was threatening to jump from the rooftop.”

He looks between us, but I stare at my sister and Belle silently stares back at me. Her fury has bled away and now, she’s purely strategizing. Searching for a way out of the cuffs at her back. I can’t say I’m not wiggling and twisting and trying to see if they’ll give even a fraction of an inch.

They don’t.

“Which one of you would like to tell me what happened tonight?” he asks more sternly.

“It was just a fight between sisters,” I tell him, managing an embarrassed smile. “If you have siblings, I’m sure you’ve had your fair share.”

The youngest officer, last name Ripley, per his badge, laughs. “I’m the youngest of three boys. Most of our fights ended when blood was drawn or our dad caught us by the scruffs and gave us enough chores to keep us busy and away from one another until we cooled off.”

I beam a smile at him.

“Seems like more than a simple argument, judging by your busted lip,” his slightly older partner interjects, nodding at my face. Officer Murphy will make this a very difficult night for us all if he doesn’t shut his trap.

He warily watches Belle.

Murphy is worried that she’s quite literally a flight risk, and while I want them to drop this issue and let us go back to our apartment for the night, I’m glad he’s paying attention.

I scuff the pebbles under my feet until a small trench forms. “Honestly, it’s nothing. Everything’s under control,” I insist. “Belle is a singer, and she likes the acoustics from the building’s edge. And I don’t like it when she sits or stands on it. We had an argument and it’s over now. We won’t cause any more trouble.”

“Under control?” Murphy questions. Then he snorts and purses his lips as if to say Yeah, right. He could use an ounce or two of his younger partner’s compassion and kindness. Perhaps one too many days seeing far too many people on proverbial ledges or hearing more lies than could possibly be counted sours a heart. Or makes one very adept at detecting untruths…

Murphy is not to be dissuaded, but what about his young partner? I turn to him with pleading eyes.

Officer Ripley’s light eyes meet mine for a moment.

“Surely you can see that I’m telling the truth?” I ask with hope infused into every saccharine word. He does seem to be the most reasonable of the two of them.

“With all due respect, ma’am,” Officer Ripley says as he glances toward where Belle stood before I tackled her to the ground. “I don’t think so.”

Did he see her before they entered the building?

I grit my teeth and fight to control my temper. “What makes you think I’m lying?”

“Pebbles are still falling off your skin, and I’d wager there are plenty more in your Chucks.” He gestures to my red high tops. They match my work shirts and were just my size when I found them at the thrift shop last month for only five bucks.

I lift my chin. “So?”

So what if they’re full of rocks? That proves nothing.

“There’s also a distinct line cut through the roof rocks from this door to the ledge.” He gestures to the path I cut. “You ran for her and you caught her. Then you fought,” he says. “But what if you aren’t here next time? What if you’re not fast enough? We can offer help –”

Before he finishes the sentence I know is already making Belle seethe, Mrs. Jennings, who lives in the apartment across the hall from ours, steps into the doorway in a matted pink house robe, petting her demonic cat. She looks like a stiff breeze would blow her over, so I have no idea how she can heft Garfield the orange terror.

And then I understand why she’s here.

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