River of Glass by Jaden Terrell Page A

little yellow asses, you’re wrong. No one is coming.”
    Tuyet willed the tears from her eyes. She would not give him the gift of her tears.
    He tucked the photo back into his jacket pocket. “Do you know why I waited this long to tell you?” He cupped her chin and tilted her head up, his thumb and fingers digging painfully into the sides of her jaw. “Answer me.”
    “Hope,” whispered Tuyet. “You want us hope.”
    “That’s right. Five long, glorious days of hope. And now you see there is no hope, and never will be.”
    He gestured toward the man with the tattoo. “You all know this man. You know what he can do. Now you have a choice. Tell me who helped Dung escape, and only the guilty party—or parties—will be punished. Protect the guilty, and . . .” He paused, smiled. “Let’s just say the manticore will have a very busy night.”
    No one spoke. Tuyet’s heart pounded, the pulse of blood in her ears like the sound of the ocean in a seashell.
    Then, as pointedly as if they had shoved her into a spotlight, the other eight women looked in her direction and slowly turned their heads away.
    For an interminable moment, the boss man studied her face. Then his fingers closed around her arm, dug painfully into her flesh.
    “Wait.” Mat wrapped his hand around Tuyet’s other wrist. “This one is mine.”

11
    A fter the news, while Jay took his meds and Eric made a missing-person flyer, I called a woman I knew at the DMV. It was after nine, but she’d be up for hours yet, working Sudoku puzzles and watching nature documentaries on TV.
    Beatrice Sandowski had started with the Department of Motor Vehicles the year I was born. She had five daughters, one a lesbian, two divorced, one a career bachelorette, and one married to a guy who’d been unemployed for the past three years and spent his days smoking pot and playing online war games. Beatrice had a soft spot for me, which probably had something to do with her none-too-secret hope that I might one day make a more suitable son-in-law.
    Her voice warmed when I said hello.
    “Hello, handsome. You still single?”
    “Seeing someone.”
    “Dang.”
    “Got a favor to ask. A partial plate.”
    “It’ll cost you.”
    “Cost me what?”
    “Meatloaf on Sunday. You can even bring your girlfriend, if you want to break my heart.”
    “She’s out of town.” I glanced at Khanh. “But I might bring someone anyway.”
    She tsk-tsked. “When the cat’s away?”
    “Nothing like that. It’s . . . she . . . might be my sister. Half-sister.”
    “Might be?”
    I looked at Khanh again. She sat stiffly in the recliner, pointedly not watching me. “It’s still up in the air. This partial plate I need you to run. It’s connected to a missing girl, this woman’s daughter.”
    Her voice softened. “Oh, honey. Look, you give me the numbers and I’ll see what I can do. I’ll take a rain check on the meatloaf.”
    I thanked her and flipped the phone closed. Slipped it into my jacket pocket.
    “Might be?” Khanh said. “Still in air?”
    “Don’t push it,” I said. “It’s not like there’s a paternity test.”
    “We find Tuyet,” she said. “Then we go away, you close eyes, no more sister.”
    “Promises, promises.” I told her where the extra blankets were and went outside to feed and water the horses. The night air chilled as I picked out their hooves, combed their manes and tails, and brushed them until they gleamed. Through the stable doors, I could see the flicker of the television behind the blinds. Then the lights went out and there was nothing but the moon. It was past time for bed, but I lingered in the comforting presence of the horses.
    I was feeding Tex molasses treats from my palm when the front door opened and Khanh came out. She wore one of Jay’s sweaters, and my mother’s afghan hung loosely around her shoulders. I tried not to let that bother me.
    “Couldn’t sleep?” I said.
    She pulled the afghan tight around herself. In the