Fly Away (Firefly Lane 2)

“Hi,” he says, giving my mother a frown. Her dealer, probably.

“Do you have any family photographs?” I say, a little impatiently. I am beginning to feel claustrophobic.

“What?”

“Family photos. Pictures of me as a girl, that kind of thing. ”

“No. ”

I wish it didn’t hurt, but it does, and the hurt pisses me off. “You took no pictures of me as a baby?”

She shakes her head, saying nothing. There is no excuse and she knows it.

“Can you tell me anything about my childhood or who my dad was or where I was born?”

She flinches at each word, pales.

“Look, missy—” the pot dealer says, moving toward me.

“Stay out of this,” I snap. To my mother, I say, “Who are you?”

“You don’t want to know,” she says, sounding scared. “Trust me. ”

I am wasting my time. Whatever I need for my book, I won’t find it here. This woman isn’t my mother. She might have given birth to me, but that’s where her commitment to me ended.

“Yeah,” I say, sighing. “Why would I want to know who you are? Who I am?” I grab my purse off the floor and push past her and leave the house.

I pick my way over the furrowed, upended piles of dirt and get in my car and drive home. All the way back to Seattle, I am replaying the scene with my mother over and over again in my head, trying to glean meaning from nuance, but there is nothing there.

I pull into my building and park.

I know I should go upstairs and work on my book—maybe today’s outing will be a scene. At least it is something.

But I can’t do it, can’t walk up into my empty condominium. I need a drink.

I call Marah—she sounds sleepy when she answers—and tell her I’m going to be home late. She tells me she’s already in bed and not to wake her when I get home.

I exit the elevator and go straight to the bar, where I allow myself only two dirty martinis, which calm my racing nerves and steady me again. It is almost one o’clock in the morning when I finally go upstairs and unlock the door to my condo.

All of the lights are on and I can hear the TV.

Frowning, I close the door behind me. It clicks shut.

I walk down the hallway, turning off lights as I go. Tomorrow I will have to have a talk with Marah. She needs to understand that light switches flip both ways.

As I pass her bedroom door, I pause.

Her light is on. I can see the strip of it beneath the closed door.

I knock gently, sure she has fallen asleep watching TV.

There is no answer, so I open the door quietly.

I am unprepared for what I see.

The room is empty. There are Coke cans on both nightstands, the TV is on, and the bed is unmade from this morning. Rumpled sheets are heaped in the middle of the bed.

“Wait a second. ”