“I was going to,” she says, her eyes darting behind me as if she’s just now noticing Spade even though I can feel the warmth of him at my back. “Ran into some financial problems and couldn’t take care of it.”
“He gave it to you for free,” I snap. “It doesn’t get any cheaper than that.”
“It costs money to transfer shit, Sylvie. Not everyone in the family fucks rich dudes to get shit paid for.”
My teeth grind at the insinuation that I pimped myself out to men to get things paid for.
“Naomi,” Spade growls, the first word he’s spoken since we stepped onto the porch.
“Tony’s in fucking jail. I have to find a way to get him out before worrying about that transfer.”
I scrub at my forehead, a sudden headache forming between my eyes in irritation.
“Why is Tony in jail?” I ask, even though I couldn’t give a shit about her boyfriend.
“There was a misunderstanding down at the bar,” she explains, shifting her weight on her feet.
She seems nervous, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s either high or jonesing for a hit. My cousin was never a stranger to experimenting with whatever was handed to her as a teen, and I don’t doubt that hasn’t transformed into full-blown addiction as an adult.
“It’s either the transfer or evic—”
A baby’s cry echoes from behind her and my threat falls away.
Naomi rolls her eyes as if the child inside is more of an annoyance than anything else in her life, but she turns around, leaving the front door open, and disappears back inside.
Spade goes to step around me, but I glare at him before stepping inside the house. My first instinct is to cover my nose because of the stench, but I’m locked in place at the condition of my childhood home.
Trash litters the floor. A small path cuts through piles of newspaper, the only way to even step into the small living room.
I want to turn around and face the man who is following me inside. I want to make him understand that this may be the house I grew up in, but we didn’t live like this. Yeah, we had to use a butter knife to wedge hand towels into the cracks around the door on really cold nights, but there was always food in the fridge. The only time the power went out was due to storms or a tree limb falling on the power line. I never went without running water.
I can’t imagine Naomi has either running water or electricity, but then she surprises me when she flips on a table lamp. It casts the room in a soft light, making me wish I never followed her inside.
“She never stops crying,” Naomi mutters as she disappears down the short hall and into the room I occupied growing up. I can’t resist following her, despite knowing I’m only going to upset myself even more.
The room is not what I expected. The carpet is dingy, but it wasn’t in perfect condition when I lived here either. The living area and what I could see of the kitchen were trashed, but this room is pristine compared to those other areas.
Something grips my heart when I watch Naomi pull a tight pink bundle from the obvious thrift-store crib, holding it to her chest as she rocks back and forth.
As Naomi reaches for a can of formula beside a gallon jug of drinking water, I feel Spade’s hand on my lower back. The sound of her scraping the bottom of the can has the power to bring a sting of unshed tears to my eyes.
It’s obvious she’s trying with this child the best she possibly can, but deep down I know it’s not good enough. Almost and nearly aren’t words you can associate with raising a child. Nearly warm enough doesn’t count. Almost healthy doesn’t work.
“Naomi,” I whisper, pained beyond measure when my cousin turns around with tears of her own in her eyes.
“I thought I’d have enough to last until the end of the month,” she says softly, dumping a scant half scoop of formula into a clean, empty bottle.
I dig into my purse and pull out all the cash I have, laying it on the dresser beside the jug of water. As Naomi’s eyes land on the money, I already know I’m going to have to go to the store and buy the things this child needs. I can see the struggle in her eyes, how she wants to use it for her child, but addiction claws at her throat as well.
I have no idea how much drugs a hundred dollars can buy but it’s obvious by the added tremble in her hands that it’s enough for what she needs.
“If Tony were here, things would be easier,” she mutters, fisting the money before shoving it into the front pocket of her sweatshirt.
“Why don’t you call Aunt Laylah?”
Naomi backs away like I’ve slapped her in the face.
“I don’t need your fucking help.”