On the Edge by Allison van Diepen Page A

I was a minor, my name was never used—I was just “the witness,” which allowed me to pretend it wasn’t me. I got plenty of calls from news agencies; I gave them nothing. But Roz Wilson, the heavyset woman who’d been standing beside me at the bus stop, was all too eager to talk. I admit, I couldn’t help but like Roz. She had a talent for over-the-top descriptions. In an interview with KTU Local 5, she managed to use “horrid,” “horrific,” and “horrifying” all in one thirty-second sound bite.
    My recovery was slow but steady. I ached less every day, which meant fewer meds and a clearer head. By Wednesday I was able to work on my laptop, and I dove into both newspaper and school work. My goal was to return to school on Monday, no matter what.
    My Facebook page blew up with sympathy posts. I spent endless time scrolling through them, assuring people that I was okay. Then Iz called me up, ranting that I should not , under any circumstances, downplay my injuries in case they ever caught the guys who did this to me.
    Fat chance of that . I hadn’t seen my attackers clearly enough to identify them. And even if I could, more Reyes would probably come after me.
    Not according to Lobo, I reminded myself.
    I still didn’t understand how that could be true. But at the same time, I didn’t doubt him. I’d felt something that night in the hospital when we’d held hands, some intense emotion I couldn’t identify, but wanted desperately to feel again. My intuition told me that he would come back to me, somehow—that I couldn’t possibly have seen the last of him. It was only a question of when.
    There were other visitors, though. My friends stopped in to see me often. And Manny sent me flirty text messages to keep me entertained. It all helped. But it was Julia who helped me the most. She’d been through her own nightmare back in Brooklyn, and she understood me like no one else.
    She stopped in to see me on Tuesday, and again on Friday before her four o’clock class. We sat in the living room and drank cans of iced tea. She didn’t have to ask how I was doing. She saw.
    â€œEmotional day, huh?”
    I felt a lump in my throat. “I looked up Hector Rodriguez last night and found his sister’s Facebook page. She’s a real estate agent with three kids. She wrote about what a good brother he was, and his struggle with mental illness.”
    â€œMust’ve made him more real to you.”
    I nodded. “I read some more articles about his murder and they made me so angry. They kept calling him ‘the homeless man’ and hardly mentioned his name. Like he wasn’t even a person.”
    â€œThat’s what the press does. It’s just like when they say a murder’s ‘gang-related.’ It means regular people don’t have to worry about it.”
    â€œI keep thinking how lucky I am that those guys intervened.” Although I wanted to tell her that “those guys” were the Destinos, I knew I had to keep it quiet. “I should’ve done the same for Hector. But I was too scared.”
    Julia shook her head firmly. “Don’t do that, Maddie. You’re going to drive yourself crazy.”
    â€œI know. But during the attack, I kept wanting someone to help me. Hector must have been thinking the same thing.”
    â€œThere’s no comparison. You wouldn’t have stood a chance.”
    â€œWhat if I’d been able to distract them? It could’ve played out differently.”
    â€œYou couldn’t have saved Hector. You have to accept that. If you’d approached them, they would’ve raped you and set you on fire instead. Your gut told you to stay away, and you followed it.”
    I closed my eyes, taking it in. I so wanted to believe her.
    â€œBut you’re helping Hector now, and you’re paying the price. Look at you, for God’s sake.”
    Yeah,