“What am I, a horse?” I asked.
“More like a bull,” said Stan.
“You should talk.”
Aleisha laughed. “True enough. But why are we standing here? Get your scrawny butt inside and tell us what’s been keeping you too busy to visit.” She called back to the kitchen, “Emma, dear, can you bring out a tray? Just fill it with what we had for lunch. Oh, and a pitcher of iced tea. Thank you.”
I plopped myself on the couch opposite Stan’s recliner and Aleisha’s favorite love seat. They had arranged their living area to give their guests a clear view of the front door. Aleisha said it relaxed the women to see the bolts on the door and know that no one could see them through the bushes covering the windows. I would have positioned myself with a view of the front door no matter how they had decorated. Like anyone trained in combat, I preferred to see trouble coming.
Aleisha leaned in. “You heard from Kateryna?”
I shook my head. “And I don’t expect to.”
She nodded. “I read about the killings. You never told me about that other man.”
“What man?”
“Don’t be coy with me. I read it in the paper—Kateryna’s husband and another man killed on the same night, both of them immigrants from Ukraine. Who was the other man? I assumed he was connected to Dmitry?”
I shrugged. Although Aleisha and Stan hired me to extract abused women from dangerous situations, I didn’t usually share the details of how I got them out or how I discouraged their tormentors from pursuit. As for the Ukrainians, I’d take that secret to the grave.
Aleisha took my silence for an answer and dropped the subject. “So, who are you helping now?”
“No one. I think that’s the problem. My mind is so full of me I can barely function.”
Stan tightened his lips and hummed his disapproval. “Mm-hmm. Well that explains the weight loss and the tired eyes.”
“Geez, Stan. Do I really look that bad?”
Aleisha patted my foot. “Not bad, honey. Just not…great. But that’s to be expected after what you went through. Honestly, after that trauma, I’d be surprised if you weren’t suffering any PTSD effects.”
“Whoa. Let’s not get carried away. I do not have PTSD.”
“Really? What would you call it?”
Aleisha might not know all the details, but she had known about the gang killings, and now she apparently knew about the Ukrainian assassinations. But what she didn’t know—and what I could never tell her—is about the innocent woman I could have—and should have—saved.
“I don’t know what’s up with me,” I lied. “But it’s definitely affecting my judgment. I beat the crap out of three guys who were chasing a couple of teenage thieves. And no,” I said, holding up my hand before either of them could interrupt, “I didn’t know the kids were thieves at the time.”
“Then why?” Aleisha asked.
“They reminded me of Katerina and Ilya.”
Aleisha nodded. “Any flashbacks?”
“One or two”
“Since the incident or every day?”
“Ha. More like every hour.”
“What else?”
I frowned. Bad enough Aleisha monitored my health and appearance, did I really want her analyzing my mental stability? Too late now: If I didn’t want the inquisition, I should have ridden straight home.
“The guys I beat up were Mexican-American. They called me a racist.”
Aleisha stared at me in surprise, thought about it a moment, then nodded. “You assumed they were guilty because of how they looked.”
“Yeah.”
“Because they were Chicano? Or because they looked like members of that gang you told me about?”
I closed my eyes to better recall the men. Cropped hair, striped tees, low-crotch baggy shorts, crew socks, fancy kicks—just like the Varrios who had imprisoned Ilya and Kateryna. I opened my eyes. “They reminded me of the gang.”
Aleisha nodded. “And the kids they were chasing reminded you of Ilya.” She patted my foot again.
“Yeah. Well, that’s not all. I saw these girls at a taco shack. They didn’t belong together. One was older—maybe a senior in high school—streetwise, black. The other was a young, naive, Guatemalan. They didn’t fit. But after what happened earlier, I don’t know if I can trust my judgment.”
Aleisha raised her brows. “What school?”
“Jefferson.”
“That high school’s got a rich history in the black community.”
“I know.”
“But when the neighborhood changed do you know how much of that school’s culture was lost? Blacks moved out. Latinos moved in. The color of the whole community lightened, and everything was different.”
I thought about what Dolla had said to Ana Lucía. “The students revolted.”
“Uh-huh. Hundreds of black and Latino teens, cops in riot gear. It nearly ripped that school apart.”
I thought back to the news reports I had seen as a child. “It all started with payback, right? For how the parents of the Mexican-American kids were treated when they moved into the community?”
“True enough, which is why I’m actually glad to hear about a black girl befriending a girl from Guatemala. We need more of that in this city, no matter what happened before.”
I frowned. “So you think my intuition’s off? That I jumped to the wrong conclusion just like I did with the guys in Exposition Park?”
Aleisha shrugged. “It’s not uncommon to mistrust people after a traumatic event.”
“It’s not PTSD.” I stood up and walked around the couch, putting a barrier between Aleisha and me. “And I’m not having a breakdown. I’m just…distracted. Ma’s turning fifty tomorrow. She’s driving me crazy.”
Aleisha and Stan exchanged glances, no doubt noting my sudden change of direction. Let them. I didn’t come here to get picked on. I came for support.
A tall girl, who I assumed was Emma, approached from the kitchen carrying a serving tray loaded with enough food to feed all four of us, and which I suspected was only meant for me.
“Thanks, Em. Just set it on the table.” Aleisha said.
As Emma complied, I made a quick assessment.
She looked about my age, twenty-five or a little younger, and had one of those Hollywood mean girl faces with neatly arched brows and a straight-edged nose. Her eyes were blue, complexion creamy, and her long, straight hair was the color of polished copper. Her tall, slim figure spoke of good genes rather than hard work and made the gray tee and sweatpants she wore look like couture grunge.
Who was this girl? A drug addicted model? The daughter of an abusive billionaire? An escort who wanted out? Whatever her story, Emma’s wary eyes suggested hard times.
Aleisha gestured to a spot on the couch beside me. “Come sit with us. This is Lily, a dear friend of ours and a champion of women.”