Page 73 of Catcher

I drag a hand over my face. A name, a low-level runner, whispers about Baton Rouge. That isn’t enough to hit back with. The hardest part of this kind of mess is never the violence, but the blind spots. Not knowing who’s really behind the bigger picture, not knowing who’s giving orders, not knowing where to strike first so the whole damn thing doesn’t come down on the wrong head. And with Ruby in the middle of it, that not knowing sits meaner under my skin than anything else. I can fight what I can see. I can’t stand the parts I can’t, especially when one bad guess could put her right in the line of fire.

By the time the mechanic finishes, two hours have passed. He tosses me the keys. “AC’s blowing cold, filters replaced, belts replaced.”

I nod, pay him, and slide into the car. Cold air hits my face the second I start it. Ruby shouldn’t have to sweat through a Louisiana summer because her brother buried her life under debt.

I pull out my phone and text Fender.

Catcher: On my way.

His response comes a few seconds later.

Fender: Still quiet.

I set the phone down and drive.

The closer I get to the school, the tighter something pulls under my ribs. Not fear, fucking instinct. That low-warning hum that starts at the base of the skull when the world looks too normal. Nothing is wrong, but something isn’t quite right either.

I don’t care for schools, not because of the kids, but because schools are soft targets. Ruby works here. She lives a whole part of her life that shouldn’t have anything to do with men like me here. Yet here I am, driving her car back to the front of it, armed, watching exits, thinking about the best cover angles if someone decides today is the day.

Fender is parked across the street where I left him, his Harley angled under a tree’s shade. He sees me and lifts two fingers.

I pull in behind him and leave the engine running for a second, letting the cold air fill the car before I shut it off.

He walks over, leaning down near the window. “Nothing moved,” he says. “A couple of parents gave me dirty looks.”

“Thanks, brother.”

He raps his knuckles on the roof of the car, then walks back, gets on his bike, and pulls away, the engine fading down the street.

16

RUBY

The last ten minutes of the day always drag on at a snail’s pace.

I keep my smile plastered on anyway, even as my feet ache inside flats that felt like a reasonable choice this morning, but due to swelling, feel more like a punishment. I rub my temples as I wait for the children to gather their backpacks, breathing in the scent of crayons and pencil shavings. Outside my windows, the sun is shining brightly, making me dread the drive home in the sweltering heat.

“Okay, kids,” I call, clapping once to pull their attention back to me. “Binders in your backpacks. Homework in the front pocket. If you have a water bottle, make sure it goes home with you.”

A chorus of “I did!” and “I can’t find mine!” echoes through the classroom. I move between tables, crouching, tugging papers into order, snatching up a water bottle from under a chair, and placing it in Shelby’s bag. “There you go, sweetheart.” My knees complain when I bend, and my head feels about ready to explode.

I didn’t sleep worth a damn last night. Not because of the usual late-night worry spiral about lesson plans or whether I remembered to send that email to a parent, and not even because of Robby. I’m tired because he was under my roof, Catcher, sprawled on my couch, his presence filling up every aspect of my life.

The club’s idea of ‘twenty-four-hour protection’ is less a suggestion than a decision made over my head and then handed down as a decree. Until they track down my brother and figure out what he stirred up, they want eyes on me.

It should make me feel safer. In reality, it makes me feel as if I’ve lost control of my life. Something is unnerving about knowing he’s only a thin wall and a hallway away when I’m trying to sleep.

It’s not just the danger. It’s the fact that Catcher is… Catcher. I’m still trying to find the balance between the way my body remembers him and why my head keeps listing all the reasons this has to stop. I need distance so I can get my head together. And somewhere in the middle of that teetering tightrope is the baby I haven’t told him about yet. I can’t help but be scared of how he’s going to react. Will he even believe the baby is his? Will he want to be in his or her life? Will he be angry and accuse me of trying to trap him?

“Ms. Starling!” Lila tugs the hem of my cardigan, snapping me back into the present. She’s holding her bag open. “My binder won’t fit.”

“Let me help you.” I kneel beside her and slide her binder past a box of washable markers and her lunchbox. “There we go.”

Across the room, our line leader for the week, Daniel, is patiently waiting to lead his classmates outside.

“Okay, everyone, time to line up.”

The kids quickly shuffle to the door and form a single line. As the children wait patiently and talk among themselves, I do a final walkthrough of the classroom to make sure nothing is left behind. As I’m doing so, my mind starts to drift once again to last night—Catcher and the way he swept through my house listing every exit and threat. Except, at that moment, I wasn’t thinking about possible danger. Nope, all I could think about was how he’s close enough that I can smell his soap and the faint scent of his cologne. At that moment, I thought about what his reaction would be if I suddenly blurted out “Hey, I’m pregnant,” as if that’s a casual addition to a conversation about locks, safe routes, and who might be watching.