Her tail wags once, twice. I take her leash in my hand and steel myself.
“Just a little walk.”
CHAPTER 8
It shouldn’t be difficult to get to Clarence’s house and, subsequently, his landline. The sheriff hadn’t gotten more than a few minutes down the road before the car went careening through the trees.
I make the mistake of trying to wipe the sweat on my forehead away. The scrapes that weren’t stinging before certainly are now. The back of my hand is light pink with diluted blood.
If only Ellis could see me now. I can just imagine it: him watching news coverage splashed with my bloody, frazzled face.
“Can you believe I let her keep her job? She’s a cop killer. Entirely unboneable.”
Not that the likelihood of boning was high. It’s just nice to be considered, is all.
I drop the leash and let Ripley trot ahead. Now that we’re not in a stranger’s house she doesn’t need to be bymy side. Ripley glances back with her mouth wide and her tongue lolling. The image is so immediately funny that for a second it overwhelms the unending dread of the moment.
I stop when we come upon a small cleared area. There’s a firepit and a wooden bench facing the creek. A well-worn path leads from the firepit up the slope to what must be Clarence’s backyard. How many times did Clarence and his wife walk this path to sit by the creek? How many times did he do it on his own before I walked into his home and got him killed?
I shake my head, take Ripley’s leash in hand again, and begin the trek up the path. When we reach the top, I have to lean against a tree to catch my breath.
“That wasn’t fun,” I say to Ripley, clutching my chest.
My heart is thumping a quick rhythm against my rib cage. She grins up at me, tongue lolling, and for her I guess it was pretty fun.
I stop at the tree line to peer out at Clarence’s yard. It’s quiet, or at least as quiet as it can be with cicadas shouting their song in my ears on a constant loop.
The picket fence is low enough that I can lift Ripley up and set her on the other side. The first touch of my hand on the back-door handle is salvation. The fact that it doesn’t open is hell. It’s locked. Of course it is.
Shit. Okay. That’s fine. Life in a trailer with a crappy sliding door has prepared me for this exact moment. I slide the edge of my hatchet into the bottom seam between frame and door. It gives a plastic creak when I rock it. There is no“good” quality when it comes to sliding doors—just shitty and less shitty. This one is less shitty. Still, it pops open the fourth time I shift it in its frame.
The landline rests in its cradle in the living room. I’m half expecting it not to work when I pick it up. Wouldn’t that just be my luck?
The dial tone is so surprising, I can’t hold back a crow of “Ha!” when I hear it.
I know I’m supposed to dial 911. That is the best, smartest thing to do. That’s what my internal Emma would advise. Instead, my fingers start to tap out my mom’s number.
Before I can finish, I stop.
She doesn’t know this number, which means the likelihood of her answering is basically nonexistent. An unknown phone number, to her, is the equivalent of Schrödinger’s debt collection agency. Even if she did, it’s not like she candoanything. She’ll just be stuck in Columbus scared and unable to help.
No, this is a bad idea. I know it’s a bad idea. I should call 911. I dial Emma’s number instead.
She answers immediately. “This is Emma.”
“I’m in trouble.”
There’s a pause, then, “Lou?”
“Like really big trouble. I’m fine. I mean, I’m alive. Ripley is alive. But I fucked up.”
The landline is rattling against my ear, and I realize it’s because my hand is shaking.
“Lou, I want you to take a deep breath, okay?”
My lungs have been shooting out short, staccato breathsthat have gone straight to my head. I blink past the fuzzy-brained feeling and take a second to breathe in sync with Emma.
“Okay. Now tell me what’s going on.”
