Page 7 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

“Totally.” I try to sound upbeat. “It’s fine. Could you just let me into the apartment downstairs, then? I only need a place to stay for like a week. No more than a month or two. Probably.”

Hannah looks at her feet and sighs, which is not exactly a good sign. “We’re kind of working through some new rules around that space, Mo,” she says softly. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” I say, stung. “Okay. Can I just sleep on your couch then?”

She gives me a look.

“I’ll do your dishes?” I plead.

“If it was up to me, youknowI’d say yes,” she says, her face full of regret. “I’m really sorry. I have to get back to the house meeting, but I’ll text you soon, okay? We’re still going out tonight, promise.”

“Han—” I say, stunned. “Where am I supposed to go? I don’t have any other options!”

“Of course you do,” she says, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek before she disappears back into the house. “You’re like the most resilient person I know.”

Ugh. If Ineverhear that word again, it’ll be too soon.

And even worse, she’s right.

Idohave another option.

Chapter 3

They call Chicago a city of neighborhoods.

But it’s more like somebody went and smashed together a bunch ofveryspecific small towns. We’ve got Chinatown and Little Puerto Rico; Ukrainian Village and German Square. There’s Boystown. Slag Valley. The Viagra Triangle. One neighborhood is known for having wild parrots everywhere. One actually smells like chocolate.

In theory, Chicago is a place where you can find your people, whether they’re promiscuous grandpas or parrot-obsessed bird-watchers.

But now, as a new Uber drives me away from Hannah’s—away from the hip restaurants, away from the job I’ve lost, away fromChris—each passing neighborhood reminds me that I don’t belong anywhere anymore.

The driver hums along to moody jazz on the radio and takes a right, closing in on my destination as we cross the invisible border of the neighborhood I know best. The neighborhood that’s stuck intime. The neighborhood that practically smells like shag carpet and wood paneling.

It doesn’t get any more old-school than my parents’ block. Their squat seventies-ish bungalow is miles away from Chris’s condo in every sense of the word. It’s way west, the low-flying planes constantly reminding you exactly how close you are to O’Hare Airport. And no one in their right mind would ever, ever describe it as sleek.

The car comes to a stop in my parents’ driveway.

“Thanks a lot,” I say to the driver.

I don’t move.

“Are... you going to get out?” the guy asks, a saxophone wailing weakly from the car’s speakers.

Behind each bungalow and two-flat in my parents’ neighborhood lurks a network of alleyways, for garages, dumpsters, and a whole community of flies and raccoons and bedbug-riddled armchairs, and I can’t help thinking that’s what my life has become without me even realizing it. Respectable and orderly on the outside, and just a smelly ol’ dumpster-fest out back.

“Do I have to?” I ask.

“Here,” he says with a sigh. “Take this bottle of water with you.”

A bottle of water. Tears well in my eyes as I remember the last bottle of water I held, the one also filled with lemon juice.

“No, thank you,” I say bravely. “I think I should face this one alone.”

I step out of the Elantra, hoisting my sad duffel, and trudge up the old, cracked driveway that’s slowly devolving its way back to gravel. I stop for a second at the doormat shaped like a can of Old Style, trying to psych myself up to ring the doorbell. It feels like pulling a fire alarm—once I do it, there’s no turning back. I take a deep breath and force myself to push the button.

And they... do not answer the door.

I know they’re home; I can hear someone scrambling around in there.