“Open the door, Jenna!” came a man’s voice outside.

Sandy rolled over to face the front door. But she didn’t get up. She wasn’t scared he would kick it in or anything. They never went that far. He could have, though, no problem. Their front door was basically bullshit cardboard. Ridgedale Commons was the cheapest, shittiest place in all of Ridgedale, tucked way the hell in a corner of town, in the only two blocks of nasty for miles around. When they’d moved in eight months earlier, the apartment hadn’t looked half bad, especially compared to some of the places they’d lived. But as it turned out, the okay part of Ridgedale Commons was paper-ass thin. The place fell to shit overnight.

“Come on, Jenna!” came the voice again, closer this time, sounding like his sweaty face—their faces were always sweaty—was pressed against the door. “I know you’re in there.”

Now, that right there? Total load of shit. There was no fucking way he, whoever he was, could know that. Sandy didn’t even know that. She never knew for sure when she woke up whether Jenna would be home. Most of the time she was, but Sandy had learned a long time ago to sleep through whatever noises came in the middle of the night. She lifted her eyes toward Jenna’s bedroom door. Shut, which must mean Jenna was home but not alone. Otherwise, she’d be sprawled out naked on top of her covers with her door open wide. She got lonely when she couldn’t see Sandy out there on the couch.

If it had been up to Jenna, she probably would have left the door open even when she had company. But the men she brought home sure as hell wanted privacy. And thank God, because there were lots of things Sandy wanted to see in this world—the sun setting over the Pacific, the Grand Canyon, the Great Barrier Reef—but Jenna going at it with some liquored-up scumbag wasn’t one of them. She’d already seen enough of that to last a lifetime.

Sandy pushed herself up off the couch, wincing. Her arm had scabbed over, now it looked even more disgusting and hurt like a son of a bitch whenever she flexed it hard. Her knee was a crazy shade of purple, too. Hard to forget something when your fucking body kept sending you news flashes. But she would eventually. She’d have to. And Sandy was good at forgetting things. She’d had lots of practice.

Sandy pulled her sleeve down over the huge scab, then grabbed a cigarette out of the pack Jenna had left on the coffee table. Sandy wasn’t a huge smoker. Wasn’t even sure she liked it. But there were times that called for a cigarette. Like now. She put a Parliament in her lips and lit it with the jewel-encrusted I Love Tampa lighter Jenna must have swiped off of somebody.

Sandy took a drag, glancing down at her see-through tank and low-rise sweatpants, the thorned stem of a rose tattoo wrapped around her arm, the flower tucked safely behind her shoulder blade. She twisted her long straight black hair into a knot at the back of her neck, then exhaled a long stream of smoke. There were worse things than this asshole being able to see through her shirt. A free peek might be her best chance to get rid of him. Ever since Sandy had gotten tits, they’d been the main thing she had going for her.

“Hold on!” she shouted so he wouldn’t yell again. “I’m coming.”

This asshole making noise was the kind of thing that Mrs. Wilson, their eighty-year-old neighbor, would get all bent out of shape about. Mrs. Wilson was a complaint-making machine—everything and everyone—like it was her fucking profession. But she hated Jenna and Sandy extra. Her face puckered every time Sandy ran into her, like she’d sucked on a rotten lemon. Mrs. Wilson wanted them out of the building, that was the bottom line. If they gave her an actual reason, she might just get her way.

Sandy took the three short steps to the door, then put her hand on the knob. She took one last drag before swinging open the door and exhaling into the air. “Jesus, take it easy,” she said, calm and cool, chin tilted up as the last of the smoke escaped her lips. “I’m here, okay?”

The sun was barely up, the sky a suck-ass gray. It was earlier than Sandy had thought. Chance for this mess to pass and for the rest of the day not to be a total shit-show. Maybe. Sandy lowered her eyes to the man outside her door. He was skinny and short and weaselly, with some gross strands of hair combed over the top of his head. Disgusting. Guys like him always were.

“You’re Jenna Mendelson?” He squinted skeptically at his clipboard.

“Who’s asking?” Sandy took another drag and leaned against the door. No need to give up the full-frontal view of the ladies just yet. They might come in handy later.

“Well, Ms. Mendelson, you’re three months behind on your rent.” He ripped a notice off the top of his pad like a parking ticket and handed it to her.

Three months? That shouldn’t be. They shouldn’t be a single month late. But with the tutoring and everything lately, Sandy hadn’t had time to get the money order herself, like she usually did. Who knew what the hell Jenna had done with the cash—drunk it, smoked it, given it away. Sandy could be so fucking stupid sometimes. Why the hell had she taken Jenna’s word for it? She should have made sure the money had ended up where it was supposed to go.

Then again, considering everything, maybe it was a good time for them to be getting the hell out of Ridgedale. Not that Jenna would be easy to convince. About a year ago, she’d mentioned running into some guy from Ridgedale she “used to know” on the street in Philly. Then she’d acted like it was all a big coincidence that they’d ended up back there. But Sandy wasn’t an idiot. Biggest surprise was how long it had taken once they’d moved to town for Jenna to tell Sandy the whole ugly story. Sandy would have sworn she knew every last one of Jenna’s awful secrets, but there had been more. And knowing what had happened to Jenna in Ridgedale all those years ago didn’t change how messed up she was. But it changed the way Sandy saw her. Made ditching Jenna—even now when she probably should have—a total fucking impossibility.

“We’re not late,” Sandy said. She’d been down this road before. Even if this guy was right, denial might buy them some time. “We’re totally paid up.”

“You got proof you’ve paid?” the greasy guy asked.

Sandy curled her body around the door so he could get a good view of her see-through top. She pulled her upper arms together as she leaned forward a little, pressing her tits together. “You could say that I had proof,” she said, rolling her eyes up his pant leg. “Just for a couple days, give us some time, you know?”

The guy looked Sandy up and down, his eyes lingering on her breasts. Then he snorted and shook his head like Sandy was a disgusting piece of shit. “You’ve got twenty-four hours, miss,” he said. “After that, the place’ll get locked up. If I was you”—he looked at her boobs one last time—“I’d get packing.”

Sandy took the wrinkled yellow ticket out of the asshole’s hand, then watched him strut his stubby legs down the walkway and disappear. Notice of Pending Eviction, it read across the top. Goddamn, Jenna. Yeah, it was time to go, but did it have to be with a fucking gun to their heads? Thank God Sandy kept an emergency stash—a thousand dollars she’d saved up, in a box behind the couch. It wasn’t enough for three months’ rent, but it would hold them over for a few days someplace new. Somewhere far the fuck away from this place and all its bad goddamn memories.

Sandy stormed back toward Jenna’s bedroom, the eviction notice crumpled in her fist. “Jenna!” she screamed at the door so loud it burned her throat. “Wake the fuck up!”

When there was no answer, Sandy kicked the door. It flew open, Sandy bracing herself for the sight of some naked, hairy ass diving for cover. But there was nothing. And no one. Jenna wasn’t there. And from the looks of it, she hadn’t been all night.