Out of the Easy by Ruta Sepetys Page A

with Mother. She thought I wanted a fairy tale, when I was destined for nothing more than a crummy life skirting the New Orleans underworld.
    “I’ll pay the tuition for Loyola or Newcomb,” said Willie. “That was your plan all along, wasn’t it, to threaten to leave so I would pay for your damn college here?”
    We didn’t speak for the rest of the drive.

EIGHTEEN
    The days unfolded slowly out at Shady Grove. Willie’s cottage sat on over twenty peaceful acres. You could breathe deeply without fear that something putrid, like urine or vomit, might slip into your nostrils. In the summer, I didn’t wear shoes for days at a time. I’d kick my flats off in the grass the moment we arrived, and they’d sit on the front porch until we left. The winter was mild this year, more wet than cold. I’d need to build the fires, but not for warmth—just to dry the cottage out a bit. An old friend bought Shady Grove for Willie. She’d never tell me who it was, or what happened to them, just that she got the better end of the deal.
    New Orleans was full of noise all hours of the day and night. But the countryside was so quiet. You could hear sounds at Shady Grove that the din of New Orleans swallowed whole. The cottage wasn’t secluded, but the closest neighbors, Ray and Frieda Kole, were over a half mile away, and we never saw them. Ray and Frieda were terrified of the dark. They slept during the day and sat locked in a rusted Buick in their back field at night, with the ignition and headlights on, ready to run if the boogeyman ever showed up. Willie wasn’t interested in neighbors or socializing. She said she came to Shady Grove for peace and quiet, to get away from people. She even wore a cotton dress and a rose shade of lipstick at the cottage, instead of her usual red.
    I took long walks each afternoon, reading while I made my way two miles down the dirt path to the crossroads at Possum Trot. Willie had barely said a word to me for three days. The silence gave me more time to think about Mr. Lockwell, Forrest Hearne’s watch, Smith, and Mother. All four made me nervous. I was relieved when Willie finally started talking.
    “Get my guns. Let’s go shoot,” she said.
    I got the golf bag from the trunk of the Cadillac. Six years ago, one of the tricks lost a set of golf clubs to Willie in a poker game. She had me pawn the clubs and put her rifles and shotguns in the green leather bag. Frankie and I often joked that Willie had become an excellent golfer. I set up the cans on the back of the fence.
    “You want to use the shotgun?” asked Willie.
    “No, I’ll just use my pistol,” I told her.
    “Suit yourself. Give me the shotgun.”
    I was ten when Willie taught me how to shoot. I once forgot to put the safety on and fired the gun accidentally. Willie whipped me so hard I ate my dinner standing up that night. But I never forgot the safety again. “Be in control of your piece, Jo. The minute it takes control of you, you’re dead,” Willie would tell me.
    I blew the first can off the fence. “Nice shot,” said Willie.
    “It’s easy—just pretend it’s Cincinnati,” I told her. I thought about Cincinnati saying I was like Mother and took another shot.
    She laughed. “Trouble is, I got a lot of Cincinnatis. Don’t know which one to choose. Has Patrick figured out that Cincinnati’s the one who robbed his house?” Willie blew a loud shot and missed the coffee can. She rarely missed.
    “No. And I pray he doesn’t. He told me he saw Mother near the Roosevelt Hotel with a guy whose suit didn’t fit him. He still has no idea who Cincinnati is. It’s all my fault,” I said, moving down a few steps to the next can. “I was always telling Mother what beautiful things Charlie had. I should have known when she asked me about his house out of the blue like that. If you could have seen it, he took everything, Willie, not just the expensive things, but Patrick’s bronzed baby shoes, and even a pack of cigarettes