He had not yet alerted Moloney to his whereabouts. He didn’t want to get the man’s hopes up before he’d discovered anything concrete. Finding out the girl was still alive had been a matter of luck. Finding out where she had been sent had been a matter of painful and bloody coercion.
After maneuvering through the complicated filing system, he was finally able to type in his search. Clicking in the waiting box, the cursor blinked at him. Mort’s fingers moved swiftly over the keyboard, pecking out the name that had come at such a high price. He was so close he could taste it.
He hit Enter and smiled as the screen displayed JOSIE BANKS: ONE RESULT FOUND
5. Satellite
Any object that orbits another celestial body.
Monica Templeton, all five feet nothing of her, approached the dilapidated redbrick building without hesitation. Though she didn’t live in the neighborhood, she was here often. Being a social worker took her to every nook and cranny of this city. There were no boundaries set by race, religion, or social status. Her job included everyone. It’s what had brought her into the field in the first place. Monica truly believed that everyone deserved a fair chance at a happy and healthy life.
Home visits were usually unpleasant, but they were a necessary part of the job. It was imperative to visit the children in their homes, making sure they were taken care of and provided for. In her many years on the job, and through trials that tested her moral strength, she had learned to take nothing for granted. Monica became an expert at seeing things that were not meant to be seen, at assessing visual clues and behaviors. In short, she’d learned a great deal from her mistakes.
She smiled at three girls jumping rope on the sidewalk, their plastic snap barrettes dancing at the end of their braids. Together their sweet voices serenaded the street corner.
“Cinderella dressed in yella went upstairs to kiss her fella. Made a mistake and kissed a snake. How many doctors did it take? 1, 2, 3, 4, 5—awwww!”
The girls laughed as they tripped on the rope. In seconds, they were set up to try again. Two women watched from a balcony on the second floor, smoking their cigarettes and talking animatedly with their hands. Though engrossed in their conversation, one of them always had an eye on the girls. On the stoop sat four large men, looking comfortable and uninterested in Monica’s arrival.
“Excuse me,” she said, looking each one of them in the eye. No one moved. “I said excuse me,” she repeated a bit louder, popping her gum to get their attention.
One man stood, his ribbed shirt clinging to his muscles. He wore three gold chains and pristine sneakers. Monica knew his type.
“Yeah, we heard you,” he answered, stepping closer, towering over the tiny woman. “What you want here?”
“That is my business. I suggest that you and your friends move aside. While I appreciate the whole thug look you’ve got going on here,” Monica said, waving her hand across his body like a game show host, “I don’t have time for it. Take your disrespectful attitude, mooching off of some hardworking single mom, deadbeat ass out of my way before I perforate your skull with the heel of my imitation Jimmy Choos.”
A chorus of “oohs” rang out from his friends as he glared at her. Monica refused to back down, her neck aching from returning his gaze.
“I got shit to do anyway,” he said.
A few seconds later, he stepped away and let her pass. So did the others.
A light tapping at Josie’s door pulled her inside from her place on the fire escape. She knew, just from the patience of the knock, that it wasn’t Alex. She approached the door and spoke through the solid wood.
“Who is it?”
“Your friend Monica,” her high-spirited voice sang.
Josie rolled her eyes, unlocked the door, and motioned for her to come inside. She suddenly wished for a strong drink and a joint, some sort of chemical buffer between them. Monica immediately took a seat at the small kitchen table. She blew a bubble of her pink gum and sucked it back in. Josie didn’t like how Monica looked in her apartment, a perfect little package among motley furniture and chipping paint. If it weren’t for manners, she knew Monica might be tempted to clean her chair with an antibacterial wipe before sitting. Josie was almost positive the woman had them in her purse.
“I don’t have any friends,” Josie reminded her, taking a seat in the opposite chair and crossing her arms defensively.
Josie considered herself a solitary soul, always avoiding relationships and the human race in general. The interaction, attention, and conversation it took to maintain relationships required too much exertion. Most often, people’s true intentions were buried beneath fake smiles and how-are-you handshakes. Josie was unhappy that her worth was determined by the number of friends she had—or, in this case, didn’t have. Friendship was a commodity to be bought and sold, and she was not interested.
“You may not be my friend, but I’m yours. You have Alex too.”
Josie hated the way Monica always looked at her with pity and self-loathing guilt. The woman’s face, though usually smiling, always held this contrite intensity. Josie wondered if she always had that look or if it appeared only when they were within six feet of each other. They sat in a customary standoff, each trying to guess the intention of the other. Monica knew this visit wouldn’t end well; she could feel the hostility rolling off of Josie in battering waves. She could practically see the confrontation written across the girl’s face.
Josie stared out the window, hoping that when she turned back, Monica would be gone. No such luck. She could see all the pity that fueled her own anger. Monica’s face was masked in casual interest, but Josie saw right through it.
“Did you need something?” Josie finally asked.
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“I’m fine,” Josie answered.
“Well, I had a cancellation and thought I’d check in on you. These people have no consideration. I drove all the way over here for our prearranged appointment time only to find out they are in Anaheim for the day. I mean, really.”
“Sorry you had to slum it for nothing. You better run along before someone steals your car.”
While Josie didn’t have ill feelings toward Monica, she wasn’t exactly a fan. As a state-appointed social worker, Monica had been free and clear of her obligation to Josie for four years now. Josie had always assumed that Monica’s feelings of failure would eventually wane and the woman would disappear from her life like everyone else. Yet here she was, still keeping watch over Josie.
“You always say you are fine. How are you really? Are you working? Going to school?”
“No and no.”
Monica leaned back in the rickety chair and crossed her legs. The toe of her shoe tapped anxiously against the table leg while she pondered how far to push today.
“Josie, you really should consider getting a job or at least decide what to do with the rest of your life. It’s great that you sit around drawing pictures and getting high all day. Hell, if it were up to me, I’d spend my time reading romance novels in front of the Home Shopping Network while munching on Oreos. But I live in the real world. It’s just not possible.”
Josie stood and grabbed a glass from her kitchen counter. She filled it with tap water and swallowed the whole lot down at once. She felt smothered by Monica, held down and accountable. But she wasn’t quite sure what she should be accountable for. The water didn’t cool her insides like she’d hoped, so she turned and faced Monica.