Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
“I wish. I find a lot of satisfaction in this work, but rent being what it is, this gig doesn’t pay all the bills. I take enough side jobs to keep the lights on. And of course, ad revenue helps too. Maybe someday I’ll be able to do it full time.”
As she nodded, he glanced back to her card. “Lennon,” he said. “Imagine all the people living life in peace.”
She breathed out a laugh. “That’s the one. My mom would love you.”
He smiled. “It’s a great name. And hey, I hope watching Cherish tell her story helps somehow. I remember her being one that was very lost, with a real messed-up past. Not that that’s unusual. I’ve been doing this for almost two decades, and I’m still not used to it.” He gestured to her phone. “Anyway, you’ll hear the details.”
“While I’m here, can I show you a few other photos and see if you recognize any of them?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Lennon pulled up the photos of the other victims she had on her phone and showed them to Jamal. “This one looks familiar,” he said when she got to the older woman who had been at the crime scene with Cherish. “But I can’t say for sure. I’ve interviewed thousands of people, and I spend a lot of time in the TL, so faces can run together. Sorry.”
“No problem. I’ll look through your site again.” She wasn’t looking forward to it. It’d been tough simply scrolling through once. “Can I ask why you do this? It’s gotta be pretty depressing, listening to heartbreaking stories all day of people who are experiencing really terrible lives.”
“It is and it isn’t. There are some real survivors that walk through my door, whether they’re living on the street or not. Whether others would call them crazy or not. And I think I can safely say that many of them would be labeled severely damaged. But so many have mustered these incredible survival tactics. These people walked through battles most of us can’t even imagine, Inspector. There’s a silent war going on in homes across America right this very second. Children are experiencing trauma that adults wouldn’t know how to deal with. Those people out there are the walking wounded, and in this studio, I get to find out the why. Maybe someday someone will figure out the what now.”
What now. What now, indeed. It was the million-dollar question. Not only because children and the adults they’d grow into were suffering. But because damaged people raised more damaged people, and the cycle went on and on, multiplying significantly over time. She’d scrolled through Jamal’s website and the lists and lists of videos of people who survived the streets. “Where do they go for help?” she asked. She knew where the police sent them. To the psych ward, or a shelter, or sometimes to a place like the Gilbert House, if it had a bed available. But she also knew that, more often than not, she saw those same people a few days later, right back where they’d started.
“That’s not my lane,” Jamal said. “I share their stories, and then I can only hope they find the help they need or accept it if the right kind is offered.”
She gave a single nod. The right kind. But what was that? It seemed to her that nobody knew.
Lennon perused the frozen meals in her freezer before pulling out a chicken enchilada and then popping it into the microwave. As it heated, she changed out of her pants and blouse and put on an oversize pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. She twisted her hair on top of her head and secured it, then washed her makeup off quickly. Her bruise had faded significantly, but the skin around her eye still held a sickly yellow hue under the concealer.
She entered the kitchen just as the microwave was beeping to indicate her less-than-gourmet dinner was ready. She knew she should make a salad or cook a vegetable, or at least put her dinner on a plate. But frankly, she was too tired and hungry to bother. No one was here to judge her, so who cared. She curled up on her couch and set her laptop next to her, booting it up as she ate a few bites out of the box of food.
Box of food. Her mother would be horrified by those three words.
Lennon had already read through Jamal Whitaker’s bio when she’d first gone to The Fringe’s website, but she clicked on it again so she could read it more slowly now that she’d met the man in person. He’d come across as sincere, a man who genuinely cared about the people he interviewed. She’d asked him why he did what he did, but she hadn’t asked what first brought him to do it. Apparently, according to his bio, he’d had substance abuse issues and even lived in his car for several months in his early twenties, during which time he’d become acquainted with the streets and those who lived there. He was able to get his life together and went on to have a career in video production, one in which he obviously still worked, at least part time. But he never could quite get the patchwork people of the Tenderloin out of his mind, and so he returned to tell their stories. “Stories are what connect us,” he stated in his bio, making her think of Ambrose the liar, another lover of stories, if even that could be believed. She forced her mind back to Jamal. He wasn’t wrong. Stories did connect people. They were, perhaps, one of the few things that did.