Follow Her Home (32 page)

“Listen to me, Luke.” I grabbed his hands and peered into his face. This was someone I'd loved with all the force of family, and even as I severed our ties I felt his pain reflected in my chest. “Your dad is dead.”

He let his eyes find mine and I watched his pupils shiver. “What?”

“I'm sorry.” The tears came again, but they did nothing to blur the image, to soften the brilliant red of Cook's death.

We stayed still for a long time, until suddenly Luke shrank back. “You?” He almost choked on the word.

The accusation hit so hard it nearly knocked the wind out of me. I shook my head and let him go. “No.”

“Then who?”

“It was Yujin,” I said. “The police should be there by now. I'm sorry. I really am.”

I waited for him to press for details, but he didn't. Instead, he sat, catatonic. Minutes later, he grabbed my hand again. “What do I do now, Song? Tell me, what do I do?”

He was crying and I had to pull my words from the coldest place in my heart. “I don't know, Luke, but I can't do a thing for you anymore.”

“I'm sorry, Song. I'd do anything to undo this weekend, to bring Diego back. But I can't, and I need you right now. I need you to forgive me.”

“I will not help you bury that man,” I said. “Come with me to the police. Help me tell this story, with all its shitty details. Tell them about your dad. Tell them your part.”

I saw him swallow. I couldn't take his nauseated eyes.

“I'm just kidding, Luke. I can't ask you to do that. Whatever he did, he's paid for in full. And as for you?” I hung my head. “I don't care what happens. I've seen enough of you for this lifetime. But I won't say a word to anyone. It's my last bit of goodwill to you, Luke. Because I know you didn't want Diego dead—you don't have to tell me that. But you were there, you let it happen, and you hid it. And like you said, it's only luck that's kept me alive. I know this, and you know, and if you think I'll ever forget, you're as crazy as anyone.”

I could feel his eyes on me, begging, challenging me to take in his sorrow and walk away. I heard his lips part, but no words came out.

I let him have his best appeal. The whole of our friendship played through my mind, and I felt, deeply, the built tissue of affection, understanding, and trust. I gave remembrance to our most tender moments, and to the days of pain in which he had been my salve.

It wasn't enough.

“I need two hundred dollars.” I tried to keep my voice low and matter-of-fact, but it came out full of cracks. “I'm demanding it.”

He didn't move. He started to cry again.

I popped my knuckles. “Alright, I'll find it.”

I walked into Luke's bedroom and riffled through his drawers. In his second desk drawer I found a stack of bills. There were eight hundreds at the bottom of the stack. I took two. When I came back out, Luke was clutching his head in his hands and wailing with abandon.

“Luke, stop it. You want me to hang around, pretend nothing's happened? Let's be real. There is nothing that can make us what we were. I love you like a brother, but I'm not your sister, and I don't think I ever want to see you again.”

He didn't say anything else and after a minute of standing around and bearing witness to his misery, I left the Marlowe one last time.

Chaz was right where I left him, and when I climbed into the front seat, he touched me lightly on the shoulder.

“Jesus, are you okay?”

“I don't want to talk about it.” My voice came out studded with hiccups, and for a few minutes I hugged my knees and sobbed. When I calmed down, I tried to hand him the bills. “Sorry about that.” I was sniffling.

He rejected the money with a wave of his hand. “Keep it.” He sighed loud and spoke soft. “I'll go to the police on my own. You can tell them your story tomorrow. Let's get you home—where am I going?”

My tired body filled with gratitude and I mouthed a series of thank-yous as I thought about the question. The world outside was full of morning and all I wanted was my bed and total darkness. As soon as I found a place to sleep, I'd be out for a long time.

“Start driving and I'll tell you in a minute.”

It was Monday morning and the whole week lay before me, before Chaz, before Yujin, before Jackie, before Lori, before Luke—all the survivors, left to live every day, two dozen hours then two dozen more. No wonder no one liked Mondays. Mondays were beginnings.

The next days would be hell for Lori, and I didn't know how I could make them better, but I would try. In another phase of my life I had shown a talent for being a sister. When I lost Iris, I lost that badge. I was a failed sister, then no sister at all. I became nothing. A piece of driftwood, waiting for the wave that would finally take me under. But I'd been wrong. I'd had plenty to lose, and in the last few days I had lost it all.

I wanted to save Lori, to extract her from the grip of a monster, to take her away from the world that wrapped itself around her. In the end, I was a part of that world. Tomorrow, her mother would be in prison, and forever Lori's past would be littered with the bodies of dead men.

But I could save her still. Iris never gave me a second chance, but Lori was alive and young, and she would have a hard time facing the next act alone. If Lori wanted my help, I would be there.

“We're going to Santa Monica,” I said. “Someone there needs me.”

 

Acknowledgments

Thanks to Mom and Dad for your unquestioning love and support. This book could not have happened without you, and I will never stop being grateful.

Thanks to Michael Wittenberg and Nwamaka Ejebe for the first reads, and for letting me think my writing was not an embarrassment. If you were lying, I believed you.

Thanks to my agent, Ethan Bassoff, who saw something of worth in my flawed little germ of a manuscript. Thank you for investing in me, and for sweating with me through each new round of edits. We made this book together.

Thanks to Karyn Marcus, my first editor, for the good ideas, and for giving Song and me a home.

Thanks to my editor, Anne Brewer, who is tireless. I can only hope to be worthy of your hard work and enthusiasm. Thank you for making my problems your problems, and for holding my hand through every step of this process.

Thanks to Justin Velella and Cassandra Galante and all the fine folks at St. Martin's who continue to work hard on my behalf. I am new to this all, and you have been indispensable.

Thanks to Jeremy Michaelson for the love of books, and to Joyce Moser for the love of noir.

Thanks to Andrew and Peter, the best brothers I could ever want, and to my son, Duke, who is a basset hound.

And finally, thanks to Duke's father, Matt Barbabella, who taught me how to drive stick, at least on paper.

 

About the Author

STEPH CHA is a graduate of Stanford University and Yale Law School. She lives in her native city of Los Angeles, California. This is her first novel. Connect with Steph on Facebook, Twitter, and Goodreads.

 

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

FOLLOW HER HOME.
Copyright © 2013 by Stephanie Cha. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.thomasdunnebooks.com

www.minotaurbooks.com

Cover design by Ervin Serrano

Cover photographs:

pavement by Stephen Carroll/Arcangel Images;

woman by Roy Bishop/Arcangel Images;

water drops by Yutilova Elena/
Shutterstock.com

ISBN 978-1-290-00962-3 (hardcover)

ISBN 9781250023131 (e-book)

First Edition: April 2013