She nodded, silently moving to the front of the car while he screamed. I got a better look at his face with the door open. Blonde curls, round face. Miranda’s child through and through.
Boxes of clothes and blankets were stuffed in the trunk. There was a ziploc bag of toy cars and a jumbo box of pull-ups. Then there were about thirty grocery bags of shelf-stable processed foods.
Looked like they robbed a Dollar General.
I moved the things to the back of my truck, breathing harder with every step. My blood coursed through my veins as unbidden what-ifs bounced in my brain.
“Is that everything?” I put the last grocery bag in the backseat of the truck. “Anything left behind will encourage a break-in.”
She nodded. “Just need to buckle his car seat in.”
“I can do it.”
“You know how?”
I shot her a look. “All emergency responders do.” She should know that.
A minute later, as Miranda leaned to grab her son, he bolted off. The Chicago wind sent the white cap flying through the air behind her as she sprinted through the parking lot after him.
The hat landed at my feet.
It was my chance to see her. Really see her.
She turned back to me with the kid on her hip. The wind whipped around, throwing her blonde hair in all directions. She held a hand to the right side of her head in an attempt to keep the hair down.
I picked up the hat and held it out.
In order to take it, she had to let go of her hair.
She hesitated.
But when she did, my breath caught.
A bruise covered the entire right side of her face, and the corner of her eye was a bit swollen.
An expletive rushed out of my mouth.
Off-color make-up was thinly smeared over the bruise. Still purple-blue, I guessed the injury was only a few days old.
Could this situation get any worse?
The bruise. The empty wallet. The nervous behavior. The furtive glances over her shoulder and up the street. The weight loss. The deep, dark circles under her eyes. The smoking car with a spare tire.
She grabbed at the hat, but I moved it out of her reach. Rage boiled in my veins until I couldn’t draw a full breath. “Miranda.” I tried to keep my tone even keel, but it rumbled with anger. “Who did that to you?”
She stomped her foot, hanging her head behind the kid’s, refusing to look at my face. “Give me my hat, Jack!”
“Absolutely not. Tell me who did that.”
She raised her voice. “No one! I fell.”
Did she think I was some kind of idiot? “That is not from a fall.”
“It’s none of your business!”
“I think it is! You’re on the side of the road and it looks like someone beat the crap out of your face!”
“Why do you care?” She spat.
