Page 51 of The Broken Places

To the old mill where he got high every day, to that bus station where he used the last of his money he hadn’t spent on drugs to buy a ticket that would take him anywhere but there. Anywhere.Anywherebut there. To San Francisco. The city by the bay with the golden bridge that had turned out not to be golden at all.

He started to step onto that bus, to walk to the young man that was him, huddled in the back, trying to make himself small. But a flash of red caught his eye, and he turned, his heart jolting as he saw the little boy step from behind a column.Shh,his guide said, her feathers brushing against his cheek.Back, forth, back, forth.

Thud, thud, thud.

His heart slowed; he felt the brush of feathers and the earth beneath his feet. He blinked, but the boy remained, gaze hung on him. “Help,” the boy croaked. “Help me.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The door to the one-story black building standing between two parking lots was propped wide open. “Hello?” Lennon called, leaning her head inside and looking around. There was a wall directly in front of her, however, and another one to her right. Even with the door open, the hall to the left faded into darkness. Lennon paused, but then stepped inside and walked toward the small glow that came from the other side of the wall. “Hello?”

She’d looked up the podcast that Brandy had mentioned and found that the host was a man named Jamal Whitaker. It appeared he interviewed people—using a video format—who lived or worked on the streets, including prostitutes, pimps, drug addicts, and more.

She’d searched for Cherish on the website but hadn’t found anyone with her name, even though a few young women had resembled her.Close, but no cigar.She had a feeling she was on the right track, though—thanks to Brandy—and was eager to talk to the host.

She heard footsteps and halted as a man rounded the corner, then drew back slightly. “Hey, sorry about that. I was editing a video. I thought I heard someone, and then—” He gave his head a shake and held out his hand. “Hi. I’m Jamal Whitaker. How can I help you?”

“Hi, Mr. Whitaker. I’m Inspector Lennon Gray with the San Francisco Police Department, and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?”Please don’t ask to see my credentials.

“Inspector? Is there a problem?”

“No. Your name just came up during an investigation.”

“Oh. Uh, yeah, sure. Like I said, I was just doing some editing. Come on back. Let me get some light up in here.”

Jamal flipped a switch, and light flooded the small space. Directly in front of her was a single velvet couch and a coffee table with a camera off to the side. The entire studio was compact, including the kitchenette to her right. Just one thing in the room was massive—the computer sitting atop a desk nearby, the screen showing the frozen image of a grizzled old man sitting on the velvet couch. Her gaze hung on the still shot for a moment. The old man looked utterly out of place on the somewhat fancy piece of classic furniture, and something about the juxtaposition moved her.

“Can I get you a coffee? A bottle of water?”

“No, I’m good. Thank you.”

“Do you want to sit down?” he asked, waving his hand to a plastic chair near his desk. There were papers scattered across the surface, and she recognized the colorful invitation to the award dinner that had also been hanging on the bulletin board at the Gilbert House.

“No, that’s okay,” she said. “I won’t take up much of your time.” She looked back at the couch. “I didn’t realize podcasts used video.”

Jamal perched himself on the edge of his desk and crossed his arms. “Yeah. It’s growing in popularity. And with certain topics, visual content is much more engaging. I interview such a variety of people that my audience connects more when they can see the person who’s telling their story.”

That made sense. You could get even more information about a person just by watching their facial expressions, their body movements, and the like. She was always personally much more engaged by visual input rather than just auditory. Plus, if Jamal interviewed people wholived on the street, listeners experiencing their story would naturally want to see how their lifestyle had affected them physically.

“One of your more recent guests might have been a murder victim.”

“Damn.” Jamal blew out a breath. “I mean, I can’t say I’m too surprised. The people I interview tend to live pretty risky lives.”

“I know. And the woman’s death almost certainly isn’t related to you, and I didn’t find her on your website. But I’m hoping you might be able to give me some information.”

“Sure. What was her name? Her first name? I don’t ask for last names. And often, the name they give me is a nickname or a stage name or a gang name, or whatever.”

“Cherish.”

He took the side of his lip between his teeth. “Cherish. Cherish.” He met Lennon’s eyes. “Wait, prostitute? Young?”

“That’s her.”

“That was, what ... three or four months ago that I interviewed her?”

“That’s what her roommate said, yes.”

He pushed himself off his desk, walked around it to his chair, sat down, and started typing on the keyboard. “Yeah, I remember her. I did quite a few interviews that week, and when that happens, I usually stagger the posts. What’s your email? I have the interview in a Dropbox folder and can send you a link.”

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