here was her line. “Anything?”
“Anything,” he’d say. “So long as you really meant it.”
Star studied the ink on her arm. Fresh. She’d gotten it only last week and had hidden it since then, waiting. Wanting to show it to her father. To remind him. And then to ask.
Well, now was the time. No more putting it off anymore.
At her feet, the place where she’d spit the candy peanut out had dried into a hard, dark spot of dirt. She was sweating profusely, the backpack doing little to protect her from the sun’s heat. A sweat bee buzzed near her ear, tried to land on her cheek, but she brushed it away. Shakily, she stood.
In her mind, she ran over her speech.
I know you miss her,
it began.
I know you miss her, and so do I. But it can’t go on like this. I can’t live in the same house with you if it does.
Star pressed a hand into the dry earth, her palm landing in the sticky mess of candy before she could stop it. Disgusted, she wiped the mess against her jeans. It didn’t come off. She looked around for a patch of grass amidst all the trash and hollowed-out junk where she might rub her hand clean.
There, ten feet to her left, was the shadow of an old wood dresser, the top two drawers missing, and the third one pulled out. In its shade, a small clump of weeds and grass sprouted up green, finding a kind of protection in the protruding drawer. Star leaned down to wipe her hands on it…and paused.
A glint of silver gleamed in the weeds. Star picked it up, turning it over to find a sky-blue stone on its other side.
A ring. Large and gaudy. Turquoise.
What the fuck?
People threw good shit away, sure. As kids, she and Mabel had made some awesome finds here. A beauty salon chair—in perfect condition except for a crack in the leather of the seat—with which they’d taken turns playing beautician. A rocking horse missing its springs but still painted in bright, fresh hues.
But this.
Star turned it over again in her palm.
Real silver. Real turquoise. And the stone was big, too. As large as a robin’s egg.
No, people didn’t just throw something like this away.
An unpleasant tickle began at the back of Star’s mind.
She’d seen this before, hadn’t she? This ring? There couldn’t be many of them here in Cavus. Its style was wrong. More Southwestern than Northwestern.
A cold jolt hit her, and she felt a shiver work its way across her body despite the hot sky.
Cindy.
Hadn’t that been her name? She was one of the women her father had started bringing home.
Cindy was thin with teased blond hair and shaky, ripped-fishnet-covered legs. The tights hadn’t been able to cover the scabs, not entirely. They worked their way up the woman’s legs and disappeared under a short skirt. Above the skirt was a cheap, nearly see-through tank top, and the woman’s clear blue eyes. That’s why Star remembered the ring. It, like the eyes, hadn’t seemed to belong on the woman. The ring, large and expensive, was nearly the exact same color as the woman’s eyes, which looked out from under heavy makeup with a clear, clean respectability. The eyes of a kind housewife, maybe, or a teacher.
What had the woman been doing out here, half a mile from the house? And why would she just leave her ring?
It didn’t matter. With all the strength she could muster, Star hefted her arm back and then propelled it forward in a single, fluid arc. The ring flipped over once, twice, in the air and then was lost, disappearing twenty feet away into the mounds of the junk, lost forever in the cast-off stories of other people’s lives.
Star Williams didn’t give a fuck.
She had more important things to worry about right now than some hooker’s goddamned ring.
2
When Star opened the door to her house and stepped into the kitchen, all her carefully rehearsed words died at her lips.
Her father stood at the stove in his police uniform. His back was to her as he stirred something in a pot. He did not turn around at the little
“Anything,” he’d say. “So long as you really meant it.”
Star studied the ink on her arm. Fresh. She’d gotten it only last week and had hidden it since then, waiting. Wanting to show it to her father. To remind him. And then to ask.
Well, now was the time. No more putting it off anymore.
At her feet, the place where she’d spit the candy peanut out had dried into a hard, dark spot of dirt. She was sweating profusely, the backpack doing little to protect her from the sun’s heat. A sweat bee buzzed near her ear, tried to land on her cheek, but she brushed it away. Shakily, she stood.
In her mind, she ran over her speech.
I know you miss her,
it began.
I know you miss her, and so do I. But it can’t go on like this. I can’t live in the same house with you if it does.
Star pressed a hand into the dry earth, her palm landing in the sticky mess of candy before she could stop it. Disgusted, she wiped the mess against her jeans. It didn’t come off. She looked around for a patch of grass amidst all the trash and hollowed-out junk where she might rub her hand clean.
There, ten feet to her left, was the shadow of an old wood dresser, the top two drawers missing, and the third one pulled out. In its shade, a small clump of weeds and grass sprouted up green, finding a kind of protection in the protruding drawer. Star leaned down to wipe her hands on it…and paused.
A glint of silver gleamed in the weeds. Star picked it up, turning it over to find a sky-blue stone on its other side.
A ring. Large and gaudy. Turquoise.
What the fuck?
People threw good shit away, sure. As kids, she and Mabel had made some awesome finds here. A beauty salon chair—in perfect condition except for a crack in the leather of the seat—with which they’d taken turns playing beautician. A rocking horse missing its springs but still painted in bright, fresh hues.
But this.
Star turned it over again in her palm.
Real silver. Real turquoise. And the stone was big, too. As large as a robin’s egg.
No, people didn’t just throw something like this away.
An unpleasant tickle began at the back of Star’s mind.
She’d seen this before, hadn’t she? This ring? There couldn’t be many of them here in Cavus. Its style was wrong. More Southwestern than Northwestern.
A cold jolt hit her, and she felt a shiver work its way across her body despite the hot sky.
Cindy.
Hadn’t that been her name? She was one of the women her father had started bringing home.
Cindy was thin with teased blond hair and shaky, ripped-fishnet-covered legs. The tights hadn’t been able to cover the scabs, not entirely. They worked their way up the woman’s legs and disappeared under a short skirt. Above the skirt was a cheap, nearly see-through tank top, and the woman’s clear blue eyes. That’s why Star remembered the ring. It, like the eyes, hadn’t seemed to belong on the woman. The ring, large and expensive, was nearly the exact same color as the woman’s eyes, which looked out from under heavy makeup with a clear, clean respectability. The eyes of a kind housewife, maybe, or a teacher.
What had the woman been doing out here, half a mile from the house? And why would she just leave her ring?
It didn’t matter. With all the strength she could muster, Star hefted her arm back and then propelled it forward in a single, fluid arc. The ring flipped over once, twice, in the air and then was lost, disappearing twenty feet away into the mounds of the junk, lost forever in the cast-off stories of other people’s lives.
Star Williams didn’t give a fuck.
She had more important things to worry about right now than some hooker’s goddamned ring.
2
When Star opened the door to her house and stepped into the kitchen, all her carefully rehearsed words died at her lips.
Her father stood at the stove in his police uniform. His back was to her as he stirred something in a pot. He did not turn around at the little
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