He sat parked for 10 minutes, just staring at Carmen’s diary on the seat beside him. He ran his fingers along the worn leather binding; conflicted, curious. The implications of it even existing made it seem like some religious text, ancient.
He caressed the tiny brass lock that held it closed. He could have broken it with a good squeeze of his thumb and forefinger. But doing so felt like such a violation. He picked it up, held it firmly with both hands, then tossed it back down again.
“Shit.”
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel for a few moments, then snatched it back up again with purpose. “Forgive me…”
He broke the tiny seal. The writing was all in Spanish. Some of the pages had tiny drawings in the side margins. He flipped through a few and a photo slipped out. It was a picture of Carmen and a young man, smiling — a photo booth picture, the kind you’d get at the mall or amusement park. On the back was written CM & VR in a heart. Jack flipped to the last entry. It was dated a week before she was reported missing. He struggled to decipher a few words, but his Spanish was rudimentary at best: hello, goodbye, bathroom — and all of the curses shouted at him while interrogating murder suspects in the inner city. That was about it.
It was getting late, if he didn’t hurry, it would be dark soon. Jack circled the block several times, scoping out the locals, looking for a potential volunteer. After assessing the candidates — a man in his undershirt drinking beer on his stoop, a couple arguing outside their apartment, two men working on their car, he returned to a group of 13-14 year old girls, singing clever rhymes while skipping double dutch rope in the street.
He took a moment to debate what he was doing. Several officers back at the station spoke Spanish and could easily translate this for him. But the content of the book, its circumstances, exposed him to ridicule, especially with Harrington, who’d made him question his own judgment. When it came to humiliation, Jack was risk averse.
He rolled down his passenger side window, leaning over. “Excuse me!” he called out to the girls. They didn’t hear, so he called out again, “Hey, excuse me!” One of the girls waiting her turn looked back at him: You talking to me? “Hi, yes, can I talk to you?”
She had thick wavy brown hair and wore cut off shorts with a half shirt that had the word precioso bedazzled on the chest. She cautiously approached his car, leaving a good two feet of distance. Her friends paid him no mind and kept their routine going, jumping with perfect timing while the two others spun the rope faster and faster, chanting their song.
She leaned in. “What?”
“I was wondering if you could help me out?”
A hand on her hips, suspicious. “You lost?”
“No, listen, I’ll pay you ten bucks if you—”
“Fuck off—”
“No, it’s not like that. I just need you to help me read something.”
“Why, you stupid?”
“No — well yes, I am, but this is… I don’t speak Spanish, and I have this book I’d like you to read to me.”
“What makes you think I speak Spanish?”
“A hunch.”
She curled her lips and looked back at her friends. “This gonna take long?”
“Depends on how fast you can read. No, it won’t take long, just a few minutes.”
Jack put his car in gear and pulled over to the side of the road. He turned off the motor as she opened the door to climb in.
Jack got out of the car and walked over to a nearby stoop. She made a face like he must be crazy. She got back out, slamming the door.
“What you doin?”
“Never get into a stranger’s car,” Jack said as he slowly sat down on the stoop, the pain making him look like an old man. He tried to hide it, but she noticed. She also noticed his gun holster as his jacket shifted.
“You’re a cop?”
“Detective.”
“What’s the difference?”
“More paperwork. Sit.”
She sat down beside him, wondering why she agreed to this. He handed her the book.
“This looks like someone’s diary.” She opened it and flipped a few pages. “You’re not supposed to read these,” she said with a sly grin, but serious.
“It’s okay, it’s not supposed to exist. Can you read her handwriting?”
“She drew these pictures? Man… they sick, oh shit.”
“Can you read it?”
“I’m reading it.”
“Out loud?”
“Which page?”
“I don’t know. Just read.”
“Today was cloudy. I stubbed my toe on my bedpost, it hurt so bad. My little brother won’t stop singing that stupid song—”
“Skip to the next page.” Jack twirled his hand in a rush.
“I miss my papa. Haven’t seen him for a few days, he is working nights again.”
“Next one.”
She mumbled, straining to read the first few scribbles. “January 12. Ummm, to a, to see it hanging there, knowing so many people could admire it for years to come. My papa was so proud, I came in first place. I got a gift; free dinner for two at Cafe Gianna’s. I gave it to my father, to take my mother. He works so hard. He cried when he saw it. He touched my name at the bottom. He’s been back there three times since it went up. He tells me, this is just the beginning.”
“Skip to the final entry,” Jack said.
She flipped to the last written page. “April 17. Today in class a man posed nude for us to paint. I know it was not a sin, but I felt ashamed. Like I do when I have those feelings. Victor gets angry at me. He scares me sometimes. I love him with my heart. I want to love him with my body-ooh, this is getting good.”
“Just keep reading.”
“I want to love him with my body, but I don’t want to lose the love of the Lord. My mother would kill me if she knew. How can something so beautiful be such a sin?”
“She mention Victor’s last name?” Jack asked.
The girl read a few more sentences to herself, mumbling as she scanned the lines.
“No, but there’s a phone number next to this, look.”
Jack took the book back and stood up. “Thanks.” He handed her ten dollars and walked back to his car.
“This girl gonna get pissed if she finds out you read her diary?” Jack opened his door and climbed in.
“No, she’d dead.”
The girl shivered and wiped her hands on her jeans, grossed out.
CHAPTER 42
Rebecca crept past Laura, asleep on the couch in the living room. She had taken some aspirin and dozed off while watching TV, still on with the volume low. Rebecca moved through the kitchen to the laundry room in back.
Inside were stacks of boxes, some opened, some still sealed with box tape since the move. She’d seen her mother carry a small book into this room and return empty handed. Her mother had been crying, unaware she’d been watching her from the staircase, which gave a clear view into the kitchen and the entrance to the laundry area if she crouched down under the metal railing.
Rebecca went to the open boxes first. One was filled with clothes of hers that she no longer fit into, donate to Goodwill was scribbled on the side. Another had pots and pans in it. Rebecca moved that box aside and something in it shifted, making a loud noise. Rebecca froze and listened for her mother. She waited a good minute before she continued, opening another box that was filled with old photo albums. The first one was a flip book from Disney World. Rebecca was just 3 or 4 years old. She had no memory of going, but from the photographs it looked like she had fun. She wondered why she had so much trouble remembering things from when she was younger.