Free The Mamacita Murders by Debra Mares Page A

grandmother, bottom bitch or drug addicted mom something happened to her, frightens me. If The Mamacita Club is not a safe place, where will incorrigible girls like Christina go? She calls this place home, showing up every week, even when she runs away from the RV Park to probably prostitute. I can’t lose another girl. I’m supposed to protect her. And now I’ve failed. Again. Christina is my only link to Laura. I need to ask her if she knew anything about what happened. Please don’t be gone. Please. My heart beats fast and my legs aren’t moving fast enough to get to Christina.
    Riley pops up from behind a truck parked close to the cars Christina is in between.
    “She’s fine, she’s fine,” says Riley.
    I stare out into the distance watching the car fly down the street as the taillights get smaller and smaller. A distinct rattle and ticking of an engine fades in the distance. Riley and Christina grab onto me, crying.
    “Get back inside and get everyone to the back of the Airstream until police get here. They might come back,” I say.
    Christina and Riley run back inside the Airstream.
    Several different people stand in front of their mobile homes.
    “Did anyone get a license plate?” I yell to them. No one answers.
    “Did anyone see what kind of car that was?” I yell to them again.
    A woman stands in the middle of the RV park.
    “They’re not gonna help you,” she says, turning to walk away. Everyone standing outside walks inside their motorhomes and mobile homes without saying anything. I stop counting after I hear five doors slam shut.
    Falling asleep has always been hard for me to do. From the moment I crawl into bed, I’ve always been that kind of sleeper that stays in one place the whole night long. To make my bed in the morning, I just have to pull the covers back into place. It’s from lying in bed, stiff-as-a-board, in sheer terror, every night growing up and listening to my stepfather and mom fight. They say that people go to sleep based on how they were put to sleep as a child. So I usually go to sleep terrified. It’s a little better if I have a TV on, someone holding me, or a locked and loaded gun within arm’s reach, especially after tonight’s shooting.
    I lie in my bed naked under a sheet at home in Blackbird Beach a few hours after the drive-by. I pull myself up and lean over to my night stand. I open the cabinet that sits next to my bed to take out my Smith and Wesson Lady Smith .38 special. The revolver’s weight and the cool temperature of its steel barrel make me feel safe.
    I place it on top of my night stand furthest from my door and position the muzzle facing away from me. I look over at the corner of my room and smile at my twelve-gauge shotgun leaning up against the wall. I let out a deep sigh. That shotgun is the only good thing I inherited from my stepfather.
    Just as I start to doze, my outside light turns on. It’s on an automatic sensor. I open my eyes and tuck the covers under my chin, trying to listen. All I hear is the waves crashing from a distance. Then I hear rustling against the bushes outside my bedroom window. I strain to listen harder. I hear my side gate creaking. I stay quiet and listen. My outside light turns off.
    I pull my body up, bracing myself to reach for my revolver. I feel the resistance as I pull the hammer of my gun back, trying to stay as quiet as possible. I swing my legs around to the edge of my bed and stand up. I walk over to my dresser and rest my revolver on top of it, before heading to my closet.
    I make it to my gun safe and rest my fingers in the hand impression on top of it, sticking my index finger into a drop down compartment. The safe door flips open towards me and I reach inside for my Glock. The light outside my window turns back on. I curse myself for buying the discount window shades. Whoever’s outside can see in more than I can see out.
    I grab my nine millimeter magazine that is fully loaded with bullets and push it into