Black and Orange by Benjamin Kane Ethridge Page A

death for her. If you told him his family was just ten feet away, he’d have probably run in the opposite direction and kept running until his legs gave out. Not that he hated them or anything, just that he wasn’t supposed to see them ever again.
    And that must have been the feeling in the air this morning. Something heavy pushed down on the Santa Fe tiled roofs and crisp greens lawns. The homes slowly resembled terracotta monsters with wide-hinged jaws. Maybe the rosebushes would be dead. Or the Cadillac would be under a greasy tarp. How would Teresa react to seeing something like that? They were breaking the Messenger’s fundamental ground rules: No permanent contacts. No family. No friends. You must keep moving. Always moving.
    He noticed Teresa sat straighter. Her fulsome almond hair had become slightly oily without showering, but for the most part she scrubbed up nicely in the auto shop bathroom. She saw him looking and said, “My mother was always anal about appearances. How do I look?”
    “No makeup?”
    She poked his shoulder sharply with two fingers. “Ass.”
    “You look awesome,” he said.
    “You should think about seeing your parents too, while we’re on this coast,” she said.
    “They’ll be the same, which means they won’t appreciate the visit.”
    He could tell Teresa prepared to argue, but they pulled alongside the humble mission-styled home, which was older than the others on the block. The house had finer tiling and stucco, and the lawn looked freshly-mown. Sunrays bent off the blue shell of a Cadillac sitting in the driveway and the rosebushes had reached full bloom. Martin glanced over. His partner’s face had become stricken at the sight of them.
    ~ * ~
    Teresa waited before the old cedar door, a step from a straw welcome mat with pumpkins and ghosts. With Martin standing close behind, she glanced to a sun-faded cardboard witch peering through the leaded-glass window. These tired decorations were things for other people, for acquaintances, for trick o’ treaters , not for the people who lived in this house. Her parents would have skipped this holiday completely if they had the choice, and Teresa could scarcely blame them.
    “Are you going to knock?” Martin asked her.
    She rapped the door so softly she doubted her knuckles had made contact.
    “For crying out loud.” Martin slammed the knocker three times against its bronze plate. A door shut somewhere inside and Teresa took a step back.
      “It’s going to be fine.” He took her by the arm.
    She said, “Maybe this was stupid. We could go begging for change—”
    The door opened.
    Teresa couldn’t deny this woman was her mother. This woman was an older Teresa with flowing gunmetal hair, eyes set sharper and owl-like, no possibility for humor. Had her mother been born to this world, her features may have been described as Hispanic, but no, the soft nose and subtle cheekbones were in an exotic class of their own.
    “Here to serve the papers?” Her voice was in need of oiling though.
    “Are you Mrs. Abigail Celeste?” Teresa asked.
    The door closed an inch. “Should be.”
    Teresa tried a smile. “I’m your daughter, Teresa.”
    “My daughter was kidnapped when she was a teenager.”
    “There’s no reason to put on an act. You knew where I was going that day, mom. We were all together when I left. Why not let us in for a minute, so we can talk?”
    Teresa waited a moment but the old woman looked frozen. “Abigail,” said Teresa, “I’d like to come in a while. We had nowhere else to turn. There are a few things we need to discuss before we get back on the road.”
    Abigail’s resolve drained from her face. “You weren’t supposed to come back. Ever .”
    “Things have changed, you see—”
    “So I see. You’re sheet white. You look bad, not just older.” The woman appraised her with eyes that could blanch the skin off an apple. Then she turned on Martin. “And who is this? He’s not the black one you left