I take a step back. Her hand falls in the gulf that yawns between us. “You better get going,” I say evenly, watching the struggle play across her face. Humiliation is an ugly garment when you are forced to wear it.
Without another word, she swivels on her heel and leaves the kitchen with straight-backed dignity. Five minutes later, I hear the RAV start up and reverse out of the driveway, the tires squealing to compensate for all the choked-back comments.
I mix a tomato basil sauce into the pasta and wonder when I’ll marshal the courage to call it quits with Nolene, both personally and professionally. Her ideology is becoming more and more extremist.A couple of days ago, I discovered in her possession a step-by-step arson manual. She also makes no secret of her admiration for the tactics of hardline animal rights splinter groups, tactics that include firebombing research labs and mailing envelopes rigged with poisoned razor blades to medical researchers.
With a sense of regret, I acknowledge that after this job I’ll have to cut all ties with Nolene. It won’t be easy. Severing a limb is painful, and she’s my right hand.
After loading Amy’s pasta onto a tray, along with a small side salad, I reluctantly tug on my ski mask and knock on her door before opening it.
At the scene confronting me, I stop abruptly, almost tipping over her dinner. A swell of rage surges through me. If Nolene walked into this... A nerve jumps in my cheek. I prefer not to think how she might have reacted.
From the look on Amy’s face—a combination of satisfaction and fear—I realize I’m being tested. My chest tightens. There’s no way I can let her get away with this.
I set the tray outside the door. The forfeiting of her dinner is the least of Amy’s worries. My hands are shaking as I step into the room and shut the door behind me.
20
HEATHER
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Wednesday, July 14
There’s a soft tap on my bedroom door. “Heather? Are you okay, honey?”
The door opens and my mother hovers outside.
Lying on my bed, I fling an arm over my eyes as light from the hallway invades the darkness I’m hiding in. “Mom, please, shut the door.”
With a quick apology, she eases into the room, allowing in only a tolerable amount of light. “Dinner’s ready.”
“I’m not hungry.”
The mattress dips as she sits on the edge of the bed. “Migraine?” she asks sympathetically.
“Yes.”
“Have you taken anything?”
“Some aspirin.”
“Hasn’t helped, huh?”
“Not much.” It dulled the pain in my head, but didn’t touch the ache in my heart.
My bed creaks as my mom stands and leaves the room. She returns with a wet washcloth, which she places on my forehead. Her kindness causes tears to prick my eyes.
“Your first day on the job, I imagine it was a little overwhelming,” she comments, probing gently.
“A little.” I grimace at the understatement.
“You want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“All right,” she says, a thread of hurt tangling her words together.
Now I’m upsetting my mother. Another black mark in a day thick with them. “I guess it’ll take time to get used to the work,” I say, a peace offering.
