Cracked by Barbra Leslie

again with the same result. Then I called Gene’s number and let it ring ten, twelve times before giving up. He didn’t have a machine. He never wanted to be found. True addicts, people as far along as Gene was – which was even worse than I had gotten, despite my best efforts – only wanted to be found by their dealers. When, of course, they didn’t owe them money.
    “Fuck,” I said out loud.
    I stepped into the shower and the blood seemed to seep back into my veins. Sleep in the best bed ever constructed, hot water, and the prospect of anything that Marta might have to eat in the kitchen brought me around enough to make coherent thinking a little more possible.
    I threw on a short black jersey skirt and a sleeveless black silk top. It was the closest I had to anything that fit me. Somewhere in the back of my head, I was thinking that this outfit could take me from whatever dive bars I might have to hit to look for the low-lifes my sister had apparently been associating with, and also not be out of place when – when, not if – we found the boys. I had no intention of staying in the house all day. And I was pretty sure they couldn’t prevent me from leaving. If they did, I’d call Chandler. I was pretty sure he liked me, and might throw me a bit of legal advice at the family rate. I threw on an old pair of sandals – with a pang, I realised that they were probably Ginger’s – that I found sticking out under the bed. It made me wonder if Ginger hadn’t been sleeping with Fred anymore. I liked wearing them.
    Before going downstairs, I went into the bathroom, made sure the sink counter was dry, cut a couple of quick lines of coke and snorted them with my last twenty.
    I went down to the kitchen.
    “Wow,” I heard a voice behind me say. Officer Miller appeared behind me in the kitchen. With a shower under my belt, I noticed that he looked a little less rumpled than he had the night before. He must have gone home and gotten some sleep as well. “You look… different.”
    “No shit, Sherlock,” I said. “I don’t have puke in my hair.” I wasn’t in the mood to get all Flirty McFlirty-Pants with this guy. Last night, maybe for half a second, when my defenses were down and with Grey Goose in my system, I might have looked at him differently. Today, he was another suit. And he had one function: to find my nephews and lead me to my sister’s killer, or killers, so I could do what I had to do.
    “How did you sleep?” he asked, pulling up a stool at the big island in the centre of the room.
    “Let’s see, what other meaningless comments can we make,” I replied, opening cupboards looking for a mug. Coffee was on. “How about, are you an alcoholic? Did your father spank you? Did you have eggs for breakfast today?” I knew I was being a shit. I couldn’t seem to stop myself. “Please tell me there’s news of Matthew and Luke,” I said. I found a mug and looked down into it. Tears were leaking out of my eyes. Dammit.
    “I’m sorry, Miss Cleary,” Miller said. “We got a BOLO out on the car that this woman drove away in with the boys, but we only got a partial licence from the video surveillance.” I looked at him. He took an apple out of his pocket and took a small bite. “As happens after any Amber Alert, we have had dozens and dozens of calls, and a team of officers sifting through them.”
    “Most of them crazies, I suppose,” I said.
    He nodded. “But it only takes one real lead,” he said gently. “Everyone in the state is looking for those boys.” I nodded. I didn’t trust myself to speak.
    Marta bustled into the room. “Coffee,” she said, pointing at the pot. “
Con leche?
”
    “Um.
S
í. Thanks. Lots of
leche
,” I said, patting her on the shoulder as she very kindly pushed me away from her work area. Detective Miller grinned at her.
    “Marta,” I said, taking a seat three stools down from Miller. “Can I please get some food? Um? Breakfast?” Even with coke in my