that slime, alex, took it—I know he did.” Sasha stood in the doorway to her mother’s bedroom, watch- ing her tear through shoe boxes and dresser drawers, debating whether to tell her that Alex didn’t take Dad’s ring. Inside her jeans pocket, her hand curled around the now familiar circle she’d been carrying for over a week, ever since she’d taken it to a psychic in Haight-Ashbury who said she could read the souls of people in the objects they wore every day. Another dead end. She’d been so sure Mercy Jones would be able to tell her who had killed her father, but Mercy only blathered on about Sasha’s aura, that it was pure and beautiful, with the light of divinity—the most perfect she’d ever seen. Mercy aid she was destined for an extraordinary life. What she didn’t say was what had happened to Dad. She couldn’t get a read on the ring because it had been too long since Dad had worn it, too long since he’d died. A hundred bucks later, Sasha walked out with the cloying scent of incense stuck all over her, the ring in her pocket, the assurance she was real special, and still no clue about Dad.
