Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

buildings. The mill had been converted to lofts. “We becoming yuppies,” Loretta said. “That number again?”
    “Six-six-two,” Earl said, consulting the envelope from his granddaughter’s last letter.
    “Here you go,” Loretta said pulling the taxi to the curb.
    Earl ran his eyes along the series of stores on the street; 662 was a glass-fronted building sitting right ahead of them. “That’s a postal service.”
    “Yeah, it is,” Loretta said.
    They sat with the engine idling. Earl double-checked the address on the envelope and compared it to the numbers along the street. He’d come all this way to find a PO box.
    “You want to try the club where she works?”
    “She says she works nights. I’ll have to wait until this evening,” Earl said. “You know of a hotel? Something cheap for the night?”
    “I think we can find you something,” Loretta said.
    Loretta routed them back a dozen blocks to the Savoy Hotel. It was a dingy old three-story, stuck between a liquor store and a dry cleaner’s. Earl paid her across the seat back, then pulled Melon to the opposite side so he could slide out first. When he was on the sidewalk with his carry-on, he called, “Out!” and Melon obeyed, leaping blindly to the sound of Earl’s voice.
    “Can you wait till I see if they got a room?” Earl said to her, her window rolled down to see him off.
    “Just tell ’em Loretta sent you. They’ll have somethin’, sugar. Say I pick you up around eight tonight. We go check out Bo Peep’s together.”
    “You sure?” Earl asked.
    “Yeah, you got Loretta’s curiosity up. Have to see how this mystery turns out.”
    Earl nodded, and Loretta pulled away, leaving him and his dog alone on the sidewalk.
    Earl took a moment to survey his surroundings. They were on the dark side of town, as he thought of it, not far from where he had once lived. It was mostly cut-rate, by-the-week rooming, filled with the city’s black aging and infirm. There were a few independent shops, their storefronts covered in gang graffiti, their windows secured behind iron bars. A pair of homeless men sat on the sidewalk leaning against the wall of the Savoy, their backs against the bricks. All this beneath the gleaming glass skyline that was today’s modern Atlanta.
    “I told you it’d be different. And not different. Didn’t I say so?” Earl asked his dog.
    Melon nosed against his pants cuff with a whimper, and the two made their way inside.
    At the desk, Earl was greeted, more or less, by a kid with spiked hair. He told the kid Loretta had sent him.
    The kid didn’t seem all that impressed and didn’t ask about the dog neither. But he handed him a card to fill out — his name, address, and phone number. “One night, thirty dollars.”
    Earl paid in cash.
    “Number four, upstairs. Second door on the right.” The kid slid a key onto the counter. He hadn’t looked at Earl once during the entire exchange.
    Earl took the key and made his way to the stairs, bag in hand. Melon followed, keeping Earl’s pants cuff against his face. “Step-step . . .” Earl said.
    They reached their room. Earl let them inside.
    The space smelled of mildew and urine. The bedcovers were stained a permanent yellow. “Jump,” Earl said. And, with unquestioning trust, Melon leaped onto the bed he couldn’t see.
    “My man,” Earl said, feeding his dog a treat from his coat pocket.
    Earl removed his dark glasses and laid them on the dresser. The last letter from his granddaughter had been unsettling. It had been more than just a call for financial assistance, as Earl had implied to his lady cabdriver. It had been a desperate cry for help. There was something troubling going on in her life, something he couldn’t ignore.
    Her letters had started coming earlier that year. First one was a polite introduction; he wrote back, and they’d grown into a pen-pal friendship as they learned of each other’s lives.
    India had been consistently optimistic in her letters, looking forward to a degree from a real college. A better life. Maybe outside Atlanta, she’d hinted. Leaving the idea hanging at the end of an ellipsis, waiting for his response.
    Yeah, maybe he could help her find a job, he’d written. LA being “exciting” and all for a young woman.
    The last letter had been nothing like the previous correspondence. It was one word.
Help!
Nothing more. It was in an awkward blocky print, almost as if a child or someone of limited education had written