CHAPTER FIVE
THOMAS
I
nearly miss her. Charlotte collapses so suddenly that she’s almost in the grass before I notice she’s falling. I break the fall before she hits her head, then lower her the rest of the way down.
She’s completely limp. Her head lolls to the side and her eyes seem to have rolled back.
Fuck.
What is this? Is this a seizure? She’s not shaking. For all she’s sweating, her skin is cool to the touch. Clammy. She feels like a dead body.
I need to stop that train of thought right there.
From habit, I slap my pockets, looking for my phone. Gone—gone for days. Confiscated by those damn cops.
I get down close to her, putting my cheek beside her mouth. I can’t tell if she’s breathing. “Charlotte.
Charlotte.
”
Her chest moves, but infinitesimally, so I’m not sure if I’m seeing it only because I want to see it so badly. She’s slick with sweat, even more than I’d noticed a few minutes ago. Droplets collect in her cleavage, on her neck, and across her brow.
I give her a little shake. It’s like shaking a doll with loose joints.
“Charlotte.”
Nothing.
A few more raindrops strike her chest, mixing with her sweat.
Does
she
have a phone? Wasn’t she listening to her phone by the grave?
I bolt from her side before the thought is complete in my head. I don’t want to look at the site. I don’t want to see Mom’s name on the headstone.
I can’t miss it. Charlotte’s things are there in the grass, right beside the newly turned earth. The marble slab looms large, burning itself into my brain to rest alongside other things I don’t want to see.
I imagine Mom sitting there, holding out the phone, giving me a look and a heavy sigh. “Honestly, Tommy, the way trouble finds you.”
I shove the thought out of my head and scoop the phone off the ground, then sprint back to Charlotte. Rain begins to fall in earnest, rustling as it collects in the grass. She’s so sweaty—maybe this is hyperthermia? Dehydration? Is it that hot outside? I have no idea.
A pulse. I didn’t check for a pulse. I put fingers to her neck with one hand, then press the button on her phone with the other. My own hands have started sweating, and it takes two tries to swipe and unlock the phone.
The device asks for a passcode.
A frigging passcode!
Wait. There’s an emergency button. I dial nine-one-one, then realize I never found a pulse.
The phone beeps at me. No signal. Of course not, because we’re in the middle of
nowhere
.
“Damn it,” I mutter. I think of the way Danny fell beside the church, and some tiny, dark part of my brain wonders if I somehow did this too.
I still can’t find a pulse.
Fuck, I
can’t find a pulse.
A whimper crawls out of my throat. I can’t do this again. I can’t do this.
Then I spy the twist of silver and turquoise stones on her wrist, which I thought was a strange hipster bracelet. It is— but it’s wrapped around a steel chain with one of those medical alert symbols.
I twist the stones out of the way so I can read what’s written on the back.
Type I Diabetes
Diabetes. I know nothing about diabetes, except that you have to give yourself shots. Does she need sugar? Did she have too much sugar?
I put my head against her chest and listen.
There
. A breath. A heartbeat. It’s slow, but it’s there.
I have her in my arms before I have a clear idea of what to do. I can’t leave her here. We’re a good distance from the church, but I start running anyway. Her head lolls over my arm, and one hand hangs limply from her side.
Thunder cracks and the sky opens up.
Water soaks her face, her chest, her dress. It’s dripping in my eyes already. For a heartbeat, I have this crazy hope it’ll wake her up.
Her eyelids flicker, then go still. A reflex, I’m sure.
We’re almost through the wall of trees. Maybe someone will see us and come to help.
“Come on,” I whisper, my voice tight with the strain of carrying her. “We’ll be there soon.”
Then we’re through the trees and the rain is pelting us full out. I shake water out of my eyes.
Cops are suddenly there in front of me. They look as surprised to see me as I am to see them.
They get it together first. Guns are drawn. Pointing at me.
“Put her down!” one yells. He’s blond, late twenties maybe. His voice promises a bullet to the forehead if I don’t get her on the ground.
I can’t put my hands up, but I lift Charlotte a little, showing them that she needs medical attention. “She’s hurt. She needs an ambu—”
“
Put her down
.” This from the other, with darker hair. His voice carries a little touch of panic.
I hate this town. I take a step forward.
They raise their guns. A slight movement, but they might as well have cocked the hammers. A warning bell rings in my head. They’ll really shoot me.
“Fine,” I say, speaking clearly over the rain. “Fine.”
I gently ease her to the ground, then look up. The blond cop holsters his gun and approaches me, though the other keeps his pointed. My jaw is tight, and I emphasize every word. “She. Needs. An—”
His fist comes out of nowhere.
I hit the ground.
Now I might need an ambulance.
An hour later, I am in the same interrogation room. Soon I’ll need a mug with my name on it.
I want to get out of this goddamned suit. I didn’t like it before, and I like it even less now that it’s crumpled and damp. My jaw aches, and I wish I had a bag of ice or a bottle of ibuprofen. I move it gingerly and wince.
I want to claim assault, but I want to get out of here more.
The detective in front of me must not have been at the funeral. He’s wearing a polo shirt and jeans instead of a shirt and tie. The polo isn’t doing him any favors, especially since he’s chosen salmon pink. There’s a badge clipped to his belt, and he has a thick, graying mustache.
I can’t remember his name. He’s leafing through a folder. I want to smack the reading glasses right off his face.
“Tell me again,” he drawls. His voice isn’t quite southern but close. We’re close enough to Virginia down here, I guess. “What did you do to Miss Rooker?”
“I didn’t do
anything
to her. We were talking. She collapsed. Would you tell me if she’s all right?”
He makes a quick note in his folder, then looks at me over the rim of his glasses. “And why would she be talking to you?”
“You’ve asked me that six times now. I found her by my mother’s grave, and we started talking.”
He surveys me for a long moment, then closes the folder and sets it on the table. He leans forward and places the pen on the center of the folder.
For the first time, his voice finds an edge. “Let me make something real clear for you, son.”
“I’m not your son.”
He snorts, and it’s not a friendly noise. “Lucky for you.” He lifts the pen and sets it back down. “There aren’t many people who care for you around here. You understand me?”
“Trust me, I got the memo.”
“When you’re under suspicion of murder, it looks pretty shady when you lead a young girl into the woods alone, you hear me? Especially when only one of you has the ability to walk back out.”
“I didn’t lead her.” I grind out the words. “
She
led
me
. I told you that.” I pound my handcuffed—yes,
handcuffed
—hands on the table. “Why the hell would I lead
her
into the woods?”
“Well, why don’t you tell me about that, son? Why would you?”
I’m about to snap. Pressure is building in my head, and I’ve never been an aggressive guy, but all of a sudden, I want to slam my hands into this man.
The sad thing is, he wants me to. I can see it in his eyes. He wants me to haul off and deck him. Then they’d have a reason to throw me in jail. He’s probably provoking me on purpose.
My mind flashes on Charlotte, on the way her arm hung so limply. I wish someone would tell me what happened to her. Her eyes rolled back in her head just like—
Stop it
. I have to stop these thoughts. I don’t want to see her death, too.
I sit back in the chair and blow out a breath. All of a sudden, I feel very small. Very trapped. My voice is low, and I all but speak to my hands. “I want to talk to Stan.”
“I’m sorry. That’s not possible.”
“Fine. Then I want a fucking attorney.”
“You bring an attorney in here, son, and I can’t help you. You understand that?”
“I understand that you need to stop calling me son, or I’m going to—”
He leans forward. “You’re going to what?”
I grit my teeth and force my voice to remain level. “Just get me an attorney. I’m done talking to you.”
He picks up his folder and leaves, and I expect to wait for a while. When they first put me in here, I sat for an hour before anyone came to talk to me. It’s all a tactic of some sort, I’m sure.
There’s a little part of my brain that wonders if Mom might find this hilarious, in a character-building kind of way.
See, Thomas? I told you that you shouldn’t stare at a girl’s rack before a funeral.
Sorry, Mom. She was hot.
A key rattles the door, and then it swings open. Stan walks in.
He looks a little drained. And a lot pissed off.
“Thomas.”
I didn’t screw up this time, but I still can’t meet his eyes. He’s not having a very good day either, and some of that is my fault. “I asked for an attorney.”
“I know you did. I want to talk to you.”
“Well, you sound like you want to kill me.”
“Part of me does.”
I set my shoulders and keep my eyes on the plastic tabletop. The room is small, and I can hear him breathing. “I guess you’re rethinking the offer to let me stay with you, huh?”
He’s quiet for a long time. Long enough that I finally cast a glance up.
His whole frame sags. “What were you thinking, Tom?” he says quietly. “Please. Just tell me what you were thinking.”
I don’t know what to tell him, but his quiet voice takes some of the rage out of me. Mom liked that about him, too, I know. Even angry, his presence is settling.
“Can you tell me if she’s okay?” I say softly. “No one will tell me.”
He nods. “She’ll be fine. Insulin shock, but the paramedics were able to bring her around. Might have to spend a few hours in the hospital, but she’ll be all right.” He sighs. “Thank god.”
I don’t know if he’s thanking God in a general way, or if he thinks I might have done something and he’s glad I was interrupted.
“I wasn’t . . .” I hesitate. “I wasn’t doing anything. She was at the grave when I walked up. She was listening to music. She said—she said she felt bad that no one was paying respects.”
He nods slowly, like it’s the same thing he’s heard from someone else—maybe Charlotte herself.
He clears his throat. “Why did you go into the woods?”
I close my eyes. “I couldn’t stay there.”
“By her grave, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
“So it was your idea to walk.”
Was it my idea? Or was it hers? I can’t remember. “I don’t know. I just know we were walking. She seemed to know the path.”
I know she felt peaceful beside me, when everyone else feels like a pressure cooker full of anger, hate, and suspicion.
Yeah, like I can say that. I’d sound like I belonged in the looney bin.
Then again, a psychiatric institution would probably be a step up from prison.
Stan’s voice is very low, very quiet. “Do you understand that every cop in this town is looking for a reason to lock you up?”
“No. That has completely escaped my notice.”
His eyes flash with sudden anger. “Don’t joke about this. I’m not kidding, Tom. They don’t want you walking around. So heading off into the woods with Charlotte Rooker was probably the stupidest thing you could have done.”
“So what, she has one prick of a brother who wants to give me a hard time? Fine. Whatever. I’ll stay out of his way.”
“
Three
brothers,” Stan snaps. “All cops. And her father, too. And Charlotte is a minor, so it doesn’t matter if she wants to press charges or not. It’s up to her parents, and right now, they’re claiming assault. They’re doing a toxicology test in the hospital to make sure you didn’t give her something. Someone mentioned a rape kit. Do you understand me? Do you get it, now?”
My blood freezes. “I didn’t touch her.”
“You were carrying her.”
I shake my head fiercely. “I didn’t
touch her.
Not like that. I thought she was dying. Her phone wouldn’t work.” I’ve told all of this to the cop in the pink shirt, but I knew I didn’t have a shot in hell of making him believe me. With Stan, I have a chance.
“So you went for a walk, and she just collapsed.”
“Yes!”
“Why was your jacket on the ground?”
I blink. “What?”
“They found your jacket on the bank of the creek. Her hair was on it. Why was she lying on your jacket if she collapsed?”
His tone is level, no judgment. In this moment, I see how Stan could be an effective homicide detective. He could be ordering sliced chicken at the deli counter.
“She asked if she could sit down,” I say.
A rape kit.
God. Poor Charlotte. I hope she tells them. I hope she doesn’t have to go through that.
I frown and look at Stan. “How did the cops know we were out there?”
Stan blinks. “What?”
“How did they know? They were just there, with guns out. How did they know?”