Free The Awakening by K. E. Ganshert Page B

and abandoned churches with things like where’s your god now? graffitied on stained-glass windows. Scantily-clad women show off cleavage and a whole lot of leg on street corners.
    A street evangelist stands on a mountain of plowed snow that is more black than white, pleading with passersby below. They jeer and mock and spit. Someone pushes him and he topples off the snow. Two people kick him while he lies on the ground. I cannot peel my attention away from the window. The anarchy should make me nervous. Instead, it offers an odd sort of comfort. Here in Detroit, the authorities are so busy keeping people alive that I feel safely obscure.
    When we finally arrive at 22 West 56 th street, we ask the cabbie to wait by the curb in front of a home with a sagging roof, a warped front porch, and several missing shutters. Luka rings the doorbell and we wait outside in the bitter cold. A few seconds later, locks click—at least five of them—and the door opens just enough to show a woman’s weather-worn face over a rusted chain that remains securely in place. “Can I help you?”
    “Is Josiah Aaronson here?”
    “Who’s asking?”
    “My name is Jacob. This is Lily.”
    She looks from me to Luka, then pulls her face away and starts to slam the door shut.
    I place my hand against the wood to hold it open. “It’s about Dr. Roth.”
    Her eyes narrow into slits. “What did you say?”
    “It was nothing.” Luka takes my arm and attempts to step off the porch. Mentioning the doctor’s name was impulsive, not to mention highly dangerous. There’s a national alert out on me, and those national alerts include Dr. Roth’s suicide.
    But I dig in my heels and repeat what I said. It’s obvious she knows something.
    “If I were you,” she says. “I’d stay far away from that man.”
    Luka stops pulling my arm.
    “You knew him?” I ask.
    “Of course I knew him. He was supposed to help my husband.”
    So this is Dot, the wife. “Can we speak to him?”
    “If you want to speak to Josiah, you’ll have to go to the cemetery. He died years ago.” The door slams with such force, I have no chance at holding it open. Locks click back into place. That is all the information we will get on Josiah Aaronson.
    Back in the cab, Luka tells our driver to head south. He doesn’t look at me the entire drive, not once.
    My remorse is profound.
    My careless blurting got us nowhere. Dot Aaronson could be reporting us to the police right now. Surely they will put two and two together and realize that Tess is in the city, and Luka Williams is accompanying her. I want to apologize, but I can’t. Not with our cab driver within such close proximity. By the time we arrive at our destination, so much regret has pooled inside my stomach I feel waterlogged.
    The townhouse at Gabriel’s address is in better shape than Dot’s home. The signs of wear and tear are less pronounced and offset by nice curtains in the windows and a clean welcome mat out front. Luka knocks on the door. A deep bark sounds from the other side. Nobody answers. He knocks again. The barking turns into a growl.
    A gust of frigid air blows up the walkway. Luka turns back to our cab, motioning for me to go ahead of him. He stops in front of the mailbox, checks to see if the cab driver is watching, then quickly peeks inside. The envelopes are all addressed to a Miss Loraine Seymore. Wherever Gabriel lives now, it’s not here.
    With dwindling hope, we drive to our last stop—Claire Bedicelle. Twelve at the time she saw Dr. Roth, eighteen now. She lives in a smaller suburb further south. As we reach the outskirts of Detroit, Luka relaxes a little, as though the oppression of the city no longer drags at his shoulders. Our cab driver stops in front of a snow-covered yard and a home that reminds me of Leela’s. The woman who answers the door looks like an older version of the girl’s picture in the file. Wrinkles etch themselves around her eyes and mouth—the kind that look more