RELEASE DATE: 01 November 2021
She lives in a rowhouse between rehabilitated crack addicts, sex offenders, and pensioners raising grandkids—and she does jobs. At odd hours, odd jobs that mean a little bit of safety here, one less predator on the streets there.
Tonight, a knock at her door summons her down to the canal.
What lurks in the night must prepare: she’s coming. Driven by a bone-deep longing for justice, Rock-a-bye is for everyone who ever wanted the strength to protect the people they love.
Rock-a-bye
“Rock-a-bye, baby, rock-a-bye.”
It wasn’t the worst house in Denver. The roof held shape, more or less. The shared wall of the rowhouses weren’t up to code, but they were up. The neighborhood wasn’t a an urban blight as much as it was an urban study in depression. This is where people came when everything was over.
When you lost your job but were too old to find another.
When you were sick and the medicine kept being too much to afford.
When you were a bright kid but you couldn’t afford books for school, or college, and you married for the steady paycheck only to have the bastard leave you when the baby was sick, you wound up here. Between the rehabilitated crack addicts, the sex offenders, and the pensioners raising grandkids.
There was an apologetic knock on the door downstairs, the rhythmic equivalent of someone clearing their throat and making tentative eye contact while hoping no would actually make eye contact in return.
Tucking the blanket under the sleeping baby’s chin, I went downstairs, thirteen slabs of rotting wood held together by faded carpet and prayers—
although possibly not prayers to any god the Christians want to talk about.
Bolts slid out with a tick, and a thunk, and a crick, and a slish because the chain lock, heavy and old, stayed in place.
The door was something new, something I’d bought and installed myself, just like the windows in the front room and the ceiling between the living room and the upstairs bedroom that had rotted out before I moved in.
“Yes?”
“It’s… a thing.” The voice out in the darkness sounded male and elderly. “Neighbor said you do this sort of thing, maybe?” A folded piece of paper was shoved into the crack between my space and his; it smelled of bitter marijuana and anger and all it held was a name written in shaky letters.
“Got it.” I pinched the paper without touching the client and pulled away.
“Do you—”
“No.”
“I can—”
“Pass.”
“Oh—”
The door slid closed. Rattle. Slish. Crick. Thunk. Tick.