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

“Don’t sass me, boy.”

“I’ll go get them.”

“Nah, don’t bother. They’re already full of dust anyway. You’ll have to wash them tomorrow.”

DJ sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and looked around the kitchen. It still made his chest swell a little when he saw how good everything looked. He couldn’t remember the house ever being this clean. Charles and Thomas definitely never made things look this good. But Josiah didn’t seem to care.

After a moment, his father looked at him again. “Well, what are you waiting for? Go get cleaned up.”

With a nod, DJ walked up the stairs to the bathroom. His mouth fell open when he flicked on the light. The bathroom was splattered with mud; blades of grass and small pebbles littered the floor. The bathtub was empty, but there was a fine layer of sand and dirt sitting in puddles of water at the bottom. There were spots of shaving cream and fingerprints on the mirror above the sink. Josiah had left his wet towel in a heap on the floor.

The injustice built up inside him like a storm, but he bit the insides of his cheeks to force his mouth to stay shut. Josiah had lost everything. He was doing the best he could, and DJ was all he had left.

DJ pulled a cloth out of the linen closet, wet it down, and got on his knees to scrub up the mess.

27

Elle

January 18, 2020

The street in front of Sash’s house was lined with cars. Elle blinked at them in the glare of the early morning sunlight, seeing if she recognized any of the license plates. It was odd, thinking of Sash spending time with anyone other than her and Martín. Besides her and Tina, Elle didn’t really have other friends—sometimes she forgot that made her the strange one.

Her best friend hadn’t answered the phone last night after everything happened. Knowing Sash probably didn’t want to see her, Elle had sent Martín to check on her, but even he got turned away by a police officer at her front door. Elle had sat up on the couch all night, alternating between sobbing and staring at the wall, hoping for a call that would let her know Natalie had been found.

None came.

Conversation rumbled inside Sash’s house, as though a meeting or a cocktail party was underway. A peek through the sliver between the window and the curtain indoors showed a room full of people wearing formal clothing and grim expressions. It looked like a wake.

Raising her hand, Elle knocked on the front door. A moment later, someone answered—a young man with thick dark hair slicked in a cresting wave on top of his head. “Are you here for the prayer service?” he asked.

Interesting. As far as Elle knew, Sash never put much stock in religion, but maybe she had started getting into it to support Natalie’s interest in the Bible. Of course, if there was ever a time to pray, it was now.

Without a word, Elle nodded. The man gestured her inside, and she followed, unsettled at being led by a stranger into a house she knew so well. When they rounded the corner into the living room, Elle’s eyes widened at the sight of her best friend surrounded by at least twenty people. They all had their heads bowed, and one woman wearing a pink sweater was praying out loud, her left hand raised and extended toward Sash. The man who had answered the door grabbed a chair from the kitchen and set it down in a silent offer. Elle smiled at him and sat, joining the staggered circle.

“What are you doing here?”

Sash’s voice cut through the middle of the pink-sweater woman’s prayer. Everyone’s head seemed to lift and turn toward Elle in one fluid susurration of movement.

“I . . . I came to see how you’re doing.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Elle flinched but did not look away from her friend’s burning gaze. She ignored the murmurs and awkward shifting of the other people around them. “I’m sorry for what happened, Sash.”

“You’re sorry? My daughter called you. You were supposed to be there for her. You promised you would be there for her. But you were too busy investigating your stupid serial killer.” A bitter laugh bubbled from her lips. “In fact, you’re still too busy investigating him to do what’s best for Natalie.”

This time, Elle did look away, staring at the green carpet with its worn pink flowers—left over from the previous owner. Natalie used to call it their “jungle floor” when she was little. Maybe Sash was right. Maybe she had let herself get sucked into this case, despite the years of preparation and practice it took to get here. If her obsession with finding TCK had caused Natalie harm, she would never forgive herself.

“What do you want me to do?” Elle asked.

Sash reached out to a woman sitting next to her, clasped her hand tightly, and looked at Elle. Her nostrils flared and tears welled up in her eyes. “I want you to find her. And I want you to bring her home to me like you promised you always would. Until then, I don’t want to see you.”

Elle licked her lower lip and nodded, forcing down her own tears. Unable to think of anything else to say, she stood up and walked out of the room.

Outside, the sun bounced off the snow with a blinding glare. Elle zipped her coat and looked up and down the street. She half expected to find officers searching for more clues, but they must have been satisfied there was nothing else to find. Slowly, she walked home, eyes on the icy ground as she went, just in case she saw something the others had missed. There was nothing of Natalie left behind, though—only grit and ice and salt.

When she got to her front door, Elle put the key in and paused. She couldn’t face the idea of sitting in an empty house all day. Martín had