Read Online Girl, Missing by Sophie McKenzie - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sophie McKenzie
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âPlease?â
Jamâs eyes softened. Iâd never noticed but they were hazel, not brown. With gold flecks beside the green.
I looked away quickly, wiping my face again.
Crap. I must look totally hideous. Just like he said
.
Jam squeezed my arm. âLeavington, then,â he said. âBring it on.â
12
Lincoln Heights
Leavington was a dump. So run-down it made Marchfield look smart. Street after street of big apartment buildings all bunched together in straggly lines, with front yards full of rubbish.
The cab driver was massively narked when we explained we wanted to stop off at Lincoln Heights for thirty minutes or so.
He refused to wait for us unless we covered his fare â which would have taken too much of our remaining money.
âItâs OK,â I said to Jam. âWeâll get another cab to Burlington. Or a bus.â
Once he knew he wasnât getting his full fare to the airport the driver grumbled the whole way to Leavington. He grumbled about having to look up Lincoln Heights on his map. Then he grumbled about some one-way system which meant he couldnât drop us outside. When he finally did pull up, he made a massive fuss about not having much change and needing us to give him the exact money. Of course I only had the hundred-dollar bill Taylor Tarsen had given me.
The driver took it, then turned away and dug deep into a pouch beside his seat.
âHere,â he growled. He pushed a huge wodge of folded-over notes into my hand and drove off.
I shoved the money into my pocket and shouldered my bag. It was 6.15 am, just starting to get light. A small knot of older teenagers were leaning against a nearby wall. They looked like theyâd been out all night. Two of the guys stared at us, their eyes all hard and threatening.
Heart pounding, I grabbed Jamâs arm and strode off in the opposite direction. The weather matched the scenery. Dull, ugly, steel-grey clouds filled every centimetre of sky. And the air was bitterly cold.
Jam spent his last few dollars on weak coffee and doughnuts from a grubby stall on the corner. Then suddenly we were there. 10904 Lincoln Heights.
It was like all the other buildings in the road. Dark. Dirty. Crumbling. The front door was locked. And none of the buzzers on the chipped side panel appeared to work.
At last a woman came out and scurried down the steps. We slipped inside before the front door shut.
âUgh.â Jam wrinkled his nose.
I swallowed, trying not to breathe in the rank smell of stale piss and rotting food that drifted down from the stained, concrete stairs.
We made our way slowly up to apartment thirty-four onthe top floor. Once again, I knew that if Jam wasnât beside me I would have turned and run away. In fact, if I hadnât made so much fuss about coming here, I probably would have suggested we left right now.
Surely it was hopeless? There was no way Sonia still lived here.
Jeez
. Sheâd probably never lived here. I just didnât know. But as we stood outside apartment thirty-four I suddenly had this overwhelming sense she was going to open the door. And then what?
What would I say?
Hey. Did you kidnap me eleven years ago?
Suppose I was wrong? Suppose she really was my mother? Suppose she took one look at me and slammed the door in my face?
Jam was already knocking.
I stood frozen to the spot. The door was opening.
I stared at the girl standing in front of us. Then I relaxed. It wasnât Sonia. Couldnât be Sonia. She was way too young. No more than eighteen or nineteen.
The girl had a baby in her arms, and a toddler clutching at her knee. She tucked a wisp of greasy hair behind her ears and scowled at me.
âWhat you want?â she said, her voice heavily accented. Spanish, I think.
âWeâre looking for someone called Sonia Holtwood,â I said. âI think she used to live here.â
âNo,â the girl said. âShe no live here.â She
Jamâs eyes softened. Iâd never noticed but they were hazel, not brown. With gold flecks beside the green.
I looked away quickly, wiping my face again.
Crap. I must look totally hideous. Just like he said
.
Jam squeezed my arm. âLeavington, then,â he said. âBring it on.â
12
Lincoln Heights
Leavington was a dump. So run-down it made Marchfield look smart. Street after street of big apartment buildings all bunched together in straggly lines, with front yards full of rubbish.
The cab driver was massively narked when we explained we wanted to stop off at Lincoln Heights for thirty minutes or so.
He refused to wait for us unless we covered his fare â which would have taken too much of our remaining money.
âItâs OK,â I said to Jam. âWeâll get another cab to Burlington. Or a bus.â
Once he knew he wasnât getting his full fare to the airport the driver grumbled the whole way to Leavington. He grumbled about having to look up Lincoln Heights on his map. Then he grumbled about some one-way system which meant he couldnât drop us outside. When he finally did pull up, he made a massive fuss about not having much change and needing us to give him the exact money. Of course I only had the hundred-dollar bill Taylor Tarsen had given me.
The driver took it, then turned away and dug deep into a pouch beside his seat.
âHere,â he growled. He pushed a huge wodge of folded-over notes into my hand and drove off.
I shoved the money into my pocket and shouldered my bag. It was 6.15 am, just starting to get light. A small knot of older teenagers were leaning against a nearby wall. They looked like theyâd been out all night. Two of the guys stared at us, their eyes all hard and threatening.
Heart pounding, I grabbed Jamâs arm and strode off in the opposite direction. The weather matched the scenery. Dull, ugly, steel-grey clouds filled every centimetre of sky. And the air was bitterly cold.
Jam spent his last few dollars on weak coffee and doughnuts from a grubby stall on the corner. Then suddenly we were there. 10904 Lincoln Heights.
It was like all the other buildings in the road. Dark. Dirty. Crumbling. The front door was locked. And none of the buzzers on the chipped side panel appeared to work.
At last a woman came out and scurried down the steps. We slipped inside before the front door shut.
âUgh.â Jam wrinkled his nose.
I swallowed, trying not to breathe in the rank smell of stale piss and rotting food that drifted down from the stained, concrete stairs.
We made our way slowly up to apartment thirty-four onthe top floor. Once again, I knew that if Jam wasnât beside me I would have turned and run away. In fact, if I hadnât made so much fuss about coming here, I probably would have suggested we left right now.
Surely it was hopeless? There was no way Sonia still lived here.
Jeez
. Sheâd probably never lived here. I just didnât know. But as we stood outside apartment thirty-four I suddenly had this overwhelming sense she was going to open the door. And then what?
What would I say?
Hey. Did you kidnap me eleven years ago?
Suppose I was wrong? Suppose she really was my mother? Suppose she took one look at me and slammed the door in my face?
Jam was already knocking.
I stood frozen to the spot. The door was opening.
I stared at the girl standing in front of us. Then I relaxed. It wasnât Sonia. Couldnât be Sonia. She was way too young. No more than eighteen or nineteen.
The girl had a baby in her arms, and a toddler clutching at her knee. She tucked a wisp of greasy hair behind her ears and scowled at me.
âWhat you want?â she said, her voice heavily accented. Spanish, I think.
âWeâre looking for someone called Sonia Holtwood,â I said. âI think she used to live here.â
âNo,â the girl said. âShe no live here.â She
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