Page 3 of Caged Bird

Panic curled inside me because I knew that wouldn’t be enough. I found some cold cuts and bread and slathered on some mustard to make sandwiches. I made one trip out with the bowls of chips and a handful of sandwiches cut up into triangles, beelining for Eddie, even though his friends all swooped on me like vultures who hadn’t eaten in a month.

Even still, I managed to place a platter directly by his side. I paused after setting it down, waiting for his gaze to run over me and for him to decide whether he was happy with my appearance.

But he was deep in work mode, negotiating with a short, stocky gangbanger for a packet of snow-white powder Eddie pulled from deep inside his pocket.

This wasn’t the man’s first deal. I’d seen him here a few times now. I always made a point of trying to remember all of Eddie’s acquaintances’ names, as well as any little bits of information about them I managed to overhear. At first it had been because of a burning anger inside me. One that had been determined totell the police everything when I finally got out of here. I used to lie awake at night, first in the basements Eddie kept me in, and then beside him as he snored in the bed next to me. I’d daydream about police busting down the doors and freeing me, then using everything I knew about Eddie and his friends to bring them all down.

For a while there, it had been the only way I got through each day.

But day by day, week by week, as months turned into years, those ambitions faded. Nobody was coming for me. Not the cops. Not the family I’d disowned. Not my friends.

They all assumed I was dead. I was sure of that. I very nearly had been. More than once. I couldn’t even blame them for giving up.

So now I forced myself to remember things about Eddie’s friends only so my brain had something to do. I’d never been a smart woman, flunking out of school early, but without any sort of input from the outside world, I craved new information.

Even if all the information was that Eddie’s drugs were going to a man they called Grass. I’d never picked up why. I’d never even seen him buy pot from Eddie, only ever the small bags of white powder that had to be coke.

Eddie waved it in front of the shorter man’s face tantalizingly. “Got the good stuff for you tonight. You want?”

Grass reached for it. “You know I do.”

Eddie yanked it out of his reach. “Money first.”

Grass waved a thick wad of cash and tossed it onto Eddie’s lap. “Take your fucking money. I want a taste.” He snatched the baggie from Eddie while he was distracted gathering up the bills.

Grass danced back a few steps and dipped a finger into the bag, quickly sticking the powder-coated digit into his mouth and rubbing it across his gums. He grinned, clutching his baggie happily. “A fucking plus, Ed.”

Despite the praise, irritation forced Eddie’s mouth into a deep scowl, before he noticed me standing there. “What are you fucking doing?” He shoved the cash at me. “Fucking count that instead of sitting there like a stunned mullet. Who’s next?”

I crouched at his feet, gathering all the bills into a neat pile and then quickly counting them.

Something didn’t feel right. I’d counted enough stacks of money for Eddie over the years that I knew what the notes were supposed to feel like. I’d stared at the dead presidents on each one enough I knew all the intricate lines of the portraits.

I paused, turning a note over in my fingers, and then holding it up to the light.

It was fake. I was sure of it.

“Eddie.”

He ignored me, too busy pulling out a new baggie of powder for the next man in line.

“Eddie,” I said again, my tone sharper this time.

It had the desired effect of catching the man’s attention. His dark-eyed gaze slid to me slowly.

Grass sniggered from behind the coffee table where he was creating a line of powder with the edge of a credit card he’d probably stolen. “Your Mrs. wants you, Eddie boy.” He leaned down, pressed one stubby finger to the side of his nose, and used the other nostril to snort the line.

Eddie’s jaw ticked with annoyance. At me or Grass, I couldn’t tell which. Probably both.

It was a risk, pointing out the counterfeit bills. If I was wrong, I’d look stupid and therefore make Eddie look bad. I’d disrespect Grass. He would let Grass punish me.

But if I said nothing, and Eddie realized later that he’d been ripped off, the consequences would be far worse. Eddie would be the one punishing me.

I was still sore from the last mistake I’d made.

I didn’t believe in God, but I prayed to one, anyone, hoping I was right. I leaned in, resting a hand lightly on Eddie’s shoulder so I could whisper in his ear. “The money is fake.”

He drew back sharply, and for a second, I thought I was going to catch the back of his hand for speaking out of place.

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