Girl, 11 by Amy Clarke (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

him, to find out what information he had, but when I arrived at his house, he had been murdered.” Elle paused, blinked away the sight of Leo’s bloody body. “I don’t know what information he had, if any. There’s a chance none of this will be relevant to the case, and I’ll archive this recording like I’ve done with thousands of others. But for right now, I’m still trying to figure out what he might have known. I’m going to his ex-wife’s house, to see if she had been in touch with him recently. It’s obviously a long shot, but I have to try. I . . . I still can’t believe that it was a coincidence, the timing of when he was killed, even though it seems apparent that it was. I have been running this podcast for four years, and I’ve never had any of my listeners end up in danger because of a tip they gave me. Not that I know of, anyway. I want to remind all of you to be mindful of your own safety first. If you feel that you’re in danger, call the police immediately. I’ll report back once I have more.” She pressed stop and pulled the headset off.

The early cramps of an anxiety attack started building in her chest. As she pulled into the parking lot of a tan-bricked apartment complex, Elle took a deep breath through her nose, held it for ten seconds, and blew it out through her lips. She did this twice more before the stitches came apart inside her, letting her breath flow naturally again. She turned off the car, grabbed her bag full of recording equipment—in case Luisa was willing to do an interview—and opened the door to the crisp winter afternoon.

According to the research Elle had done at home, Luisa and Leo had been married for five years before separating last year. Now, she apparently lived with her mother in an old apartment building next to the highway. Elle lugged her bag up two flights of stairs that smelled like mildew and knocked on number 207. Inside, slow footsteps creaked toward the door, followed by the sound of the peephole cover being lifted.

“¿Quién es?” a hoarse voice asked.

“Señora, me llamo Elle Castillo. Estoy buscando a Luisa Toca—”

“¿Sabe dónde está mi Luisa?” The woman’s voice pitched a little higher with anticipation.

Elle’s shoulders slumped. The woman was looking for Luisa too. “No, estoy buscándola.”

A chain rattled inside and then the door swung open, revealing a stooped, elderly woman who leaned heavily on a mobile oxygen tank. Cannulas rested inside her narrow nostrils. Her deep brown skin was carved with wrinkles from age and worry. Upon seeing Elle, the woman’s jaw tensed, her chin raised. “I can speak English, you know.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed; we can speak whichever language you’re most comfortable with.”

After a moment, Maria nodded. “It’s okay. You speak Spanish well, but I’m fine in English. Are you police?”

“No, I’m an independent investigator.” Elle held up her microphone. “It’s not recording, don’t worry. But I look into cold cases for a podcast—it’s like a radio show. I was hoping Luisa might be able to help me find someone.”

“I don’t know who she could help you find. But please, come in.” With shuffling steps, Maria turned and led Elle through the little hallway in her apartment, to a kitchen that smelled of cilantro and onions. Elle settled into a wooden chair, inhaling the spicy air.

With slow, deliberate movements, Maria filled a kettle with water and put it on the stove. She twisted a dial, and the ring grew orange with heat.

“Mijita,” Maria whispered, almost too low for Elle to hear. Then she turned away from the stove to look at Elle. “I haven’t heard from her in days. Almost a week. She was supposed to call last weekend, but she didn’t. I tried and tried. Who sent you here?”

Elle leaned forward in her seat, itching to help the woman to a chair. But it wasn’t her place to do so. “I found Luisa on social media and saw you were her mother. I tracked down your address from there. Her work hasn’t heard from her in a few days either, so I was hoping I’d find her here.”

“So, you don’t know where she is.” Maria pulled two brown mugs out of a wood-paneled cupboard and set them on the counter. She opened a bright yellow Therbal box and dropped a tea bag in each cup.

“I’m sorry, no,” Elle said. “She doesn’t live here anymore?”

“This is still where she gets mail, but she spends her nights with a man.”

“A boyfriend?” Elle hadn’t considered that Luisa might have anything to do with Leo’s death, but if there was a new man in the picture, that made things more interesting. New lovers always complicated old relationships.

Maria’s wizened face screwed up in distaste. “He is too old for a boyfriend. This man, he is twenty, twenty-five years older than my Luisa. She is still young; she could still find a good man and marry again. But she doesn’t try. She wants only this old man.”

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know,” the woman said, shaking her head. “She knows I hate him, so she does not bring him here. He is a white man, blue eyes, with . . . Cómo se dice . . . está perdiendo su pelo.”

“Losing his hair? Balding?”

The kettle started to whistle and Maria turned to fill their mugs with water. “Right. Luisa is so beautiful! She could have any man she wants, and she chooses this . . . this viejo feo.”

Elle bit her lip. Luisa was lucky to have a mother like Maria—doting and complimentary, convinced no one was good enough for her daughter. That must be nice.

Maria started to pick up the mugs of tea, trying to navigate two in one hand so she could still move her oxygen tank.

Elle stood. “Please, Señora, can I help you with the tea?”

The older woman met Elle’s gaze for a moment and then