Jersey Six - Jewel E Ann Page 0,4

As sure as I can be. I think I grew up in the system,” he mumbled.

“Were you homeless before your accident?”

Chris stopped, scratching the back of his head. “I’m not sure. At times, I think I left town for a while. Then I came back after …” He continued to shake his head. “I’m not sure. I think I had enemies. I just …” Chris shook his head, pinching his eyes shut. “It’s like my memory has no inception.”

“Real enemies?” Jersey paused her chewing. “Not like the obvious one which is life.”

He chuckled. “Life, huh? You think life is my enemy?”

“You said you grew up in the system. You’re here, looking for a warm place to sleep, and I saw you practically drooling over this banana when I pulled it out of my bag.” She held up the black peel. “And let’s not even get into what must have happened to you that left you looking like you do. Clearly … life hates you.” Jersey sucked at subtle. She sucked at a lot of things, like patience, restraint, kind words, and giving a shit.

“And it likes you?”

She shrugged. “I don’t think it knows I exist.”

After a few silent moments, Chris faced her again, sliding his hands in the front pouch of his hoodie. “Come on. I just bared my soul to you. What’s your deal? Why would you say life doesn’t know you exist? You have to elaborate.”

“You should go. Really.”

“Probably. But it’s warm in here…” he drew his shoulders inward “…well, warmer. So I’m in no hurry to go back out into the cold. I’ve met a bad-ass boxing girl with a story that I think parallels mine. And let’s be honest … when I don’t disgust you, I intrigue you.”

“You annoy me, but I enjoyed hitting you. If you stay here—annoying me more—I might hit you again.” Jersey flopped onto her side, closing her eyes. “Go away.”

Chris squinted at her bag, inching his way toward it so as to not get his ass kicked again. He bent down, plucking a photo peeking out from the side pocket. “Where did you get this?”

Jersey opened her eyes. On a frown, she snatched the photo from his loose grip. “I’m going to end you, asshole, if you don’t get the hell out of here.”

“Dena and Charles …”

Pressing a hand to the mat, Jersey slowly sat up, keeping her squinted gaze glued to him, unsure if she heard him correctly.

“They died,” he mumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Gah! Stupid voices.” The rest of his words tumbled out of his mouth like he couldn’t keep up with them. “I lived with them. Charles put me in basketball; that’s how I met my best friend. He … his family had so much money, yet he befriended me, bought me shoes, treated me like a real friend. But then …”

“You lived with the Russells?”

Keeping his eyes pinched shut, he nodded. “But they died. He killed them.”

“Who killed them?” Jersey bolted up from the mat, fisting her hands as adrenaline made its way through her body, ripping open old wounds, awakening a dormant hunger for revenge.

“My friend.” Chris opened his eyes.

CHAPTER THREE

Eight years earlier …

Two dead. Four homeless. And a Friday—pizza night.

Jersey endured six nights of stomaching low sodium casseroles and bitter greens with lemon juice and olive oil in exchange for one night of greasy pizza and the health food store’s version of carbonated soft drinks.

She never complained. After six failed foster homes in fifteen years, sodium didn’t matter. Dena and Charles Russell loved her and the three other foster children in their care. So, why did she focus on pizza while shoving tattered clothes, worn boxing gloves, and two knives into a soiled, camouflage duffel bag? It distracted her from the drift of incessant chatter down the long hallway from the living room.

A hallway lined with photos of foster children, spanning twenty years.

A hallway haunted with the ghosts of Dena and Charles Russell.

And pizza.

Cheese made Jersey gag. She used to scrape the toppings from the crust, pluck off the sausage and mushrooms from its rubbery sheath, arrange them back onto the crust, and sprinkle it with parmesan—because parmesan was salty and didn’t make her gag like mozzarella.

“Jersey?”

Hearing the unfamiliar voice calling her name, Jersey closed her eyes, gripping the bag. She no longer needed salt. There was nothing she wouldn’t have given up to change the events of that morning. Even pizza.

A heartless, gutless person killed her foster parents along a winding