Crossed (Never After Series)

“DO YOU EVER MISS IT?” I ASK DALIA, PLOPPING down into the light wood chair of the dining table and wrapping my hands around the mug of hot tea.

We’re having a drink before she makes dinner for Quinten and I leave to go to work, which is something we try to do every day. Just a chance to check in and have some private girl time.

Unfortunately, the apartment is small, so sitting at the table in the middle of the square kitchen, surrounded by chipping pale green cabinets and mismatched dish towels, is as private as we get.

It doesn’t matter. I love these simple moments. I like to think of it as replacing the bitter memories my mom and Parker infused in this apartment with new ones. Better ones.

Dalia blinks at me with her doe- brown eyes from over the rim of her own cup. “Miss what?”

“Dancing.”

She shrugs. “Nobody can dance forever, you know?”

I know she’s right, even if I don’t like to think about it. “Yeah.”

Her answer is the same every time I bring it up, but for some reason, I keep asking, like if I push enough, she’ll change what she says and admit the emptiness that flits through her gaze is from losing a piece of her when she lost the ability to dance.

Dalia and I met through our boss, Phillip. Well, I guess only my boss now. She was the best damn performer there, and when I first came in to be a cocktail waitress, barely knowing how to balance on bare feet let alone platform shoes, Phillip linked us up. We hit it off right away, and she’s been the only person in my life I’ve truly been able to call a friend. She sparkled in the spotlight, and I admired her, envied her even, because she always seemed to know exactly who she was. Even more than that, she loved who she was. A long lean body, russet-brown skin, and a large chest, she was a favorite at the Chapel. And then, one night, a drunk driver sideswiped her while going eighty in a thirty-five, and they had to use the jaws of life to cut her out of the car. She hasn’t been the same since, and neither has her right leg, which was shattered on impact.

With no job and no money, she was shit out of options. So I had her move in with Quinten and me. Free room and board if she’d watch him while I brought in the cash for us both. There’s not much space, barely enough for Quinten and me, with a small living room and one hallway off the kitchen, but there are three bedrooms, and the one that was my mother’s was just sitting unused. I couldn’t really force myself to go in there, so having Dalia take it over was cathartic in more ways than one.

Dalia swears up and down that she’s fine, that she’s happy. But despite what she says, every time I leave to go dance, I have to swallow down the guilt.

“That’s why it’s good you work so much now,” she continues.

“Save up everything you can, Amaya. Make that money and then put it away for when you need it.”

Her words drop on my shoulders like slabs of concrete. God, I fucking wish I could put away enough money to have some savings, but that’s just not my reality. I could have it rain down in the thousands, and Parker would still make sure I don’t keep enough to stay afloat.

Not unless I agree to being his.

But I can’t tell her that because nobody knows about my shady dealings with Parker. He’s my dirty little secret, with grit that burrows into my pores and is impossible to wash clean.

Besides, knowing Dalia, she would never let sleeping dogs lie, and I don’t need her trying to solve my problems like they’re her own.

“It’s annoying that you always ask me that, you know? About dancing, I mean,” she snips.

I shake my head, taking a sip of tea. “I’m not trying to be annoying. I’m just…I love you and I want to make sure you’re happy.”

She scrunches up her face. “Please. We’ve got the perfect setup. Are you kidding? Quin’s my dude.”

“I know, but— ”

“But nothing, girl. Things are good. I’m good, okay?”

“Okay.” I nod but we both know I’ll probably ask again. I can’t help it. The last thing I’d want is for her to realize that what she’s got going on here isn’t enough and pack up to leave us and find a new purpose.

I shake the thought from my head.

“I have to tell you something,” Dalia sighs, her mug clunking on the wood as she chews on her bottom lip. “It’s about Candace.”

“Oh god, what is it?” I groan.

Candace is Dalia’s cousin, and even her name irritates the hell out of me. She’s been around since the beginning of my and Dalia’s friendship, especially considering she lives here in Festivalé and, until recently, Dalia lived in Coddington Heights. They’ve never been close, but every once in a while, they chill, and I don’t like her around here. Candace is a raging addict, and I don’t want to put myself or Quinten in her path any more than necessary. Plus, Candace is a nasty thing, taking every opportunity to dig her words into my sides, making sure they leave a scratch.

I know people aren’t themselves while they’re in the clutches of addiction, and hating her probably makes me a shitty person, but I can’t help it.

I take another sip of tea.

“She’s dead.”

My chest burns, hot liquid spewing from my mouth as I spit my drink across the room. “What?”

Dalia’s eyes are solemn, her lips pursing while she nods slowly, clearly trying to keep her emotions at bay, and empathy hits me square in the chest. Sure, I didn’t like the woman, but death is so…final.

“Jesus, Dal.”

She shrugs, but I see the way her jaw stiffens like the sharp edge of a knife. “We all knew it was coming eventually. I just always figured it would be the dope that took her, not a person.”

My head tilts. “What do you mean, ‘a person’?”

Dalia shakes her head, wiping the back of her hand over her mouth. “She was murdered. Strangled to death. Her slimeball landlord found her when he stopped by to demand her rent for the month.”

My stomach twists. “Holy shit.”

I’ve never been good when people show me emotion, and saying I’m sorry doesn’t feel like it would be enough, but I’m not sure how to show support when I don’t feel sad over the loss. “Do they— do you know if there are any leads?” Is that an appropriate thing to ask?

She scoffs. “Probably that old bastard landlord. Or maybe his wife. Everybody knows how Candace was paying rent when she had no money to give.”

“Is there an investigation?” I ask.

“Maybe.” She shrugs again. “Even if there is, how much effort do you think they’ll put into a dead sex worker with a drug problem who was constantly asking the worst of the worst to come into her home? They’re probably happy she’s gone.”

I nod slowly, but my body is coiling tight. Candace’s apartment is only a few blocks away from ours.

“So it could have been anyone,” I say, glancing down the hall to where Quinten’s playing in his room.

My eyes meet Dalia’s, my earlier calm ebbing away like the moon when it drags out the tide.

She winces when our gazes clash, her tongue swiping out across her lip. “Candace was into a lot of bad shit with a lot of terrible people, Amaya. I doubt it was random.”

“You’re probably right,” I reply, standing up and moving across the table to her. I lean down and wrap her into a hug. “I’m really sorry about your cousin, Dal.”

I feel her head move against my shoulder, the sound of her shaky breaths in my ear. “Yeah…me too.”

Releasing her, I walk down the hall until I’m peeking into Quinten’s open door, watching as he kneels at the foot of his bed, inspecting his figurines before placing them in perfect rows. “Quin?” I call out. “I’ll be back later, okay? Be good for Dalia.” He doesn’t acknowledge me, but I know he heard.

“Can I have a hug?” I try again.

This gets his attention, and he drops the toys he’s lining up and rushes over, leaning his body into me with his hands by his sides. He doesn’t lift his arms, and he doesn’t wrap them around me, but I don’t care. This is more than enough.

I breathe in his scent, my heart feeling heavy. “Love you, kid.”

“Love you back,” he murmurs.

I make it to the front door, twisting the knob and stepping outside with one foot before I hesitate, Candace’s death fresh on my mind. I twist to look at Dalia, who’s at the sink rinsing out our cups, her back to me.

“Dalia,” I say.

She pauses but doesn’t turn around.

“Lock up behind me, yeah?”

And then I’m gone to the Chapel, where I can leave Amaya’s problems at the door.