Page 37 of Catching Camila

“It’s like a ghost town around here,” John said, his eyes tracing up and down the four-lane road. A few cars zipped past, going way over the posted speed limit. Everyone wanted to get where they were going and lock themselves in. Camila thought of Mama and walked a little faster.

They passed a coffee shop, nearly empty but for a few employees, and a closed ladies’ retail store. Camila shook her head. “What’s it going to take for them to catch whoever or whatever is doing this?”

John swallowed. “It won’t be easy.”

Camila looked up at John, a shiver running over her arms. There was something in his voice.

They walked through a weedy parking lot and down an embankment that stank of animal waste and sour liquor. The dry two-foot-high grass lashed at their legs. They dodged faded beer cans, broken bottles and candy bar wrappers fluttering in the breeze. From here they could see her trailer park, saggy rectangles in a multitude of stained colors.

As they entered the trailer park, the air hung hot and heavy. The empty playground swings moaned in the breeze. No one trusted their children out today. They were cramped inside on musty carpets while their mothers watched Judge Judy.

They stopped in front of her trailer. No way to tell if Mama was home from the driveway.

“Wait here, please,” she said to John, who tucked his large frame into a folding chair between two stacks of boxes. She opened the front door and stepped inside.

The smell of cleaning chemicals had abated and the powerful aroma of decaying synthetic material and stale air was back. From the entryway she could see new shopping bags resting next to the ones from yesterday. Garage sale finds by the look of it. More flip-flops, CDs, and knick-knacks.

Camila walked in and peered over the couch. Empty. A look to the kitchen showed it unoccupied. She walked down to the bathroom and pushed that door open. Mama must’ve washed some of her clothes in the bathtub—wet socks, T-shirts, shorts, and bras were slung over every available surface to dry.

The only place left to look was her room. Dread surged up as she pushed into her bedroom.

Mama was splayed across her bed, still in her clothes. One high heel lay on the ground discarded. The other dangled from Mama’s foot extending off the edge of the bed. Lipstick was smeared on Camila's pillowcase.

Mama was home safe. And judging by the way she was snoring, she’d be out for a while. She probably hadn’t slept in at least twenty-four hours.

Camila found John sitting with his hands in his lap right where she'd left him. His eyes met hers as she stood over him.

“Is she here?” he asked.

“She’s asleep. Probably will be all night.”

John got up and gestured to the folding chair, offering it to her. She shook her head. They still had a good three hours of daylight. She didn’t want to spend it sitting in her mouse-infested carport. Still, it wasn’t safe to go out. But, the lake was always well patrolled by police. They could make it home before dark just to be safe. “You wanna go for a walk?” she asked.

“What about the killer?”

“We have a few hours a daylight left, right? And the police say we shouldn’t be afraid. I’m not going to be cooped up like a prisoner.”

“Okay. Where are we going?”

“The lake.”

“The lake?” he asked.

She nodded. “You'll see.”

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