I do. I tell her about the coyote; about the hole drilled in my tank. I’m rushing to get the words out, so I don’t know if I’m even making sense—not that any of this makes sense in the first place. The last thing I tell her is Clarence suggesting we call the sheriff.
“Are you calling me from the station? I can be there in like two hours to pick you up.”
My face is hot and wet, and oh shit, am Icrying? Why am I crying?
“Lou.” Her voice is stern. She’s not angry at me, but sheisangry. “Where are you?”
“I’m at Clarence’s. The sheriff came. Cory. He said he wanted to take me to the station. We were about to go and Clarence was gonna follow, but then the sheriff shot him.”
The last part is a whisper. Like it’s so absurd, so horrific that it can’t be said at a normal volume.
“I was already in the car. He drove off and I kind of freaked out. We crashed and I ran.”
I stop there because it’s the bad part. It’s the part that might make her stop being my friend.
“What happened to the sheriff?” Her voice is strained, which makes sense.
“I… I slammed a car door on his head until it was mush.”
Silence, and then Emma’s hoarse voice breaks it. “Dude, what the fuck? Like, literally, what the fuck?”
I sit on Clarence’s couch and let Ripley jump up beside me. I can see the driveway from here. There are other people involved in this whole situation. If they come, I’ll see them.
“And then I went back to Clarence’s, and now I’m calling you.”
She’s quiet.
“You think I’m crazy?”
She mutters, “Well, there is a certain precedent.” She gathers her words in the following silence. “No, I do not think you’re crazy. First things first: fuck that cop. I’m glad he’s dead. Second: you need to hang up and call 911, okay? You call, tell them why you’re out there, that someone sabotaged your truck, you wound up at Clarence’s, and then someone killed him and tried to abduct you. You got away and locked yourself in the house. You don’t fucking tell them it was the sheriff. It was just some guy. Do you understand? You don’t tell them it was a cop.”
A wave of pure relief flows through now that I have someone to take control; to tell me what to do. Every single muscle in my body relaxes. I sink bodily into the couch, and Ripley leans more heavily into my side.
“Okay. I can do that.”
“Ask for them to send the fire department. Lie—tell them the last time you saw your truck it was smoking or something. Tell them you’re hurt and need an ambulance. Just try to get someone other than the cops there. I’m leaving right now, okay? Do you know the house number?”
I tell her no, but she can follow the directions to the address I sent, then give her a description of Clarence’s house.
“Try to call me when they get to the house. I’m going to call my professor. He’ll know a lawyer.”
“What about Ripley?”
She pauses. There’s rustling, then a door opening and closing. She tells me to hold on while the phone switches to the car’s Bluetooth.
“Honestly, I’d leave her at the house. They’re not going to let her in a hospital and we don’t want the cops to get their hands on her. Put her in a bedroom or something. Leave a few bowls of water, maybe some food, if there’s anything she can eat, and a note explaining she’s friendly and it’s an emergency. I’ll pick her up. If I can’t, I’ll figure something out.”
The thought of leaving Ripley in this house, of leaving herbehind, makes my stomach gurgle.
“Can you text my mom? Let her know I’m okay?”
Emma pauses again. This time it’s longer and quieter than before.
“Did I lose you?”
“No, sorry. Don’t worry about that right now, alright? The only thing that matters is getting you somewhere safe. We’ll deal with everything else after.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
