First Grave on the Right

CHAPTER 7

A prison uniform? What did that mean? Had he gone to prison? Then died there?

The muscles around my heart clenched at the thought. He’d had such a hard life; that much had been painfully clear from the moment I first saw him. Then for him to end up in prison. I couldn’t imagine the horrors he’d had to endure.

While I wanted nothing more than to rush off to the prison, I had no idea which prison he’d been in. He could have been in Sing Sing, for all I knew. I needed to cool my jets and focus on the case. Uncle Bob went to work on the warrant and court transcripts, and the lawyers went to check on their families, so I drove to the Metropolitan Detention Center to talk to Mark Weir, the man Carlos Rivera said was innocent.

The female corrections officer at the sign-in desk studied my APD laminate. “Charlotte Davidson?” she asked, her brows furrowing as if I’d done something wrong.

“That’s me,” I said with an inane giggle.

She didn’t smile back. Not even a little. I totally needed to read that book on how to win friends and influence people. But that would involve an innate desire to win friends and influence people. My desires were a tad more visceral at the moment.

The officer directed me to a waiting area while she called back for Mr. Weir. As I sat pondering my visceral desires, specifically the ones earmarked for Reyes, I heard someone sit down beside me.

“Hey, Grim, what are you doing in my neck of the correctional system?”

I looked over and smiled before fetching my partially charged cell phone. Flipping it open, I made sure it was on silent before I spoke. “Dang, Billy,” I said into the phone, “you’re looking good. Are you losing weight?”

Billy was a Native American inmate who’d committed suicide in the detention center about seven years prior. I tried to convince him to cross, but he insisted on staying behind to help dissuade others from following his asinine example. His words. I often wondered how he might manage such a thing.

A bashful grin spread over his face at my compliment. Despite the fact that the departed couldn’t lose weight, he did look a little slimmer. Maybe there was something I didn’t know. Either way, he was a good-looking man.

He elbowed me playfully. “You and your phones.”

“I gotta do this or they’ll lock me up for talking to myself, Mr. Invisible.”

A deep chuckle rose from his chest. “You here to get in my pants?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Figures,” he said, disappointed. “I always attract the crazy ones.”

Sucking in a sharp breath, I was smack-dab in the middle of an Oscar-worthy performance — feigning offense with such emotion, such realism — when my name was called.

“Oops, that’s me, big guy. When you coming to see me?”

“See you?” he asked as I jumped up to follow the officer toward the visitors’ room. “How can I not see you? You’re as bright as the damned searchlights outside.”

When I turned back, he was gone. I really liked that man.

I sat down at booth seven as a gangly man in his forties sat across from me. He had sandy blond hair and kind blue eyes and looked like a cross between a beach bum and a college professor. A plate glass window separated us, one with thin wire latticed throughout to make it even more inescapable. Sure, I wondered how they got that wire in there, the rows so evenly spaced, but now was not the time for such musings. I had a job to do, dammit. I would not be sidetracked by latticework.

Mr. Weir studied me from the other side — not the other side, but the other side of the glass — his expression curious. I picked up the speaker phone and wondered how many people had used that same phone and how sanitary those people had been.

“Hello, Mr. Weir. My name is Charlotte Davidson.” His face remained blank. Clearly my name did not impress him.

Another inmate strolled in to sit at the next booth, and he cast a wary glance over his shoulder, already eyeing others as if they were the enemy, already on constant guard, ready to defend himself at a moment’s notice. This man didn’t deserve to be in jail. He hadn’t killed anyone. I could sense his clear conscience as easily as I could sense the guilty one of the guy next to him.

“I’m here with some pretty bad news.” I waited as he turned his attention back to me. “Your lawyers were killed last night.”

“My lawyers?” he asked, speaking at last. Then he realized what I was saying, and his eyes widened in surprise. “What, all three of them?”

“Yes, sir. I’m terribly sorry.”

He stared at me as if I’d reached through the glass and bitch-slapped him. Clearly he hadn’t noticed the impossibility of such a feat, considering the latticework and all. After a long moment, he asked, “What happened?”

“They were shot. We believe their deaths are somehow related to your case.”

That stunned him even more. “They were killed because of me?”

I shook my head. “This is not your fault, Mr. Weir. You know that, right?” When he didn’t answer, I continued. “Have you received any threats?”

He gave a dubious snort and gestured around him, indicating his current environment. “You mean, other than the ones I get daily?”

He had a good point. Jail was nothing if not stressful. “To be totally honest,” I said honestly, “I don’t think these people would waste their time making threats. Based on the last twenty-four hours, they seem more proactive than that.”

“No kidding. Who kills three lawyers?”

“Just keep a weather eye, Mr. Weir. We’re working it from this end.”

“I’ll try. I’m real sorry to hear about those lawyers,” he said, scraping his fingers over scraggly stubble then up over his eyes.

He was tired, exhausted from the stress of being convicted for something he didn’t do. My heart ached for him more than I’d wanted it to.

“I really liked them,” he said. “Especially that Ellery girl.” He put his hand down and tried to shake off his emotions. “She was sure something to look at.”

“Yes, she was very beautiful.”

“You were friends?”

“No, no, but I’ve seen pictures.” I never quite knew how to explain my connection to the departed. One slip could haunt me for years to come. Literally.

“And you came here to tell me to watch my back?”

“I’m a private investigator working with APD on this case.” He seemed to bristle at the mention of APD. I could hardly blame him. Though I couldn’t blame APD either. All the evidence did point straight toward him. “Did you know about the informant? The one who’d asked to speak with Barber the same day they were all killed?”

“Informant?” he asked, shaking his head. “What did he want?”

I breathed in and watched Mr. Weir closely before answering, trying to discern how much I should tell him. This was his case. If anyone deserved to know the truth, it was him. Still, a sign that read PROCEED WITH CAUTION kept flashing in my head. Either I needed to proceed with caution or that fifth cup of coffee was just now kicking in.

“Mr. Weir, the last thing I want to do is to give you unfounded hope. Odds are this is nothing. And even if it is something, odds are we can’t prove it. Do you understand?”

He nodded, but just barely.

“In a nutshell, this man told Barber you were innocent.”

His lids widened a fraction of an inch before he caught himself.

“He said the courts had put the wrong man behind bars and that he had proof.”

Despite my warning, a spark of hope shimmered in Mr. Weir’s eyes. I could see it. I could also tell he didn’t want it to be there any more than I did. He’d probably been disappointed countless times. I couldn’t imagine the heartbreak of going to prison for something I hadn’t done. He had every right to be disillusioned with the system.

“Then what are you waiting for? Bring him in.”

I rubbed my forehead. “He’s dead, too. They killed him yesterday as well.”

After a full minute of tense silence, he let out a long hiss of air and slumped back in his seat, stretching the phone cord to its limit. I could see the disappointment wash over him. “So what does this mean?” he asked, his tone embittered.

“I don’t know exactly. We’re just finding all this out ourselves. But I’ll do everything I can to help you. How beneficial my efforts will be is the question. It’s damned hard to get a conviction overturned, no matter the evidence.”

He seemed to slip away, to lose himself in his thoughts.

“Mr. Weir? Can you tell me about the case?”

It took him a while to find his way back to me. When he did, he asked, “What do you want to know?”

“Well, I’ve got the court transcripts on the way, but I wanted to ask you about this woman, your neighbor who testified that she saw you hide the kid’s body.”

“I’d never seen that kid in my life. And the only time I’d ever seen that woman was when she was in her backyard yelling at her sunflowers. Crazy as a june bug on crack. But they listened to her. The jury listened to her. They lapped up everything she said like it was being served to them on a silver platter.”

“Sometimes people hear what they want to hear.”

“Sometimes?” he asked as if I’d grossly understated the fact. I had, but I was trying hard to stay positive.

“Any idea how the kid’s blood got on your shoes?” This one stumped me. The man was clearly innocent, yet forensics confirmed he had the kid’s blood on his shoes. That one piece of evidence alone was enough to turn a jury of twelve against him.

“It had to have been planted. I mean, how else would it get there?” he asked, just as stumped as I was.

“Okay, can you give me a quick rundown of what happened?”

Luckily, I’d stopped at Staples along the way. I pulled out my new notepad, the exact same kind Garrett and Uncle Bob used. Plain. Nondescript. Unassuming. I jotted down anything I thought could be pertinent.

“Wait a minute,” I said, stopping him at one point. “The lady testified that the kid had been staying with you?”

“Yes, but she’d seen my nephew. He stayed with me for about a month before all of this happened. Now the cops think I killed him, too.”

I blinked in surprise. “He’s dead?”

“Not that I know of. But he is missing. And the cops have convinced my sister I had something to do with his disappearance.”

This could be the connection I’d been looking for. I had no idea what that connection might be, but I’d worked with less.

“When did he disappear?”

He glanced down and to the right, which meant he was remembering instead of inventing. Another sign of his innocence, not that I needed it. “Teddy stayed with me about a month. His mom had kicked him out. They didn’t get along.”

“She’s your sister?”

“Yes. Then she’d talked him into moving back home with her despite their constant bickering. That was the last time I saw him. I was arrested about two weeks later. No one told me he was missing until after the arrest.”

“What did the prosecution say was your motive?” I asked.

His expression morphed into one of disgust. “Drugs.”

“Ah,” I said in understanding. “The one-size-fits-all motive.”

“Ask him more about his sister.”

I turned to see Barber standing behind me, arms crossed and head bowed in thought.

“I had to have missed something.”

“Can you tell me more about your sister?” I asked Mr. Weir, who was busy looking past me to check out what I was looking at.

After a moment, he said, “She’s not the best mom, but not the worst. She’s been in trouble here and there. Drugs, and not just pot. Some shoplifting. You know, the usual.”

The usual. Interesting defense.

“What about recently?” Barber asked. I passed the question along.

“I haven’t seen her in a year. I have no idea how she’s doing.”

I wondered if she’d ever been questioned about the deceased kid. “What about—?”

“Could she have gotten involved in anything more serious?”

I slid an annoyed glance to Barber for interrupting me — lawyers — then relayed his question to Mr. Weir. Barber didn’t notice my glare. Mr. Weir did.

“With Janie,” he said, becoming more leery of me, “anything is possible.”

“Would you say—?”

“I mean, could she have become indebted to someone? Someone with enough malevolence to kidnap—”

“That’s it,” I whispered through my teeth. “No one asks questions but me.” I was doing my best ventriloquist impersonation, as though Mr. Weir couldn’t hear me because of my lack of facial movement. Or see me pretending not to talk to anyone.

Barber looked at me, bemused. “I’m sorry,” he said, sobering. “I just keep thinking I missed something. Something that was right there in front of me the whole time.”

Great, now I felt guilty. “No, I’m sorry,” I said, feeling bad but having to keep the stupid grin on my face so I wouldn’t move my lips. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

“No, no, you’re right. My fault entirely.”

I turned back to Mr. Weir. “Sorry about that. It’s a voices-in-my-head thing.”

His expression changed, but not as I would’ve expected. He suddenly looked … hopeful again. “Can you really do what they say you can?”

Since I wasn’t sure what he was talking about — who they were and what they said I could do — my brows raised in question. “And they would be…”

He leaned in, as if that would help me hear him better through the glass. “I heard the guards talking. They were surprised you’d come to see me.”

“Why?” I asked, surprised myself.

“They said you solve crimes nobody else can solve. That you even solved a decades-old cold case.”

I rolled my eyes. “That was one time, for heaven’s sake. I got lucky.”

A woman who’d been murdered in the fifties had come to me. I’d convinced Uncle Bob to help, and we closed her case together. I couldn’t have done it without him. Or all the new technology law enforcement had on their side. Of course, it helped that she knew exactly who murdered her and exactly where to find the murder weapon. That poor woman’d had one mean stepson.

“That’s not what they said,” Mr. Weir continued. “They said you knew things, things that no one could know.”

Oh. “Um, who said that?”

“One of our guards is married to a cop.”

“Well, then, that explains it. Cops don’t really think—”

“I don’t care what cops think, Ms. Davidson. I just want to know if you can do what they say.”

A dismal sigh slipped through my lips. “I don’t want to get your hopes up.”

“Ms. Davidson, your mere presence is giving me hope. I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is.”

“I’m sorry, too, Mr. Weir. The odds that this will lead to anything—”

“Are better odds than I had this morning.”

“If you want to see it that way,” I said, giving up, “I can’t stop you.”

“But you can do what they say.”

Reluctant to offer any more hope than I already had, I felt tension crawl up my spine, hunch my shoulders. It was easy to believe in my abilities when it would benefit a cause. I just didn’t know how advantageous my talents would be in this particular case. Maybe hope itself would benefit Mr. Weir. It was the least I could offer him.

“Yes, Mr. Weir, I can do what they say.” I waited for that little jewel to sink in, for his mildly shocked expression to return to normal, then said, “They’ll be taking you to the Reception and Diagnostic Center in Los Lunas for evaluation before sending you to prison. I can brave the hordes of Los Lunatics and visit you there if you’d like. Keep you up to date.”

A reluctant smile appeared at last. “I’d like that.”

I spoke to Barber through the side of my mouth. “You got any more questions?”

He was still buried in thought and simply shook his head.

“Okay,” I said to Weir, “see ya soon.”

After hanging up, I started to put my notepad and pen away when I had an epiphany. Of sorts. I turned and tapped on the window to get Mr. Weir’s attention.

The guard allowed him to walk back and pick up his phone again.

“How old is he?” I asked as I balanced the phone on my shoulder and tore through my notepad, clicking my pen to the ready.

“Excuse me?”

“Your nephew. How old is your nephew?”

“Oh, he’s fifteen. Or he was. I guess he’d be sixteen now.”

“And they still haven’t found him?”

“Not that I know of. What—?”

“How old was the kid? The one in your backyard?”

“I see where you’re going with this,” Barber said.

“He was fifteen. Do you think there’s a connection?”

I winked at Barber, then leaned toward Mr. Weir with a touch more promise in my eyes. “There has to be, and I’ll do my damnedest to find out what it is.”

The last thing I wanted to do was jump to conclusions, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that those two boys ran in the same circles. Two boys with similar backgrounds, one missing and one dead? My mind screamed predator.

Though I needed Barber’s files, I didn’t want to deal with Nora, the lawyers’ administrative assistant. If she was anything like other administrative assistants I knew, she had only slightly less power than God at her fingertips, and she wouldn’t take kindly to any nosing about. Breaking and entering was much safer. But breaking and entering would have to wait until nightfall.

In the meantime, Uncle Bob was rounding up everything APD had on the case, and Barber was headed to Mr. Weir’s sister’s house to see if there’d been any contact with Teddy, the missing nephew. I decided to send in Barber first to get the lay of the land before I talked to her, figuring I could use the time to mosey back to my office and glean as much information as possible off the Internet. As I headed out of the detention center, I opened my cell and called Cookie.

“Hey, boss,” she said by way of a greeting. “Planning a jailbreak yet?”

“Nah. Believe it or not, they’re letting me walk out of here.”

“Crazy people. What are they thinking?”

“Probably that I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”

She chuckled. “You have three messages, nothing too pressing. Mrs. George still swears her husband is cheating and wants to meet with you this afternoon.”

“No.”

“That’s what I told her, only I wasn’t quite so wordy about it,” she said teasingly. “Everything else can wait. So, what’s up?”

“I’m glad you asked,” I said, walking out the glass doors. I did a quick scan of the area for Billy, but he must’ve had better things to do. “The lawyers gave me some interesting news at lunch.”

“Yeah? How interesting?”

“Pretty darned.”

“Sounds promising.”

“Can you pull up the prison registry and do a search for the name Reyes?”

“The prison registry?”

I cringed. She made it sound so … criminal. “Yeah, long story.”

“Well, there are about two hundred inmates and/or parolees with the last name of Reyes.”

“That was fast. Try it as a first name.”

I heard clicking; then she said, “Better. There’re only four.”

“Okay, well, he’d be about thirty now.”

“And then there was one.”

I stopped with my key halfway in the door. “One? Really?”

“Reyes Farrow.”

My heart thrummed nervously in my chest. Could this really be it? After all these years, could I finally have found him?

“Do they have a mug shot posted?” I asked. When Cookie didn’t answer, I tried again. “Cookie? You there?”

“My god, Charley. He’s … it’s him.”

My keys fell to the ground, and I braced my free hand against Misery. “How do you know? You’ve never seen him.”

“He’s gorgeous. He’s exactly like you described.”

I tried to control my breathing. I didn’t have a paper bag around if it came to that.

“I’ve never seen anyone so, I don’t know, so fierce, so stunningly beautiful.”

“That would be him,” I said, knowing without a doubt she had the right guy.

“I’m sending the mug shot now.”

I held out my phone and waited for the text. After several long seconds, a picture popped onto the screen, and I was suddenly concentrating on staying vertical. My knees weakened regardless, and I slid down to sit on the running board, unable to take my eyes off the screen.

Cookie had nailed it. He was fierce, his expression wary and furious at once, as if he’d been warning the officers to keep their distance. For their own protection. Even in the poor lighting, his eyes sparkled with what seemed like barely controlled rage. He had not been a happy camper when they’d taken his picture.

“He’s still listed as an inmate. I wonder how often they update these things. Charley?” Cookie was still on the line, but I couldn’t tear my eyes off his picture. She seemed to realize I needed a moment and waited in silence for me to recover.

I did. With a new purpose, I put the phone to my ear and bent to pick up my keys. “I’m going to see Rocket.”

Figuring I could kill two birds with one stone, I pulled around to a side street and parked beside a Dumpster, hoping the neighbors wouldn’t realize I was planning to break into their abandoned mental asylum. The hospital, closed by the government in the fifties, had somehow ended up in the hands of a local biker gang, aka the neighbors. They called themselves the Bandits and were none too keen on trespassers. They had Rottweilers to prove it.

Just walking up to the asylum had my stomach clenching in knots, but not because of the Rottweilers and not in a bad way. Asylums fascinated me. When I was in college, my favorite weekend trips involved tours of abandoned psychiatric hospitals. The departed I found there were vibrant and passionate and full of life. Ironic, since they were dead.

This particular asylum was home to one of my favorite crazy people. Rocket’s life — when he was actually alive — was more of a mystery than the Bermuda Triangle, but I did learn that he’d been a child during the Depression. His baby sister had died from dust pneumonia, and though I’d never met her, he told me she was still around, keeping him company.

Rocket was a lot like me. He’d been born with a purpose, a job. But no one had understood his gift. After the death of his sister, his parents handed him over to the care of the New Mexico Insane Asylum. Subsequent years of misunderstanding and mistreatment, including periodic doses of electroshock therapy, left Rocket a fraction of the person he’d most likely been.

In many ways, he was like a forty-year-old kid in a cookie jar, only his jar was a crumbling, condemned mental asylum, and his cookies were names, the names of those who’d passed that he carved, day in and day out, into the walls of the asylum. The ultimate record keeper. I couldn’t imagine Saint Peter having anything on Rocket.

Except for maybe a pencil.

My adrenaline was flowing with the excitement. I could find out in one shot if Mark Weir’s nephew Teddy was still alive — fingers crossed — and find out about Reyes as well. Rocket knew the moment someone passed, and he never forgot a name. The sheer volume of information that flooded his head at any given moment would drive a sane man to the brink, which could also explain Rocket’s personality.

The doors and windows to the asylum had been boarded up long ago. I sneaked around the back, listening for the pitter-pat of Rottweiler paws, and slid on my stomach through a basement window I jimmied open each time I visited. I had yet to get caught at this particular asylum — a good thing, since I’d probably lose a limb — but I did get caught at one I’d visited outside Las Vegas, New Mexico. A sheriff arrested me. I could be mistaken, but I’m pretty sure my men-in-uniform fetish began that day. That sheriff was hot. And he handcuffed me. I’ve never been the same.

“Rocket?” I called after tumbling headfirst onto a table and stumbling — rather impressively — to my feet. I dusted myself off, turned on my LED flashlight, and headed toward the stairs. “Rocket, are you here?”

The first floor was empty. I walked the halls, marveling at the thousands upon thousands of names carved into the plaster walls, then started up the service stairs to the second level. Abandoned books and furniture lay strewn in crumbled disarray. Graffiti covered most surfaces, attesting to the countless parties that’d been thrown over the years, probably before the biker gang had acquired the property. Apparently the class of ’83 had lived free, and Patty Jenkins put out.

The myriad of nationalities that Rocket carved into the walls awed me. There were names in Hindi and Mandarin and Arapaho and Farsi.

“Miss Charlotte,” Rocket said from behind me, a mischievous giggle exciting his voice.

I jumped and whirled around. “Rocket, you little devil!” He liked to scare me, so I had to feign a near-death experience each time I visited.

He laughed aloud and pulled me into a suffocating hug. Rocket was a cross between a fluffy grizzly and the Pillsbury Doughboy. He had a baby face and a playful heart and saw only the good in people. I always wished I’d known him when he was alive, before the government quite literally fried his brain. Had he been a grim reaper like me? I did know that he could see the departed before he died.

He set me down, then drew his brows together in a comical frown. “You never come to see me. Never.”

“Never?” I asked, teasing him.

“Never.”

“I’m here now, aren’t I?”

He shrugged begrudgingly.

“And there is a small matter of Rottweilers I have to contend with each and every visit.”

“I guess. I have so many names to give you. So many.”

“I don’t really have time—”

“They shouldn’t be here. No, no, no. They need to leave.” Rocket was also a consummate tattletale, always giving me names of those who had passed but had yet to cross.

“You’re right, Rocket, but this time I have a name for you.”

He paused and eyed me in confusion. “A name?”

I decided to toss out a name of someone I knew had already passed. “James Enrique Barilla,” I said, quoting the name of the kid found murdered in Mark Weir’s backyard.

“Oh,” he said, jumping to attention.

It was a cheap trick, throwing out a name like that, but I had to keep Rocket focused. I didn’t have much time. I had a date with one Mr. Illegal Activity. That breaking-and-entering gig wouldn’t break and enter itself.

Rocket recognized the name immediately and began walking with a purpose, which unfortunately included taking shortcuts through walls. I struggled to keep up, jogging around corners and through doorways, hoping the dilapidated floor held beneath my weight.

“Rocket, wait. Don’t lose me.”

Then I heard him, down the stairwell and through the kitchen, repeating the name to himself over and over. I tripped on a broken chair and dropped my flashlight, sending it tumbling down the steps.

Then Rocket was in front of me. “Miss Charlotte, you never keep up.”

“Never?” I asked, struggling to my feet.

“Never.” He grabbed my arm and jerked me down the stairs. I just managed to scoop up the flashlight as we ran past.

He meant well.

Then he stopped. With an abruptness I hadn’t expected, he skidded to a halt. I slammed into his backside, ever thankful of its plumpness, and bounced off him to land, once again, on my ass. Normally, Rocket would have laughed when I stood and dusted myself off, but he was on a mission. Based on past experience, nothing swayed Rocket from one of his missions.

“Here. Here it is,” he said, pointing repeatedly to one of the thousands of names he’d scraped into the plaster. “James Enrique Barilla.”

Finding James’s name among those of the departed really wasn’t surprising, since there was a man going to prison for his murder. But I had to check, just in case.

“Can you tell me how he died?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Not how,” he said, suddenly annoyed. I fought back a grin. “Not why. Not when. Only is.”

“How about where?” Now I was just being obstinate.

He glared at me. “Miss Charlotte, you know the rules. No breaking rules,” he said with a warning shake of his pudgy finger. That’d teach me.

I sometimes wondered if he really did know more and was just following some cosmic set of rules I was unaware of. But his vocabulary, I had a feeling, stemmed from years of institutionalization. Nobody liked rules more than institutionalizationers.

I pulled out my notepad and thumbed through it. “Okay, Rocket Man, what about a Theodore Bradley Thomas?” If nothing else, I’d leave here today knowing if Mark Weir’s missing nephew was dead or alive.

Rocket bent his head in thought for a moment. “No, no, no,” he said at last. “Not his time yet.”

Relief flooded every cell in my body. Now I just had to find him. I wondered how much danger the kid was in. “Do you know when his time will be?” I asked, already knowing the answer. Again.

“Not when. Only is,” he repeated as he turned and started carving another name into the plaster.

I’d lost him. Keeping Rocket’s attention was like serving spaghetti with a spoon. But I had another name to give him. An important one. I inched closer, almost afraid to say it aloud, then whispered, “Reyes Farrow.”

Rocket stopped. He recognized the name; I could tell. That meant Reyes was dead after all. My heart dropped into my stomach. I’d hoped so hard he wouldn’t be.

“Where is his name?” I asked, ignoring the sting in my eyes. I scanned the walls as if I could actually find his name among the mass of scribbled chaos that looked like an M. C. Escher on acid. But I wanted to see it. To touch it. I wanted to run my fingers along the rough grooves and lines that made up the letters of Reyes’s name.

Then I realized Rocket was gazing at me, a wary expression on his boyish face.

I lifted a hand to his shoulder. “Rocket, what’s wrong?”

“No,” he said, stepping out of my reach. “He shouldn’t be here. No, ma’am.”

My eyes slammed shut, trying hard not to see the truth. “Where is his name, Rocket?”

“No, ma’am. He should never have been born.”

They flew open again. I’d never heard such a thing from Rocket. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

“He should never have been a boy named Reyes. He should have stayed where he belonged. Martians can’t become human just because they want to drink our water.” His eyes locked on to mine, but he stared past me a long moment before refocusing on my face. “You stay away from him, Miss Charlotte,” he said, taking a warning step toward me. “You just stay away.”

I held my ground. “Rocket, you’re not being very nice.”

He leaned down to me then, his voice a raspy whisper as he said, “But, Miss Charlotte, he’s not very nice either.”

Something beyond my senses caught his attention. He turned, listened, then rushed toward me and clenched his meaty hands around my arms. I winced, but I wasn’t scared. Rocket would never hurt me. Then his grip tightened, and I almost cried out, realizing I might have spoken too soon.

“Rocket,” I said in a soothing voice, “sweetheart, you’re hurting me.”

He jerked back his hands and retreated in disbelief, as if astonished at what he’d done.

“It’s okay,” I said, refusing to rub my throbbing arms. It would only make him feel worse. “It’s okay, Rocket. You didn’t mean to.”

A horrified expression flashed across his face as he disappeared. I heard three words as he left. “He won’t care.”