Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Online. Great. Now doctors were diagnosing and prescribing medications over the internet. What could possibly go wrong? Lennon read over the labels again. She’d have to look up a couple of these, but she recognized one for depression and another for anxiety. “Can I take a look at her things?”
“Yeah, sure. Like I said, Cherish had the couch. Her clothes are in the hall closet, makeup in the bathroom. But other than that, it’s really all she had.” She stood up and gestured to Lennon to follow her. When she opened the hall closet, situated right next to the front door, a whiff of stale perfume hit her nose. Brandy stood back as Lennon riffled through the clothing—a few tiny dresses and shiny pants clipped to a hanger, but also jeans and sweatpants. On the floor sat various pairs of platform heels and a pair each of sneakers and flip-flops. Clearly Cherish had had two very different personas.
None of this would help. “Did she have a purse or a wallet she carried with her? A cell phone?”
“Yeah, but she took it with her. She never left her phone behind.”
And yet, no phones had been found at the scene. Lennon nodded as Nadia started yelling for her mom. “Okay. Thank you for your help, Brandy.” She pulled out a business card and handed it to her. “Will you call me if you remember the doctor’s name or anything else that might help?”
Brandy took the card, studied it for a moment, and then stuck it in her pocket. “Sure.” She worried her lip for a moment, and Lennon waited while she obviously gathered her thoughts. In the other room, Nadia’s yells grew more demanding, and she started banging on her high chair. “Cherish seemed different in the last few months . . . I don’t know if it was something that doctor gave her or what, but ever since she did that podcast, she had this like, fire inside, to change her life for the better. I don’t wanna know how Cherish died. But . . . did she suffer?”
Did she suffer? Almost definitely. But why would she leave this woman with that knowledge? “She died quickly,” she said, something occurring to her. “Wait, you just mentioned a podcast? What was that about?”
“Oh, that? That’s just a way some people in the TL make a few bucks. It’s called The Fringe. I never watched it, and Cherish didn’t make much of it either. She took the cash and bought her kids some stuff. She seemed happy about that. But that was before she started going to the Candyman. Anyway, I think you can catch that podcast online. Me? I’m not into a buncha sob stories. But I guess some folks are.”
The Fringe. Nadia was now using her spoon or cup to bang on the high chair tray. “I’ll let you go,” Lennon said. “Thanks again.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Cruz”
Episode from podcast The Fringe
Host of podcast, Jamal Whitaker
“Hello, welcome to The Fringe. Cruz. How are you?”
“Been better. Been worse.”
Jamal smiles. “Give me an example of each.”
The man leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. He looks to be in his late twenties, his black hair cut short, tattoos peeking from the cuffs of his long-sleeved shirt. Cruz smiles, and a dimple appears in his cheek, making him look suddenly younger. “Better? The day I took my little sister to the pier and we watched the seals for hours. Just laughing, man. It was one of the only times I felt . . . I don’t know, free. Yeah, that was a great day.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Worse? The day I killed my sister.”
Jamal raises his brows. “You killed your sister?”
“Might as well have. I couldn’t save her, and she died because of me.”
“How did she die?”
“Of an overdose.”
“You believe you’re responsible for your sister’s overdose?”
“Who else? I was the only person she had to look out for her.”
“How old were you when she died?”
“I was sixteen, doing time in juvie for some dumb shit. Acting up. If I’d have been out, she’d be alive. I would have made sure of it. I told her I’d always be there to protect her, and I failed. That’s it. She was fourteen years old, man. Fourteen. Some motherfucker got her high, and that was it. One time, and that was all it took.”
“I’m sorry.”
He nods, hangs his head for a minute before looking up.
“What was your home life like, Cruz?”
“Home? I never had a home. Me and Maria got sent to foster care in Arizona, where we’re originally from, when I was eight and she was six. Our mom . . . well, I don’t talk about her anymore. Anyway, we got put in the system and then moved eleven times before we finally got split up.” He looks away for a moment before cursing under his breath. “I told myself I could handle anything—any shit those motherfuckers did to me—as long as I was there to keep my sister safe.”