CHAPTER SEVEN
GEMMA
Being a hero means ignoring how silly you feel.
—DIANAWYNNEJONES
All three men stare at me as if I’d wanted to distract the dog. As if I’d wanted to cause more problems. I guess I should have double-checked my purse, but I only ever eat fresh food, so I never carry any with me. I had no idea Jewel stashed leftovers in my purse when she was cleaning up. Honestly, she might have told me, but I was distracted by the story the kids and I were creating.
Karson unfolds a crinkly corner of foil to reveal the illicit slab of meat and verify his suspicions.
“I didn’t put that there,” I blurt. If only I’d choked down more than the required seven bites.
Karson presses the foil back into place and raises angry eyes in accusation. “I suppose your evil twin did this too?”
“Yes!” If he gets it, why’s he so angry? Jewel said it’s because he’s either hurt, scared, or frustrated. Okay, so he’s frustrated. I can respect that. I messed up his dog demonstration. Or rather, my evil twin did.
Karson waves the steak, cornflower irises dull with disbelief. “You’re telling me that, without your knowledge, your sister wrapped up a steak and planted it in your purse right before you were to attend a K-9 demonstration?”
“Well …” I shrug. He makes it sound completely ridiculous.
My roommates take small steps in retreat, as if my story is too much for even them to support. While they know I’m a sincere person, they hadn’t known my sister was a twin until last week’s fingerprint debacle. I’ve gone beyond their jurisdiction.
Karson spares them a glance and tilts his head toward the kennels. “Go on. I’ll see you two next week. Though Gemma won’t be invited back.”
“What?” I cry, and I’m not sure whether it’s a sea of shame or injustice that floods my core, rising high enough to clog my throat.
I’m the reason Kai and Charlie are even here. I wanted this class more than anyone. Yes, I think Karson is cute, or I did anyway—back before he started accusing me of criminal mischief, but I came to learn about law enforcement to make my screenplays more authentic. This is my summer break. My only time to write. And now my research is being taken away by the one man I thought could save it. I tried so hard, yet my sister robbed me again.
“No …” I plead. I reach out and grip his forearm, but the anger radiating from his body separates us like an electric fence, and my stunned hand drops. “I went to her house tonight to tell her about the child support. I was there to do what you asked me to, even though I didn’t want to.”
He huffs and his eyes squint. Is he relenting, or is he reinforcing this wall between us?
I forge ahead, determined to make him understand. “She claims that when she started her private practice, the state wasn’t able to deduct child support from her wages anymore, and she’s been paying her ex directly. He simply hasn’t reported it yet.”
“I’ve heard that before.” His tone drips with condescension, but at least he’s listening.
I clutch my purse to my chest, to my heart, daring to hope. “I don’t know whether she’s telling the truth or not, but I said if that’s the case, then she should talk to him and make sure he updates Child Support Services.”
Karson’s frown softens into a straight line between the shadows of goatee stubble. “And that’s when she decided to cram a steak in your purse in hopes a dog would attack you?”
I open my mouth but my thoughts freeze before forming words. Is he joking? I know if Kai said the same thing, it would be in jest, and we could laugh. But Karson still sounds so serious. “No. She must have put it in my purse when she went inside to clean up the dishes from dinner. She didn’t know about the dogs but apparently wanted me to have my leftovers.”
One corner of his lips twitch, though he doesn’t say anything.
I keep going. “I don’t put food in my purse, but I should have confirmed I didn’t have any before we left the room. I’m so sorry. Please let me come back.”
His eyes read mine.
I stand perfectly still, as though I’m in the full-body scanner at the airport. I did once get selected for a pat-down when going through security, and that’s definitely not what I’m here for.
He lifts his flashlight and clicks it back on. I hear the click but can’t really see the beam. Summer evenings in Oregon are still too bright for that.
“Let me look in your purse again.”
Does he think I’m lying about food, and he’s going to find a hot dog and hamburger? Of course he won’t, so the more important question is whether he’ll let me return to class if he sees that I’m honest. I grip the sides of my bag and hold it open, arms extended.
He inspects the contents of my purse, and I inspect his full crown of short, thick hair. It’s shiny, maybe from some kind of hair product. Is that what gives him the cinnamon scent?
