Page 12 of Ripple Effect: Ep. 1

“He’s not the one who cleans the shit up. And I ain’t touching this with a ten-foot pole. I’ll call someone else.” Rene points at me. “Sick son of a bitch. I don’t know how you sleep at night.”

Behind him, Lou enters the room. He’s clean up crew, but because he’s not related by blood to anyone. I probably like him the best. A smile lifts the corner of his lip and he shakes his head, taking in the macabre. Difference is? He doesn’t say a word, like a true professional. He knows some kills aren’t as pretty as others and goes straight to work, tossing body parts into the vat of bubbling acid where Matteo’s body still sizzles.

Standing with his hands on his hips, Rene shakes his head. “Sick or not, those cocksuckers deserved it after what they did to little Adrian. Then having the balls to gun down Lucien? Dorian will be happy. You get who ordered the hit?”

“Always. It was—” I just now notice that Rene’s voice happened to arrive in clarity, without the white noise, and I look back to the tub where Matteo’s body has sunk below the fluid, slowly dissolving bit by bit. “Hang on.” I pull my Glock, rack the chamber, and pop a shot in what I think might be left of Matteo’s head, though it’s hard to tell anymore. Promises. Not that it matters at this point, but I always keep my word on the rare occasions I give it. “It was Marchetti. It’s been a pleasure,” I say, stepping past Rene, who stands with what appears to be both confusion and disgust battling across his face.

“Hey, Rip,” he calls after me, and I choke back a laugh when he gags. “Don’t be a stranger. Really think the solitary life is affecting your psyche, man.”

4

Dylan

Two weeks later …

Living on the streets in Chicago is hard, but being a kid and living on the streets is a death sentence.

It’s not so bad when the air is mild and dry, only when the bitter gust of wind adds a sting to the skin, does it become unbearable. That’s how it’s been the last week, but because of Charlie, I’ve chosen to stick it out versus going to some shelter that’ll undoubtedly tell me she’s not welcome. Tonight, the temperatures are mild, so much so, I’d swear that summer is on the air.

In a matter of just a couple of weeks, Charlie, Layla, and I have slept damn near everywhere in the city. The park district. An abandoned factory. Union Station. Tonight, we’re sleeping at the Garfield Conservatory.

An unseasonal drop in temps the last couple days has meant no bugs to worry about, but tonight, as mild as it is, I find myself checking the pavement and my clothes more often. I don’t know what I’ll do when it gets warmer. No way I’ll be able to sleep out here without my skin crawling, but tonight, I’m just enjoying the rare intersection of good weather and no insects.

“Mom brought me here when I was ten,” I whisper to Charlie, while Layla sleeps curled up beside her. Sometimes I wish she’d talk back, even if that’d make me crazy as all hell. I feel like Charlie and I would have the best conversations.

Instead she lies with her head on her paws, her brow winged up at the sound of my voice.

My sack of clothes serve as a pillow and the blankets we were given from the shelter earlier in the week are draped over us as we stare up at the sky. The sweet lavender scent of soap drifts past me from Layla’s hair that I washed for her the day before. Someone left half a travel-sized bottle behind—just enough for Layla and me. Showering is one of the difficulties of the streets—finding places to clean up. I mostly sneak into the high school, but getting in before the janitor locks up at night can be tricky, especially with these two in tow. Most nights I end up sitting by the indoor pool, wondering how long it would take for someone to find me if I drown myself.

That’d leave Charlie and Layla alone, though.

I’m going to have to think of something soon, because I’m pretty damn sure I could still be charged for kidnapping Layla, even if I’ve not yet turned eighteen. I never signed up to be her guardian, and I hate that she follows me around, as if I have a plan. I don’t.

Unfortunately, she doesn’t have any family either, so I can’t drop her off somewhere. Even going back to the Ranch, or Eden Ranch Academy as it’s formally called, where we were both adopted out, would be handing my ass over to them, back to Randy.

Layla mumbles in her sleep, and I lift my head to listen. I get the feeling she was molested at the last place she stayed, just based on some of the stuff she says in dreams. Last week, she freaked me out when I woke up to her whispering something about killing him in his sleep. She mentioned some guy’s name, one I’d never heard of before, so I’m guessing it was a previous foster dad or brother.

I try not to talk to her much during the day, while we roam the streets in search of food, empty bottles to return, or lost change. Talking equates to attachment and I can’t afford to get attached to her—the first lesson I learned as a foster kid. I’d thought about taking her to the police station, but I know police stations freak kids out. Foster kids, anyway.

If it comes down to it, though, I will. I’m not out here for her, and I sure as hell don’t plan on dragging her around with me for the next ten years. That’s the selfish bitch in me. My mother breaking through my skin.

Layla goes silent again, and I fall back on my makeshift pillow, picking up where I left off. “We picnicked right here by the fountain, and I remember the smell of flowers. And laughter. She’d play her guitar and sing me Bob Dylan songs.” I smile at the memory of sitting in the grass with my mother. “She was wild and beautiful. And she gave great hugs.”

There was a time my mother was affectionate, but over the years, her affections turned to apologies. And her apologies soon became the only time she showed any affection toward me at all. Some nights I welcomed her drugged-out tirades, when she’d come at me, slapping me and calling me names, telling me how worthless I was to her, how miserable she’d been in the years since I’d been born. She’d lie and say she hated me. But it was the following mornings when she’d sneak into bed beside me, her arm slipped beneath mine, whispering apologies into my back when she thought I was asleep. Those were the only times she told me she loved me. And I knew it was the truth because those were the fleeting moments that she happened to be sober.

I point toward the sky. “You see those stars, Charlie? That’s what we are. Born of fire and chaos. Fractals. Infinite. Surrounded by darkness, and still we shine bright. We’re stars, Charlie.”

My stomach growls with pain and hunger. I snatched enough pills from Chanel to last a couple weeks and I’m getting low. To sustain the effects, I’ve had to stop crushing them, which leaves me relaxed most of the day, but it’s not enough.

We need to eat. And I need more pills.

My plan was to lie low for a while. Can’t exactly get a job when I’ve probably got the police and half the city’s human services department looking for me. I have the same caseworker that I’ve had since I was eleven, Muriel Kestral, but the woman seems pretty tight with Randy and Chanel. She has to be. In a year, there hasn’t been a single inspection of the hellhole apartment, and in spite of Randy losing his factory job, no one’s investigated our living conditions. Income is supposed to be reported every year, and Randy’s been working fast food for well over that. So going to Kestral for help is like handing myself over to the bitch.

I stroke Charlie’s fur until her breathing becomes long puffs, and I know she’s fallen asleep. A sharp sting hits the rim of my eyes and the first tear slides down my temple. Every night since we’ve left, I allow the panic of the unknown to wash over me, pull me under the surface for a brief moment of muted silence. I don’t want to care. I want to crush three or four pills and fall into the kind of bliss that can overpower even the sharp bite of hunger. But I’m running out, and soon, a whole new kind of pain will hit. One I won’t survive out here on the streets.

I tried to quit using once. Misery, more intense than anything I’ve ever known before, left me writhing for a few hours before I raided Chanel’s stash again. Not just the symptoms of withdrawal, but the reality that started filtering in.

A crash startles my muscles and, grabbing the knife tucked inside the waistband of my pants, I lift my head to catch sight of a woman pushing a grocery cart piled high with her dirty belongings.