“Well, c’mon,” the old woman prodded, smiling. She motioned for Allie to come up on the porch. “What are you waiting for?”
On leaden feet, Allie climbed the steps, taking in the clean scent of freshly mown grass. She wondered what the old woman knew about her. What the file contained that the caseworker was carrying. More importantly, why the woman would even take her in after learning about her past—because surely the people at the agency had told her all about it.
“Here she is, Miss Bitty,” the caseworker said. “This is Allie.”
The old woman leaned forward to get a closer look. “Poor dear, what happened to your face?”
Allie stared down at the porch, sweat beading on her brow.
“She was attacked while hitchhiking,” the caseworker said. “She won’t say much about it, though. Just getting that much was pulling teeth.”
The old woman frowned. “My word.”
“Well, like I mentioned on the phone, if at any point you find that she’s too difficult to handle—”
Bitty silenced the woman with a wave of her slight hand.
“It’s just that I’m afraid she’s going to be, um, a little more difficult than the others,” the caseworker said. “She isn’t too happy about being here. And she has quite the mouth on her.”
“Is that right,” Miss Bitty said. More of a statement than a question. Allie could feel the woman’s bright eyes boring into her. “Well, I’m always up for a good challenge, so I think we’ll get along just fine.”
Allie gazed past the woman and said nothing.
“Cat got your tongue, girlie? You can talk, can’t you?”
Allie bristled and reached for something nasty to say, but instead, a wave of bile flooded her throat. “Yes,” she managed weakly.
“I’m impressed,” the old woman said with a smile.
“That makes one of us,” Allie muttered, managing to hold her gaze. The old woman seemed to want to be playful, but Allie wasn’t in the mood.
“Allie!” the caseworker gasped.
The old woman’s smile broadened. “A little spitfire, I see.”
A pain shot through Allie’s raw stomach. Wincing, she clutched it, keeping her eyes locked on the porch.
Please, lady, I just want to sleep. Please, let me sleep.
The old woman frowned. “Something wrong with your stomach?”
“We just came from the emergency room. She tried to overdose on some pills,” the caseworker said. “I have her medications from the hospital.”
Bitty nodded.
“She also has a more in-depth physical scheduled . . . and the sheriff’s department wants to interview her again. I have all the information written down for you. Dates, times. Of course I’ll have to be present during any questioning of a minor, so if anything changes, I’ll need to be notified.”
The old woman nodded her understanding, then held out a sun-withered hand to Allie. “I’m Bitty. It’s wonderful to meet you.”
Allie glanced at Bitty’s hand but didn’t take it.
“Allie?” the caseworker prompted.
Bitty pulled her hand back and placed it on a petite hip. “I hear that you’ve had a pretty traumatic year, Allie. I’m sorry about your loss.”
“It’s none of your business,” Allie said. She wanted the words to sting, but they sounded weak. So weak Allie could barely hear them leave her mouth.
“Allie,” the caseworker warned.
“No, it’s okay. She’s come to the perfect place,” the old woman said and led them into the house.
Once inside the air-conditioned foyer, she turned to Allie. “Let’s give you the two-minute tour, then let you get some sleep. You look like hell.”
CHAPTER 8
TWENTY MINUTES LATER the caseworker was gone and Allie was alone in a bedroom that matched the exterior of the house. She sucked in the air-conditioned air, grateful to finally get some relief from the oppressive heat, and scanned her surroundings.
Next to one of the room’s two windows was a rocking chair. A big brown teddy bear sat in the middle of it, smiling dumbly at her.
She shot it a dirty look.
There was no way she was going to trust this new situation. The old woman. The nice house.
Several plants and a large bowl of sunflowers topped a bureau, along with a CD player. Allie set her backpack on the bed and fumbled for the CD that she’d found in her brother’s room. She walked across the room and stuck it in the music player.
A moment later Bob Dylan began crooning his sorrowful song, “Lay, Lady, Lay.”
Allie squeezed her eyes shut and listened. Her brother had played that very song over and over the last month of his life, as though he’d become obsessed with it.
Oh God, I miss you so much.
Why did I have to screw up so badly?
After the song ended, Allie opened her eyes again and gazed at the room. The old lady had said that the bedroom was hers. But obviously the woman didn’t know Allie, because Allie would never deserve something so nice.
She was a nobody.
Even worse than a nobody, she was trash.
And once the lady discovered she was, everything would vanish: the room, the hospitality. The big warm welcome into the old woman’s home.
Never trust a good thing. It was something her mother had preached on a daily basis—and the sentiment had stuck.
Across from the bed was a door. Opening it, she was surprised to find a private bathroom. She flipped on the light and stepped inside. Everything was so shiny and spotless it practically gleamed.
She caught her reflection in the mirror and her hand went to her cheek. The truck driver had really done a number on her. The right side of her face was bruised and an angry cut extended from her left ear to her nose.
“Crap,” she muttered, grazing it with a finger. She caught sight of the rest of her face and shuddered.
Gross.