“I haven’t spoken to her,” Emmie said, which was true. So far. Her father shot her a skeptical look. She deserved it. She’d come close to calling just last night. It wasn’t that she wanted to talk to her mom, more like she just wanted to hear her voice. She’d stopped herself, though; she wasn’t allowed to let her new cell phone number become common knowledge, and if she used the landline, her father would know.
“Good,” Mrs. Henderson said. “Good. And what about Mr. Peters?”
Emmie’s father visibly flinched, but Emmie kept her face blank as the blood in her arms trickled cold. And what about Mr. Peters? She hadn’t talked to him directly since the police pulled them away from the rusty sedan and pushed them into separate squad cars.
Did she want to talk to Nick? She should. At least to apologize. He had to know that she didn’t want to testify against him. He had to know that they didn’t give her a choice.
Based on the way he’d glared at her in the courtroom, she doubted he’d ever believe her. Sometimes even she didn’t believe herself.
“He’s in prison. I haven’t had any contact with him either.”
“What about his friends? Have they tried to contact you?”
“I told you,” her father interjected. “We’ve changed her number.”
“But you still live in the same house,” Mrs. Henderson said matter-of-factly.
“We aren’t listed in the phone book or on Google or in the white pages. And we have caller ID. None of those people have ever been to the house. We’ve done what we can, short of moving away, and O’Briens don’t run.”
Go, Dad, Emmie thought.
“I understand,” Mrs. Henderson said, lacing her fingers and resting her hands on top of Emmie’s file. “I’m thinking of all the possible scenarios.”
“You won’t think of anything I haven’t already considered myself,” Mr. O’Brien said, and only then did Emmie get a sense of how much he worried. She owed him an apology. Bigger than the one she’d already given.
“Nick’s friends are all on some kind of probation or have warrants,” Emmie said, trying to help out her dad. “They wouldn’t risk being picked up.”
The door opened, and Emmie’s probation officer walked in. He was a bulky man, late twenties, with thick red hair and a goatee. He leaned against the wall. “Good afternoon, everyone. Looks like the judge ordered sixty hours of community service. I’ve divided that into twelve five-hour shifts to be completed over the next three months.” He reached over and handed the folder to Emmie. “All the information you need is in there.”
When the judge had issued his order after Emmie’s plea, she’d been relieved. At the time, getting credit for her ninety days at the JDC and then only needing another sixty hours of community work service in exchange for her testimony had seemed like a gift. Now it sounded impossible to accomplish.
How was she going to get all that time in, plus her homework? There’d be no time for a job now, and she had hoped to earn back all the money she’d paid out in restitution to the victims.
Emmie groaned, and all the adults in the room looked at her as if she was ungrateful for the court’s leniency. “What do I have to do?” she asked.
“Since it’s winter, you won’t be cleaning roadside ditches,” Dan said. “Instead, we’ve got snow shoveling for the elderly and disabled, doing inventory at Goodwill, and shelving books at the public library.”
That didn’t sound too bad. “I’ll do the books.”
“You’ll do what the crew is scheduled to do on the days you’re scheduled for community service.”
“I’d prefer not to shovel.”
“Emmie,” Mr. O’Brien said. It was a warning.
“You’ll work Saturday mornings. Plan on starting at seven forty-five. Go to the sheriff’s office. There will be a van there to pick you and the others up.”
“Who are the others?” Emmie asked.
“Believe it or not,” Dan said with an amused smile, “you aren’t the only kid from White Prairie High on probation.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
IT’S YOU
It was Saturday. It was early. And Emmie was in a white County Corrections Department van idling at the curb in front of the sheriff’s department. These were the things she knew. The rest of the details would take a couple more hours to catch up on, like why she hadn’t bothered to change out of her old SpongeBob pajama pants.
God. She’d never meant to wear them in public, and now she felt totally awkward, even surrounded by these losers.
The van was three rows deep with room for nine, plus the driver and Dan McDonald at the front. Emmie was in the first row, by the window, which meant she could rest her head against the glass. The guy sitting next to her had already fallen asleep, his head tipped back, mouth agape, gob of drool on his chin. So gross.
Every time someone new would show up to claim another seat, she’d have a flicker of fear that it would be someone she knew—someone who knew Nick. When it’d turn out to be just some other local loser, her sleepy eyes would gloss over with relief.
The digital clock in the dashboard flipped to 7:45, and the driver shifted out of park. But before he took his foot off the brake, someone pounded on the passenger-side door window.
Emmie jumped in her seat, then leaned forward to see who was late. She could only see his chest through the window. The kid behind her muttered, “Fresh meat,” as if they were some hard-core prison chain gang instead of a bunch of juveniles heading off to fold clothes at Goodwill.
The door slid open, and Dan McDonald pulled his clipboard out of the center console. He put a check mark by the last name on the list. “Glad to see you made it. There’s a spot for you in the back.”
“Cool,” the guy said, climbing in, dark, longish hair falling across his face. He was barely inside, body crouched and not yet turned for the back seat, when his eyes locked with Emmie’s. It was for just a second, but she swore she saw a moment of recognition.
Panic set in as she turned her head toward the window. Did he know her? Was she supposed to know him? He wasn’t one of Nick’s people, was he? No. Too clean cut. Wait…Where had she seen him before?
“You okay, Emmie?” Dan asked.
“Just tired,” she said, resting her head against the glass.
“Get your nap while you can, everyone. We’ll be at the thrift store in about fifteen.”
Emmie closed her eyes and tried to soak up whatever sleep she could get, but she couldn’t relax. It wasn’t only the worn-out seat or the way her head bounced against the window. It wasn’t the soft snores of the guy next to her either. Her neck tingled with the sensation of someone staring at the back of her head. She doubted anyone on the work crew would choose to be awake when they had the option of sleeping, but just to be sure, she turned around.
The late guy looked right at her. No apology. Then he quirked one eyebrow.
Emmie shot him a dirty look, then whipped around to face front. She picked at a nub on her pajama pants and tried to form an early-morning thought that ultimately took her down the rabbit hole of favorite SpongeBob lines. The mental wanderings ended up wasting her entire fifteen minutes of sleep potential, and before she knew it, they’d arrived at the Goodwill.
“Let’s unload, boys,” Dan said as they pulled into the thrift-store parking lot. “Oh, and Emmie. Sorry, Em.”
She didn’t mind, and she liked the fact that Dan called her Em. She was going to be one of his “regulars” for the next three months. Generally speaking, that wasn’t a good thing, but she liked the idea of belonging to something again, even if that meant she belonged to a bunch of losers.
Snoring guy climbed out first, then Emmie, then the guys in the back two rows. Emmie followed behind Dan toward the store. Only a few cars were in the parking lot this early on a Saturday, mostly moms dropping off outgrown toys and clothes.
Emmie was halfway to the door when a hand gripped her shoulder and stopped her in her tracks. The other members of the cr
ew walked past.
“So, it’s you, huh?” asked the guy with the long, dark hair.
She gave him a brief look and shrugged roughly out from under his hand. “So I’m told.” She quickened her pace.
“No,” he said, catching up to her again. He laughed under his breath. It was a nice sound. Warm and rich. “What I meant was, you’re the girl who fell in the school entrance this week.”
“Well, no. I didn’t actually fall bec—” Emmie’s eyes went reflexively to the guy’s hands, and she spotted the broken watch face. “Oh.” Crap. “It’s you.”
“Yeah,” he said on an exhale. “So I’m told.”
Emmie tightened her lips as a wide grin spread across his face. “Max Shepherd,” he said, sticking out his hand.
Emmie glanced down at his hand, but she didn’t touch it. There was only a second of awkwardness before Max grabbed her hand and said, “You’re supposed to shake it. Here. Let me show you.”
Emmie jerked her hand back as if she’d been burned. “Emmie,” she said. “Emmie O’Brien.”
His eyebrows pulled together in surprise and maybe a little concern at her reaction. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
Emmie tilted her head. There was no way she was getting into that.
“Sorry,” he said. “None of my business.”
She nodded. At least he wasn’t a complete idiot. “It was nice to meet you, Matt.”
“Max.”
Yeah. She knew that. She also knew that hockey guys could stand to come down a few pegs and join the rest of the world.
“O’Brien!” Dan yelled from the doorway. “Get your ass in here. You too, Shepherd. I’m not running some teen dating service.”
Emmie felt her face flame with heat, and she hustled into the Goodwill, shooting Dan a look that should have made his hair curl, but instead he laughed and shook his head.
Inside, the large rectangular room burned bright with hundreds of fluorescent bulbs, a stark contrast to the diffused light of early morning. The left half of the room was devoted to kitchen gadgets, mismatched glassware, tools, utensils, and the odd collection of carved coconut monkeys, obscene corkscrews, and other bizarre items that served no other purpose than to be regifted from person to person until they ultimately rested here.
The back of the store held the appliances, bed frames, and furniture. The right half of the room was filled with racks (and racks and racks) of clothes for men, women, and children. Glittery used prom dresses and wool coats, gently used toddlerwear, raincoats. The smell of mothballs, cedar closets, and warm bodies lingered in the nubby fibers.
The store manager doled out work assignments as the work crew yawned or glanced around uncertainly at each other. They were each given a JPWC sticker that proclaimed them a member of the juvenile probation work crew.
“Miller, Households,” Dan announced, reading from his clipboard. “Thomas, Hangers. Shepherd, Large Appliances. O’Brien, Children’s clothing…”
Emmie dug a piece of gum out of her pocket and made her way toward her station at the back of the room. She had her head down, which is why she didn’t immediately see the elderly volunteer driving the pallet jack.
The old man must not have seen her either. He was moving a refrigerator that he’d raised at least four feet off the ground, and he was still having trouble with the controls.
Emmie looked up just as he made two sharp jerks on the levers and put the jack in reverse. The jack lurched backward. The refrigerator wobbled forward and loomed over her.
Someone behind Emmie yelled, “Look out!”
The refrigerator tilted farther forward and seemed to stop for…just…one…second before parting ways with the pallet. Emmie stood, rooted to her spot. In the split second before she was crushed, she actually had a thought, like, Well, this is it then. It’s been real.
She closed her eyes and braced for impact, but instead of being flattened, she felt large hands land between her shoulder blades and throw her forward.
Air and gum rushed out of her lungs. Her feet left the floor. One shoe fell from her foot. She was airborne, flying several feet before landing on the concrete floor, spread-eagled with her SpongeBob pajama pants pushed up above her knees. Uff!
There was a load explosion of sound, and Emmie flipped over. She was horrified, but not surprised, to see the refrigerator smashed to pieces on the exact spot where she had been standing.
Max was beside it, his hands still up, palms out. He looked at the broken refrigerator. Then he looked at her, his eyes wide and kind of…mad?
Emmie forced an exhale.
By this time, Dan McDonald was crouched over her. The store manager came running at them, his face red. Max broke out of his position and was on Emmie like white on rice.
The old man jumped off the pallet jack and came running over to her. “Sweetheart, are you okay?”
“You could have killed her,” Max yelled, standing up. He grabbed the old man by the collar and pushed him against the cinder-block wall.
“Hey! Cool it!” Dan yelled at Max without leaving Emmie’s side.
Emmie’s face flushed with mortification. She didn’t like to make a scene, and the old man was a volunteer. It wasn’t like he meant for the refrigerator to fall.
“What’s your problem?” she yelled at Max. “Let go of him.”
Max released the old man and stalked toward Emmie. “What’s my problem?” His eyes were like crazy eyes. If he were a cartoon, there would have been lightning bolts. Not much scared Emmie these days, but those eyes might have done it. “My problem?”
“Hey, now,” Dan said with one hand on Emmie’s shoulder and another raised, palm out, toward Max. “Take it easy.”
Emmie wiggled out from under Dan’s palm and stood up. The store manager said something under his breath to Dan, then led the shaken volunteer away.
“Yeah,” Emmie said to Max. “Your problem. You didn’t have to be so mean to that old man.”
“Forgive me for not wanting to see someone get killed by falling appliances.” Max was still angry, but it was directed at Emmie now instead of the old man. “And shouldn’t you be freaking out a little? Christ!”
Emmie folded her arms. “I’ve never seen freaking out do anyone any good.”
Max’s eyebrows shot up; then his face went blank. He glanced quickly from Emmie to Dan, then back again.
Dan chuckled and leaned toward Max’s ear. “Something for you to consider, eh, Shepherd?” Then he turned his attention back to Emmie. “Do you want to find a chair?”
She didn’t even look at him. Just gave a little shrug. “No, I’m totally fine.”
Max took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders back as if he was collecting himself. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m told I have what’s called an ‘overinflated sense of vigilance.’” A flash of self-deprecating humor washed across his features before he got serious again.
He mirrored Emmie’s body language, folding his arms. “Usually it’s a problem for me, but today it saved your life. No matter how totally fine you might be with this.”
Jock, she thought, her gaze drifting over his well-muscled shoulders. Cocky-ass jock. Stupid-ass Rescue Ranger thinking she couldn’t handle her own business. “If it helps your ego to believe that, go right ahead.” Emmie turned and continued on her way toward her workstation.
“A simple thank-you would suffice,” he called after her.
“I didn’t ask for any help,” she replied without turning around. Emmie clenched her teeth. She didn’t like being a bitch, but she knew what it meant to need help, and she knew what kind of trouble came from people knowing your weakness.
“Doesn’t mean you didn’t need it!” he shot back, much too loudly to be discreet. It pained Emmie to admit he was right. But even if he did save her life, it wasn’t like she was going to grant him three wishes or do his bidding for a week.
Midmorning, Dan came around with bananas and juice boxes for everyone. It reminded Emmie of presch
ool, but she was happy for the food since she’d skipped breakfast. She leaned her back against the wall and slid down to the floor, the legs of her flannel pajama bottoms pulling up around her calves.
She thought about closing her eyes and catching a five-minute nap, but she wasn’t going to be so lucky. Max Shepherd was headed her way, and it looked like he had something more to say. She didn’t know why he should want to talk to her anymore. He’d done his good deed for the day.
“Mind if I join you?” Max asked, his voice already familiar.
Emmie’s eyes glanced over his body—the broad shoulders, T-shirt pulled tight across his chest, the narrow hips and muscular thighs. Hockey thighs, she thought. He chuckled low in his chest, as if he could read every thought in her head.
She frowned. “I was actually finished.” She got up and returned to her station, tossing her banana peel into a trash bin as she passed.
He followed, and Emmie’s shoulders tightened reflexively. She glanced around the room expecting to see…what exactly? It wasn’t like Nick was able to stroll into Goodwill and bust her for talking to this guy. Still…she couldn’t shake the feeling.
“You looking for someone?” Max asked.
Emmie shook her head.
Max leaned against her folding table. Emmie glanced down at his hands—always good to keep an eye on people’s hands—and noticed his broken wristwatch again. She wanted to ask him about it, but didn’t want to risk opening up more conversation. She started folding clothes.
“Yeah, okay,” Max said. “Good talk. Aces. I’ve got stuff to do too.”
Emmie exhaled with a sudden rush of relief and waited for him to turn away. Except that he didn’t. Instead, he hesitated as if an idea had occurred to him.
“You were at my hockey game,” he said. “Sorry you had to see all that.”
Emmie blinked, then stopped folding the shirt she was working on. Slowly, she looked up as she put two and two together. Her memory flashed to that kid laid out flat on the ice. The visiting crowd booing. The dejected player in the penalty box. Whoa. That was him. It had been a really scary moment.
Cold Hard Truth Page 3