Yesterday, he asked for notebooks, as many colored pens and markers as we could find, and an old-school Poloroid camera. And we got them for him, because anything that distracts him has to be worth the effort.
Walker had him talk the facility into releasing his prescription, but they weren’t happy to hear that he was pulling himself from the program. They explained to him exactly what could go wrong while his dosages are still being adjusted, and he promised he’d see another psychiatrist to help. He’s on a waitlist with someone the clinic recommended, and all we can do is hope he’s able to walk by the time they tell him they have a space for him. Running away is bad enough. Recovering from being shot while not having any hospitalrecords detailing his injuries, well, it’s not going to convince his doctor he’s in the best mental state.
He withdrew from this semester of school yesterday, too.
Smart, not part of the plan, but necessary. Only that change means there’s even less to occupy his mind, which might yet be to his detriment.
I blink at my screen, willing it to show me everything I need to know. Maybe even the answer of how to get Jansen back to himself. Sadly, it’s not omniscient. None of us know what an empty plate might mean for Jansen’s stability.
Emma, meanwhile, told her professors she has a sick relative, so she’s taking her classes remotely. None of us has told her she might be remote for the rest of the semester. Every time she’s gone back to her apartment, Walker and I trail her, just to make sure she’s not taken. We don’t have time for it, but neither of us wants to explain how Clara asking for help might have ruined her life even more than a broken heart already has.
The broken heart is bad enough. Apparently Evie, while not calling the cops on us, is not taking things well either. Emma’s happy to have a place to lie low for now and avoid the drama with her ex-girlfriend.
The doorbell rings, knocking me out of my silence. Walker’s footsteps on the stairs say he’s got it, but I force myself to join him, not wanting to be pulled away, but understanding that the buddy rule applies everywhere.
They took Clara and Trips from inside the house. Walker and I could have the same thing happen to us.
Officer Tom Reed stands outside our door, Walker’s hand white as he clenches the knob. “You need to lay off,” he says,his voice lower than normal, force behind his words that I wasn’t expecting. I stumble over the last few stairs, and after a stuttered heartbeat, I force myself to move on to the next part of the plan.
“Meet us at the Prancing Goat Cafe in fifteen minutes,” I squeeze out of my lungs, a harsh whisper of painful words, barely audible.
Walker slams the door in the cop’s face, spinning to see me panting beside him. “Are you sure now’s the right time for this?” he asks.
I nod, even though I know it’s going to be a struggle. Clara got therapy while in Mexico, her Spanish good enough for her to muddle through. Trips and I weren’t so lucky. And after a simple explanation of Jansen’s problems, Maria told Clara that he needed drugs more than talking, so she couldn’t take him on.
This semester has proved the woman right.
“Let me go grab my stuff,” I wheeze out.
Shoving my laptop and a flash drive into a bag, I meet Walker on the front porch, the wind cold for the first time since we returned from Mexico.
It’s a reminder that the worst is yet to come.
We’re silent on the walk over.
I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever have enough to send the cops after Trips’ brother. I want Trevor out of that house, away from Clara. She’s gotten stronger, bolder, fierce in a way that hardly mirrors who she was a year ago, but still—she was scared when she spoke of her run-in with Trips’ brother. Whether he’s just that dangerous or he’s dragged all hertrauma to the forefront, I don’t know. And I don’t care. I just want him gone.
We make it to Clara’s old coffee shop, the cop waiting at a corner table in his street clothes, his grim face and shorn head making people wary. They might not know what he is, but they sense he doesn’t belong at a campus haunt. I order tea, some strange part of me wanting it because Jansen isn’t here with us, and leave Walker to wait for his drink at the counter.
When I take my first sip a few moments later, I burn my tongue on the taste of grass. Yuck.
The cop waits for me, respecting my silence. Pulling out my laptop, I meet his gaze over the top. “This is from Clara, not me,” I say, both of us knowing it’s bullshit.
“Of course,” he says, sipping from his cardboard cup and scanning the room for threats.
“How big of a fish can you catch?” I ask as Walker slides into the chair beside me, a pencil tucked behind his ear.
“How big of a fish hasClarafound?”
“Big enough to make national news. With deep enough pockets that it’ll put up one hell of a fight.”
His eyes flash with something like avarice. Having dug into the man, I know he’s an honest cop, but with a fierce competitive streak that leans toward obsession.
“Is it a name I’d recognize?”
“Yes.”
He hisses, setting his cup down on the table. “How many victims?”
