Not James.
A stranger. With a camera. Lifting it. Pointing at me.
My hands flew to my face.
The shutter whirred and every ounce of frustration in me hardened. This was why I was out here, alone and exhausted. It wasn’t because I’d discovered I was adopted. It wasn’t because I’d discovered my parents were Todd and Pamela Larsen. It was reporters like this son of a bitch, him and all the ghouls at home, slavering for tawdry tidbits.
“People want to hear your story, Olivia,” the man said as he continued toward me, camera raised. “They want to know what you’re going through.”
“What I’m going through?” I snarled, my hands falling away. “They have no goddamned idea what I’m going through. They don’t care. They just want a story. A good old-fashioned horror story.”
He stepped back and I thought, There. Just stand firm and they’ll back down. But then I remembered standing in my hallway, telling off Niles Gunderson, just in time to block my face as the reporter’s camera started snapping.
“Come on, Olivia,” he said. “Show them what you really think of them. This is your chance. Tell them all to go to hell.”
I spun and marched down the sidewalk.
“You’re news, honey,” he called after me. “Get used to it.”
Chapter Eleven
I wasted five dollars on a three-block cab ride, just to escape that reporter before I completely lost my temper. He hadn’t really looked much like James. I suppose that showed just how much I’d been hoping it was him. Hoping for rescue? No. Of course not.
Okay, maybe a little, but perhaps I can be excused for a brief flicker of fantasy.
I wanted to go home and be with my mother. I wanted to do the right thing and stay away. I wanted to see James. I wanted to stick to my guns and not see him. I wanted rescue. I wanted to do this on my own.
Let’s face it, at this point, “What would you like for dinner?” would send me into a tizzy of indecision.
When I got out of the cab, the world was still muted, dull, and the nervous twitch of anxiety in my gut had grown to full-blown clenching, complete with sweat trickling down my face.
I looked around, again searching for something to ground myself. I didn’t know what it was, just knew that I needed something.
Then I saw a shiny spot of copper on the sidewalk, and heard a woman’s singsong voice, deep in my head.
See a penny and pick it up,
And all day you’ll have good luck.
See a penny, let it lay,
And bad luck you’ll have all day.
I picked up the penny. When I did, the world snapped back into focus, like a window being thrown open. Cars screeched and honked. Drivers gestured and swore. Passersby muttered and laughed into cell phones. The scent of exhaust and garbage swirled around me. I closed my eyes and let the smells and sounds wash over me, feeling that familiar prickle that said this was all information and I had to figure it out, make sense of it. Anxiety, yes, but an anxiety I knew.
When I opened my eyes, I saw two women across the road cast glances my way and whisper to each other. That’s when I realized why my day had been so quiet. I’d been blocking it all out. Telling myself no one recognized me.
I turned and almost crashed into an elderly woman whose eyes widened when she saw my face. My stomach clenched again, and I stepped aside, ready to flee, but she caught my sleeve.
“Was it a shiny penny?” she asked.
“W-what?”
She smiled. “The penny you picked up. I didn’t think young people did that anymore. Was it shiny?”
I opened my hand. The newly minted coin gleamed.
“Then it’s extra lucky. That’s what my gran always said.” She patted my arm. “I’m glad you found it, dear. You look like you could use some luck.”
Another smile. Another pat. And she was on her way.
I took a deep breath and glanced over to see the two women again, now pointing out an albino squirrel walking along a fence top.
So they hadn’t been talking about me after all. I squeezed the penny, smiled, and headed to the next apartment on my list.
Lucky Penny
The old woman watched the girl pick up her pace, a faint smile on her lips as she clutched her lucky penny. At least she was smiling now, poor thing.
The woman had recognized the girl from the paper. Anyone who’d seen the photos would, despite her clumsy attempts to disguise her identity.
The woman remembered the Larsen case. Her niece had worked at the prison where they’d held Pamela Larsen. Such a nice lady, she’d said. Pretty and quiet and polite. People said he was just as nice, always asking about his wife and his little girl, not caring what happened to him as long as they were safe.
It was a setup, that’s what her niece always said. Those murders had the city gripped with fear, so the police needed a scapegoat, and they found a young couple without the money to pay for a proper defense. A travesty of justice. Now their poor daughter was caught up in the mess. Such a shame. Such a tragedy. One that sadly no penny, however bright, could fix.
Chapter Twelve
When I reached the next apartment, I decided that if the penny held any luck, it was clearly running on a delay. The building was fine—a narrow four-story, yellow-brick structure with huge windows facing the tree-lined street. But the neighborhood … let’s just say that it proved I didn’t know Chicago as well as I thought.
Thirty years ago, this was probably a great place to live. The ancient oaks arching over the street attested to that, as did the wrought-iron fences around each building. But the sidewalks were crumbling, the iron hadn’t been painted in a decade, and there was an air of eerily quiet desolation, as if everyone retreated after work and bolted their doors.
The only people on the street were two girls on a bench. They couldn’t have been more than sixteen. No homework bags for them, though. They likely hadn’t set foot inside a school in years. It wasn’t even nine and they were out there in their microskirts and teased hair and layer cake of makeup, not speaking to one another, just staring at the road. Waiting for some middle-aged man, who’d take them to a cheap motel if they were lucky, but more likely the walkway beside the building, where ten minutes later, they’d emerge, twenty bucks in hand, return to their bench, and start all over again.
A few days ago, I’d have been tempted to give them a hundred each and tell them to go home. Now, I couldn’t afford it. Besides, even when I’d had the money, I’d have known it wouldn’t help. They’d pocket the cash and stay on the bench. Giving them the address of a shelter wouldn’t do any good, either. They knew such things existed. If they were interested, they’d go. They weren’t.
The best I could do was acknowledge them as I passed, calling out a cheerful, “Good evening.” They turned, met my gaze with blank, soul-stifled stares, then returned to their silent watch.
I climbed the steps. As I did, I caught a glimpse of something on the cement landing. Not another penny, but a design of some sort, glittering just as brightly. When I got to the top, though, I saw only gray concrete.
“Drop something, miss?”
The voice was strong, youthful, but the man stepping through the front door couldn’t have been under eighty. He was nearly a half foot shorter than me, with a pointed chin and wisps of white hair salting a freckled bald head. In one bony hand, he clutched an empty cloth grocery bag.
“I thought I saw…” I shook my head. “Long day.”
He gave me a look then. I stepped back, thinking he recognized me, but he only squinted nearsightedly, as if making sure I wasn’t a neighbor, then bid me a good evening and continued down the steps.