Page 87 of I Am Sin
Forget about it.
But that would mean forgetting about Griffin, and though it pains me to remember, I can’t allow myself to ever let her go.
I freaked out today when Diana touched the tattoo on my thigh. I don’t think about it much. I just know it’s there. I need to have Griffin with me. But I can’t be able to see it, or I’ll dwell on all those years lost.
And then I think about the young hooker last night—the one who got me thrown in the slammer. I’m usually pretty tight with my money. But something in her eyes reminded me of my little sister, and I couldn’t help myself.
For a moment, my mind goes to the place I never wanted to go.
What if itwasGriffin?
I shake the thought out of my head. No, that woman was way too young. Griffin would be twenty-seven by now. Older than Diana.
God…
That young girl… I’m not even sure she was eighteen.
Her skin was so tight and rosy and beautiful, and her blue eyes—nearly as blue as Griffin’s, even in the dim streetlights—should’ve been sparkling in her youth. Instead they were sunken and sad. Hard looking.
I wish I could’ve helped her.
But she no doubt took the money and gave it back to her pimp.
Then he probably sent her out to find more.
And any more she got that night wouldn’t have come as freely as mine did.
She’d have had to work for it.
I shake my head again to clear it of the unwanted images.
Griffin is gone. Most likely dead and buried.
All those years that I was away in the group homes, I thought maybe my parents would come and get me. Once Griffin disappeared, surely they’d realize they made a terrible mistake.
That I hadn’t been the one to harm Griffin in the first place.
Someone had an eye on her, and for some reason, whoever it was got interrupted that first night.
As much as I would love to see her again, I know she’s buried somewhere. Eternally five or six years old and at peace now.
Fuck it. I grab the sheet music and take it to the checkout counter.
“Is this all for you today?” a bright and cheery young woman says to me.
“Yeah. Thanks.” Then I take a deep breath. “Are you looking for any percussion instructors at the moment?”
She frowns. “I have to check with the owner, and he’s not in today. He takes Sundays off.”
“Okay. Thanks anyway.”
She grabs a pad of sticky notes from under the counter. “You want to leave your name and number? I’ll be happy to give it to him tomorrow.”
“Yeah, sure.”
She hands me one of the sticky notes along with a pen. “Write your name and contact information on here. He’ll be in tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks.” I scribble my name and number down on the back of the card and hand it to her, looking at her name tag. “I appreciate it, Annalise. That’s a beautiful name.”