Page 33 of Cruel Fate

“God.”

“That about sums it up. I thought if you could connect with her, show her she can make something of herself . . .”

“Sure.” I rise halfway off my chair.

“Wait until after dinner. Let her get to know you a little while we have some table talk.”

“Okay.”

“Tell me about your young man,” Maryanne says, beckoning me out onto the large porch. She opens the door, and the girl on the swing, Jilly, looks our way but doesn’t come over.

While Maryanne keeps an eye on the burgers and hotdogs, I explain how Zarah and I came to be friends, how I met Zane, and how out of place I feel whenever I’m around them.

The evening is gorgeous, the setting sun lighting the sky ablaze with oranges, pinks, and purples. This is part of what I miss living on the outskirts of the city—the peace, the fresh air. But jobs are scarce in the suburbs, and I had little choice but to move.

I treasure my visits, and as the frantic energy of the city oozes out of me, my bones turn to jelly.

The trees in Maryanne’s yard are starting to lose their leaves, and a blanket of burnt orange and browns covers the grass. It was my job to rake, but I never minded. I enjoyed the birds singing, squirrels jumping from tree to tree, cool breezes, and the woodsmoke wafting from the houses around us—people who lit fires in their yards or used real fireplaces to warm their homes.

Fall has always been my favorite time of year, but even more so during the years I lived with Maryanne. She and I would visit a pumpkin patch, and we would spend the afternoon choosing the perfect pumpkin, drinking apple cider, and talking about life. She’s wise and down-to-earth, and I always valued her opinion and point of view. I still do. But I think the best part was handing out candy to trick-or-treaters.

I’ve been trick-or-treating, but not that kind. My life has been filled with tricks and very few treats.

The swing’s chains creak, and Jilly pushes back and forth.

“Are you and Zane a couple?” Maryanne asks, lowering the lid on the grill. The burgers always need longer to cook through.

“No. We haven’t been together long enough for me to think that. He promoted me, and I’m his executive assistant now. Later this week, I’m helping his sister plan a party celebrating . . . I guess Zane taking over the company.”

“I heard about the plane crash.” Maryanne clucks. “There are rumors of foul play.”

The meeting Zane let me sit in on made it sound like more than simply foul play. The plane crash sounds dark, and well, complicated. A senator cheating on his wife with a woman who hosts illegal million-dollar poker parties, and one of the richest, most powerful men in the country and his beautiful wife. God only knows who else.

If there are others like the FBI agent said, passengers unaccounted for, those people have not been reported missing. It’s been six months. Unless someone doesn’t want to call attention to themselves and their families or no one wants to look for them. Or they know the truth, whatever that is.

The whole thing is over my head. The closest thing I ever came to illegal activity is one winter evening when the cops busted a meth lab a few blocks over from Maryanne’s house. They arrested a nice middle-aged couple and confiscated twenty thousand dollars’ worth of drugs.

I can’t wrap my mind around premeditated murder.

Maryanne pins me with a stare waiting for an answer I don’t have.

“It’s been hard for them,” I say.

“I’m sure you’re a sympathetic ear,” she says, patting me on the shoulder.

“He took a chance promoting me. While he’s learning his place in the company, I’m learning how to do my job. I’m hoping I learn first so I can help him figure out the rest.”

Maryanne grips my chin. “I’m proud of you. I knew when you lived here that you would make something of yourself.”

Tears fill my eyes. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“That’s nonsense. You put up with a lot of shit before I took you. You can do anything you set your mind to, young lady. It’s why I want you to talk to Jilly. She needs some of your spunk. Now, help this old lady bring the food in. Jilly!” Maryanne calls across the yard. “Time to eat.”

The girl had been watching us talk, and she reluctantly slides off the swing bench, kicking at the leaves as she ambles across the grass. She’s thin, her skin pale, and when I meet her eyes, they’re empty, flat. She stares right through me.

Maryanne, the girls, and I sit at the table, and I don’t waste a second. Cooking for one isn’t fun, and I usually make do fixing a sandwich, heating a package of ramen noodles in the microwave, or throwing together a salad if I can afford tomatoes.

It will be a few weeks before my paychecks reflecting my pay raise kick in, but once they do, I’ll be able to eat better.

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