Very Wicked Things by Ilsa Madden-Mills

tea a bit later. I stared at him blankly until he finally blushed. “Sorry, I—I wanted to meet her.”
    I blinked. Why would he want to meet Sarah?
    And maybe because I was surprised, I told him. “She’s sleeping. She has Alzheimer’s, so sometimes her meds throw her days and nights off.” Completely true, although today was because of the sleeping pill.
    “Oh. That must be hard for you,” he commented, gazing at me. “You never told me.”
    “You didn’t stick around long enough,” I added quietly.
    “Does Spider know?” he asked.
    Weird question.
    “Yes.” I’d told Spider pretty much right away. And even though we’d known about her diagnosis while I was seeing Cuba, I hadn’t confided in him.
    After a while, Heather-Lynn cradled her tea and focused on Cuba. “Aren’t you rich? Bet you got more money than you know what to do with. Your daddy’s Archie Hudson, right? Owns a pro basketball team?”
    What in the world?
    My back went ramrod straight. “Stop right there, Heather-Lynn. I don’t know what you’re doing, but there’s no need to involve—”
    “Part-owner,” he answered her. “Why?”
    She shot me an apologetic glance but kept talking to Cuba. “Apparently, Sarah owes Alexander Barinsky twenty thousand dollars. Two of his men came by asking for her or Dovey. They turned over a trash can outside and then broke a lamp in the living room—”
    “Stop,” I snapped at her, my teacup clattering against my saucer, dread creeping up on me again at hearing her recount the story.
    Why would she tell him?
    “Who is this Barinsky guy?” Cuba asked her, ignoring me.
    I groaned. I didn’t want him knowing the details about the shady place I came from, but at this point, I figured he already knew the worst part, that we owed money. I slumped back in my seat and let her tell him. It wasn’t like I could gag her.
    She said, “He pretty much owns every strip joint, pawnshop, laundry mat, beauty shop this side of Dallas. He’s the Donald Trump of Ratcliffe. Or Tony Soprano. Whatever.”
    “Loanshark?” he asked, his eyes widening.
    “Definitely not a banker,” Heather-Lynn said. “But really he does it all: drugs, hookers, gambling. Whatever’s shady here, he’s at the center of it.”
    Cuba’s face hardened. “That’s insane. Call the police, Dovey. Now.”
    We stared at him blankly. Neither of us budged.
    “Am I missing something?” He looked from me to Heather-Lynn.
    “Uh, yeah. Snitches get stitches,” I said with a grimace.
    His forehead creased. Yeah, he didn’t get Ratcliffe.
    I tapped my fingers on the table. “He owns the police, Cuba. For every good cop out there, there’s another bad one in his pocket. If I call the police, they might take him in for questioning, but we have no proof, just our word against his. He won’t admit to what he is. Trust me; I’ve lived here long enough to know how things work. Either you pay up or you die.”
    Heather-Lynn patted my hand. “It’s okay, Dovey. We’ll pay him back.”
    With what?
    Cuba’s jaw tightened. ‘Dovey, someone came into your home today, threatening you . If what you’re saying is true, then they’ll be back. Call the police or I will.”
    Fear slammed into me at the thought of policemen showing up at our house, blue lights flashing. It would be a death sentence as soon as Barinsky found out.
    I had to end this now. “ I can handle this. And face it, you don’t know jack about my world. Anything you think you know about the mob, you saw at the movies. So stop interfering. You’ll only make things worse.” I took in a deep breath, needing space from him, from everything. “Excuse me, but I wanna check on Sarah. Thank you for the ride home.”
    I gave him one last lingering look and left the kitchen, going straight to Sarah’s room.

 

     

     
    “Regret is a bitter pill to swallow.”
    – Cuba
     
     
    SHE LEFT THE kitchen upset with me, taking all my air with her.
    I wanted to call her back and