to buy dope, she helped out on weekends, too. “She left a couple of hours ago.” Already it seemed like an eternity to Cheyenne, and evidently Anita felt the same way.
Growing more agitated, her mother shook her head. “No.”
“No what?”
“I haven’t seen her in ages. She’s abandoned me. I’m surprised you’re the one who stayed.”
It wasn’t so unusual that Chey would be the daughter to come through for her in difficult times. She’d always been the most responsible in the family. She almost said so, but what was the point? Her mother would believe what she wanted. “She’ll be here again in the morning.” And as soon as she got home, she’d crash in her bed....
“Can you call her?”
“I’m here to take care of whatever you need. Why bother her?”
“Because I want to talk to her, that’s why!”
Chey knew she couldn’t deal with her mother if she was going to be difficult again. “Calm down, okay?”
“I’m not acting up!” She struggled to sit but couldn’t manage it. “Who the hell do you think you are? Where do you think you’d be without me, anyway?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.” She had a feeling she’d be someplace better. But that was the suspicion talking. She normally didn’t say such things. Today, the words rushed out before Cheyenne could stop them. Then they hung in the air like a foul stench.
Her mother blinked at her. Her eyes, though rheumy with sickness, could still turn mean. But she’d lost the power she’d once wielded. She could no longer frighten Cheyenne.
Thank God.
Anita must’ve realized it wouldn’t do her any good to rail, because she didn’t let her temper boil over. Her voice became whiny. “You can treat me like this when I’m about to die?”
There was nothing more the doctors could do. They’d prescribed liquid morphine for the pain and Ativan to ease the anxiety, and released Anita so she could spend her last weeks at home. Pancreatic cancer typically moved fast. But Cheyenne didn’t think Anita had arrived at her final moments quite yet. “Let’s not despair too soon.”
“You won’t shed a tear when I’m gone.”
Hoping to distract her, Cheyenne turned on the TV. “I’ll heat some soup while you watch Jeopardy!”
Anita caught her before she could walk out. “I’ve always loved you. I could’ve abandoned you, but I didn’t. I kept you with me every step of the way, even though it wasn’t always easy to feed and clothe you.”
Cheyenne pivoted to confront her. “Who was the blonde woman? Someone you used to leave me with?”
Anita grimaced. “What blonde woman?”
“I’ve told you about her before. I can remember someone with blue eyes and platinum-blond hair. I was with her, wearing a princess dress, and there were presents all around as if it was my birthday.”
A strange expression came over Anita’s sallow face, one that led Cheyenne to believe she might finally receive an explanation. Her mother knew something. But then a hint of the malevolence Anita had just masked sparkled in her eyes. “Why do you keep asking about that stuff? I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about.”
* * *
Presley Christensen sat in the parking lot of the Rain Dance Casino, smoking a cigarette in her 1967 Mustang. It was cold outside, too cold to have the window cracked open, especially when the heater was busted, but if she wanted to smoke she had little choice. It was against California state law to light up in a public building, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to stand outside.
Crossing her ankles beneath the steering wheel, she took a long, calming drag. As a card dealer, she was entitled to a fifteen-minute break every hour, which sounded like a lot but wasn’t, not when she was on her feet for the rest of her shift. She had three hours to go and already her back ached. She wished she could earn a living some other way, but there weren’t many options available to someone without so much as a high school diploma. She was lucky to have her GED and a job.
“Excuse me.”
A man rapped on her window, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Where had he come from? She hadn’t seen anyone approaching....
She locked the door to be certain he couldn’t get in and spoke to him through the gap in her window. “What do you want?”
Several years ago, a woman had been abducted from a casino northeast of Sacramento. Presley hadn’t heard of anything like that happening where she lived, but it was nearly three in the morning, and she was out in the dark alone with a stranger. One who’d been drinking for all she knew.
He lifted his hands in a calming gesture. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Eugene Crouch, a private investigator.” He used a penlight to illuminate the ID he flashed at her. “Are you Presley?”
She wasn’t sure whether to answer him. She was afraid the P.I. claim was designed to lower her guard. Her first name was, after all, sewn onto her blouse. “What if I am?” she asked skeptically.
“I’m looking for someone you might know.”
“Who?”
“Anita Christensen.”
She practically dropped her cigarette. As it was, some ash fell into her lap and she had to brush it away before it could burn a hole in her uniform. What did this man want with her mother?
Considering the way Anita had lived her life, he couldn’t have any good reason to be looking for her. As the black-sheep daughter of a hard-bitten, broken woman who’d had six kids by as many men, she wasn’t likely to inherit money. And, like her own mother, Anita had never been accepted by her extended family, so Presley doubted this man was here to help some long-lost friend or relative reconnect....
Maybe she’d stolen a watch from someone who’d paid her for sex and the police had issued a warrant for her arrest. Or worse. She’d once crashed into a man on a bicycle and driven away from the scene of the accident. She’d been drinking and shouldn’t have been behind the wheel. Presley was surprised she’d suffered no repercussions for that. But it’d happened in Arizona and they’d crossed into New Mexico right after.
Presley had shoved that incident into the back of her mind—until now.
This could also be about welfare fraud or tax evasion, she supposed. Anita had done anything she could to get by.
“Say that name again?” She took another drag on her cigarette while trying to decide how to answer.
“Anita Christensen. Used to be Karen Bateman. Went by the name of Laura Dumas before that.”
Presley had a vague recollection of being told her last name was Bateman—maybe when she was eight or nine. But she’d never heard of Dumas. That one must’ve been before she was old enough to remember. “None of those names are familiar to me.” She’d been trained to protect her mother,
