Sisters of the Road by Barbara Wilson Read Free Book Online Page B

work and didn’t want to put her back out on the street without learning more about her and Rosalie. I came back to the living room and started explaining things about the heating and the stove and the faucet leak in the bathroom.
    Her bad humor seemed to have vanished as quickly as it had come and she was eager to appear a responsible guest.
    “There’s not a lot of food here, unless you want to eat the cannelloni, so you may want to go out. I’ll leave you some money. If you wanted, you could come down to the shop and we could eat lunch together. You want to do that?”
    “I’ll think about it,” she said. “Maybe I’ll just stay here and read Jane Eyre. I could call you if I’m coming.”
    “You’re sure there’s nobody you want to contact—like…” I didn’t want to mention her parents and get her angry again, “like a friend or someone? Just to let them know where you are?”
    “Not really. Oh, I might call Wayne just to say hi, but it’s no big deal. We don’t check up on each other.”
    “Okay then. Well, give me a call if you want to come for lunch. Otherwise I’ll be back around five-thirty or six. Here’s the shop’s number.”
    I felt dissatisfied and full of questions, both about her and about my own course of conduct. There’d been a murder after all and Trish might be the only witness. Should I call the police, even if she’d asked me not to? I wanted to treat her as an equal, but I knew she was still a child. What if her parents were looking for her—and if they weren’t they should be—and what was my responsibility to them? Should I try to call them, just to let them know Trish was safe? I didn’t even know Trish’s last name—and I didn’t know how to ask without sounding suspicious.
    “I’ll be fine here,” she reassured me brightly, as if guessing my worries. “Me and Ernesto, we’ll just cuddle up and read.”
    “You find out anymore about her, this girl you’re saving from a life of crime?” June asked. She had found a small item in the newspaper about Rosalie’s death, hidden near the real estate ads.
    “A few things. She’s only fifteen and she doesn’t come from Broadmoor.”
    “See?”
    “June,” I warned. “You promised… It’s strange though, she keeps talking about this guy Wayne she’s in love with and about how much he loves her and all the money and things he gives her—but it turns out she was practically living with Rosalie and she doesn’t seem to want to turn to him for help.”
    “He’s her pimp, that’s why! She probably can’t show up les she’s got her quota.”
    “What do you mean, her quota?”
    “Her money, girl. He tells her she’s got to bring in a hundred and fifty—two hundred dollars a day and she’s got to make it or she can’t show her face.”
    “She said he’s an artist, a photographer. He’s got a studio in Belltown. That doesn’t sound like a pimp to me.”
    “You think pimps are all Black studs driving around in Cadillacs? You’ve been watching too many Hollywood movies. She on dope?”
    I shook my head and then shrugged. “I guess I don’t know how to tell,” I admitted. “She seemed restless for a while this morning, but she was all right when I left. She got angry pretty fast when I asked her about her parents.”
    “She’ll go out later to score if she needs it,” June predicted. “Probably a cokehead if her ole man’s an artist. Though kids these days—she could be on anything. The latest thing I heard, they’re spraying paint into socks and sniffing it. They go crazy.”
    “June, would you give her a break? She’s only a kid and she’s scared out of her wits.”
    “Humph,” said June. “Well, you watch out she doesn’t sell out your apartment while you’re gone. Seriously.”
    Carole came in, forty-five minutes late, mumbling something about snow in her driveway and looking totally disheveled.
    “Don’t suppose you’ve noticed,” said June with a scathing look, “But most