shoulder on the way down, reminding her that she was in a tank top and jeans, freezing in the L.A. winter.
Angel ran along the far side of the open playground. Maybe she’d screwed up. There was nowhere to hide, and the front of the school would be gated with razor wire.
The lights from the van cut into the cul-de-sac she’d escaped down. What if they started going after the people in the houses? What if other people died because of her?
Save yourself, Angel.
She couldn’t save anyone else, she could hardly save her own ass, and now she was trapped.
Except . . . she wasn’t. She’d go out the same way she came in, just a different yard and different street.
Sirens cut through the night. The van burned rubber and was gone.
But Angel didn’t even know if she could trust the police anymore. Not after tonight. Someone had told Garcia’s people where she was going to be. And what if the cops blamed her? What if they thought she was part of this, getting their boys in blue shot up?
Her stomach retched, and she barely managed to keep it together.
People might see or hear her in their backyard, and she didn’t know who would be shooting first and asking questions later. The first yard she approached had two big dogs watching her. They could have been friendly, or they could rip her lungs out. She wasn’t taking the chance.
The next house looked dark, and she jumped into their back yard, then walked fast down the side. Getting over the next gate was hard because her hands were all cut up from the wood fence. She pulled over a metal chair, cringing at the way it scraped on the concrete, and used it to boost her over.
The garage door opened and a large black woman emerged. “What are you doing? Breaking into my house? Damn Mexicans! You get off my property!” The woman lunged for her, her hand raised as if she had a weapon — Angel supposed her hand would make a very good weapon — and Angel ran again, the pain in her side getting worse. Her whole body ached, and she just wanted to go home. But home wasn’t safe.
She saw flashing lights in the distance, and she turned down another side street, away from the group home. She was no longer running, because running teenagers made cops twitch. But she had to get off the street, clean up, find someplace to hide until Monday morning.
Hide? She needed to find Marisa. If the Garcia gang was after her, they were certainly after Marisa.
She doubled over in pain, cramps in her stomach. Where could she go to clean up and hang? To think ? She didn’t trust any of her so-called friends, and she wasn’t going to walk into a police station and turn herself in. Garcia had people everywhere. Wasn’t that obvious from the fact that she was supposed to be in police custody and Garcia had known exactly where she was?
She didn’t know how long she’d been walking when she realized she was only two blocks from her apartment. As if subconsciously, she’d found her way home.
Don’t be stupid, A. They know where you live. They could be waiting for you.
A change of clothes. A burner phone. Food. Enough stuff to disappear for the next thirty-six hours. She couldn’t stay at her apartment, that would be stupid, and she couldn’t stay with Marisa’s parents. She bit her lip. They must be worried to death about Marisa, but Angel couldn’t give them any peace. She didn’t even know where to find Marisa. Before the cops picked her up this morning, Angel had checked every place she could think where Marisa might be hiding out, but no one had seen her. Unless they were too scared of the Garcias to tell Angel the truth.
Two apartment buildings down from hers, she stopped to watch for trouble. Hers was by far the most decrepit structure on the block, and that was saying a lot — most of the two- and three-story structures were sagging, unpainted, and surrounded by metal fences that did nothing to keep people out. Sheet curtains covered most windows, and the old woman in the
Angel ran along the far side of the open playground. Maybe she’d screwed up. There was nowhere to hide, and the front of the school would be gated with razor wire.
The lights from the van cut into the cul-de-sac she’d escaped down. What if they started going after the people in the houses? What if other people died because of her?
Save yourself, Angel.
She couldn’t save anyone else, she could hardly save her own ass, and now she was trapped.
Except . . . she wasn’t. She’d go out the same way she came in, just a different yard and different street.
Sirens cut through the night. The van burned rubber and was gone.
But Angel didn’t even know if she could trust the police anymore. Not after tonight. Someone had told Garcia’s people where she was going to be. And what if the cops blamed her? What if they thought she was part of this, getting their boys in blue shot up?
Her stomach retched, and she barely managed to keep it together.
People might see or hear her in their backyard, and she didn’t know who would be shooting first and asking questions later. The first yard she approached had two big dogs watching her. They could have been friendly, or they could rip her lungs out. She wasn’t taking the chance.
The next house looked dark, and she jumped into their back yard, then walked fast down the side. Getting over the next gate was hard because her hands were all cut up from the wood fence. She pulled over a metal chair, cringing at the way it scraped on the concrete, and used it to boost her over.
The garage door opened and a large black woman emerged. “What are you doing? Breaking into my house? Damn Mexicans! You get off my property!” The woman lunged for her, her hand raised as if she had a weapon — Angel supposed her hand would make a very good weapon — and Angel ran again, the pain in her side getting worse. Her whole body ached, and she just wanted to go home. But home wasn’t safe.
She saw flashing lights in the distance, and she turned down another side street, away from the group home. She was no longer running, because running teenagers made cops twitch. But she had to get off the street, clean up, find someplace to hide until Monday morning.
Hide? She needed to find Marisa. If the Garcia gang was after her, they were certainly after Marisa.
She doubled over in pain, cramps in her stomach. Where could she go to clean up and hang? To think ? She didn’t trust any of her so-called friends, and she wasn’t going to walk into a police station and turn herself in. Garcia had people everywhere. Wasn’t that obvious from the fact that she was supposed to be in police custody and Garcia had known exactly where she was?
She didn’t know how long she’d been walking when she realized she was only two blocks from her apartment. As if subconsciously, she’d found her way home.
Don’t be stupid, A. They know where you live. They could be waiting for you.
A change of clothes. A burner phone. Food. Enough stuff to disappear for the next thirty-six hours. She couldn’t stay at her apartment, that would be stupid, and she couldn’t stay with Marisa’s parents. She bit her lip. They must be worried to death about Marisa, but Angel couldn’t give them any peace. She didn’t even know where to find Marisa. Before the cops picked her up this morning, Angel had checked every place she could think where Marisa might be hiding out, but no one had seen her. Unless they were too scared of the Garcias to tell Angel the truth.
Two apartment buildings down from hers, she stopped to watch for trouble. Hers was by far the most decrepit structure on the block, and that was saying a lot — most of the two- and three-story structures were sagging, unpainted, and surrounded by metal fences that did nothing to keep people out. Sheet curtains covered most windows, and the old woman in the
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