by Paula Stokes
We walk the two blocks to Holden’s apartment building and he bounds up the stairs, his injury not seeming to affect his mobility very much. We slip into the darkened apartment. I close the door behind us while Holden heads for the bathroom.
I flail around until I locate a light switch that works. My eyes flick to the painting of the olive tree as I cross the living room and find the bathroom halfway down the hallway. The door is mostly closed, but I can see Holden moving around in there.
“You need some help?” I open the door far enough to peer in.
“Maybe,” he says. “Let me rinse the wound first.” He starts to undo his pants.
Holden steps into the bathtub in his boxers and directs the showerhead at his leg. Water flies everywhere, and he swears under his breath as he tries to hold open his wound and adjust the stream at the same time.
I laugh. “Here. Let me help.”
“Ooh. Our first shower together,” he teases.
“Super-romantic.” I angle the spray right onto his wound. He winces as the water hits his skin. The dried blood washes away, exposing a cut that is deep and jagged.
“Oh, Holden,” I say. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to the ER? That looks so nasty.”
“I’ve cut myself before working on cars. It’ll be fine, as long as I make sure it’s really clean. Can you see if there’s any Neosporin or anything in the medicine cabinet?”
I find him a tube of off-brand triple antibiotic and watch as he squeezes the goo into the cut. “Can you help me hold the edges of the cut apart?” he asks.
I make a face, but I bend down and put my thumbs on either side of the jagged wound. Holden squeezes more antibiotic gel into it and then has me press the edges tight together as he paints over the whole thing with liquid Band-Aid.
“Does it hurt?” I ask. “I saw some ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet.”
“It’s throbbing a little bit.”
“I’ll be right back.” I leave Holden sitting on the edge of the tub and go to the kitchen for a glass of water.
While I’m gone, he gets dressed again. When I return, he swallows two pills and washes them down with the water. “Let’s take another look at that footprint now that we’ve got some light,” he says.
We head into the living room. I enlarge the images on my phone while Holden peers over my shoulder. Only a little bit of the boot tread is identifiable, but it looks like a circle of diamonds forming a sunburst shape in the center of the heel. I Google “boot prints” and “boot tracks” and end up with a lot of forensic databases, none of which are free, unfortunately.
“I think my mom has one of those programs on her tablet,” Holden says. “She doesn’t use it as a patrol officer, but she’s studying to become a detective, and I’m almost positive I’ve seen her looking at shoe treads.”
“Can you access it?”
He arches his eyebrows at me. “Let’s find out.”
I follow Holden into his mom’s room, where he locates her tablet on the top of her dresser. This room is as sparse and streamlined as the living room—metal bed frame, black bedspread, black dresser and chest of drawers. Absolutely no clutter.
“Needs a painting,” I say, my eyes skimming across the blank white walls.
“I tried.” Holden laughs under his breath. “She said it would be wasted because all she does in here is sleep. Is it wrong that I was relieved?”
I snicker. “That sounds like something my mom would say.”
We take the tablet back out into the living room and flop down next to each other on the sofa. Holden logs on to the computer, and the latest version of Windows loads on the screen. He searches through a couple of work-related folders. “Here we go.” He clicks on an icon of a shoe print.
A program called TreadAware loads, and then a password log-on box pops up.
“Cross your fingers.” Holden types a string of letters and numbers into the box and taps enter. The start screen for TreadAware pops up.
“Oh my God. You’re amazing,” I say. “How did you know her password?”
“Well, I know her general log-in because she lets me use this for homework. I was hoping it was the same password for this.”
“Oh, your mom is one of those people, huh?” I tease.
“Old people.” Holden scoffs. “So bad with technology. But at least her password isn’t PASSWORD or like one-two-three-four-five or something.”
I point at the menu bar. “How does it work?”
“Not sure.” Holden scans through a few different menus until he finds one that says “upload photo.” “Worth a try,” he says.
I hand him my phone, and he uploads the best photo of the boot heel onto the website. Then he clicks “search database.”
“I don’t know how long this is gonna take.” Holden sets the tablet on the coffee table. He turns to me and blinks innocently. “What shall we do while we wait?”
I blush. “What did you have in mind?”
Instead of answering, Holden brushes my hair back from my face. He runs one fingertip down my jawbone. A shiver races through me. My body trembles.
“There’s that convulsing thing again.” He laughs under his breath.
“Good convulsing,” I remind him.
He leans in and touches his lips to mine. “Glad to hear it.”
I wrap my arms around his neck and extend the kiss. My hands get lost in his soft hair.
He exhales hard. “I’ve missed this,” he says. “I’ve missed you.”
“I haven’t gone anywhere,” I murmur.
“Yeah, but you know what I mean.” Wrapping his arms around my middle, Holden tries to pull me onto his lap.
“Holden, come on.” I squirm out of his grasp. “What about your leg?”
“It’s fine.”
I clear my throat. “Yeah. Well. You should probably refrain from . . . strenuous activity for at least a few hours so you don’t rip open the cut.”
He grins. “I could just lie there. You could be extra gentle.”
I scoff. “It does sound pretty tempting when you describe it like that.”
His smile widens. “Really?”
“No.” I punch him in the arm again.
He collapses back on his cushion and contorts his face into a fake pout. It reminds me of the way Betsy looks when her bowl is empty and I make her wait for food. “Are you bored with me, Embry Woods?”
“What? No. I just—”
“I was your little plaything, but now I’m all used up, huh?” Holden sighs dramatically, holding one hand to his forehead.
I laugh. “Are you high? Did you take something besides ibuprofen when I wasn’t looking?”
Holden snickers. “Nope. Who knew ibuprofen was such good shit.”
“I guess.” I poke him in the ribs. “You big weirdo.”
“Seriously, though,” he says. “If what happened at the Sea Cliff freaked you out to the point where you want to be just friends, I can handle it. You can tell me the truth.”
“I thought we were just friends,” I remind him.
“Yeah, but I mean the kind of friends who don’t get naked together on a regular basis.”
I’ve considered more than once whether being Holden’s friend with benefits is a bad idea, but I don’t regret anything that’s happened between us, aside from that first night we were together. Even the fire—I don’t regret meeting him at the Sea Cliff or sleeping with him. I just wish I hadn’t knocked over the candle. I know I use physical intimacy to avoid emotional intimacy—it’s easier for me and the chance of rejection is less—but I’m okay with that for the time being. Still, I know Holden’s feelings have developed beyond friendship, and if I’m being honest, mine have too. At some point I’m going to have to decide exactly what I want from him . . . and what I’m willing to give.
“It’s not that,” I say. “It’s just a combination of trying to focus on Unknown and . . .”
“And what?”
“And I don’t know. F
iguring out my feelings.”
He clears his throat. “And, uh, what are your feelings?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I’ll tell you when I figure them out.”
“Fair enough.” He grins. “You’re still gonna go to the gallery with me on Sunday, though, right? I have a surprise for you.”
“You know I hate surprises.”
“You’ll like this one,” Holden says, his eyes bright with mischief.
Before I can reply, the tablet beeps and a list of possible matches comes back. We both turn our attention to the screen.
“Only four different brands,” Holden says. “Not bad.”
I barely hear him. I’m too busy staring at the second name on the list: Rendon Hiking Boots. The same type Katrina Jensen was wearing in the cafeteria at school.
Twenty-Four
I POINT AT THE SCREEN. “Katrina has these boots.”
“They’re a pretty popular brand,” Holden says. “Don’t a lot of people at school have those?”
“Yeah, but a lot of people at school don’t have the means and motive to blackmail me.”
“Let’s see if we can find a picture of exactly what a Rendon sole looks like.” Holden skims through the TreadAware menus until he finds a master database of pictures and prints. He pulls up a picture of the bottom of a Rendon boot. This one is a different style from the ones I saw Katrina wearing, but it’s clear that the heel design matches the heel in my picture.
I tap one foot repeatedly against the carpet. My body is filled with nervous energy at the thought of finally putting an end to this madness. “It’s her, Holden. It has to be.”
He sets the tablet back on the coffee table. “Maybe, but we can’t accuse someone without proof.”
“What if I go talk to her? Tell her I know what she’s doing. I might be able to get through to her.”
“Assuming she’s Unknown, is that what you want? To get through to her?” Holden asks dubiously. “After what she did to Julia?”
“I want to understand why she’s doing this, and I don’t want anyone else to get hurt. That’s what matters to me. I know she’s having some issues at home. She might need help.”
He shakes his hair back from his face. “What if she’s dangerous, Embry?”
“I’ll be able to figure that out by her response,” I say. “If she seems dangerous, I promise I’ll go straight to the police.”
“Okay, but I’m going with you.” Holden’s voice is firm.
“That’s not necessary. I can talk to her at school tomorrow.”
He crosses his arms. “I can still go. They told me not to go to class. They didn’t say I couldn’t go into the building.”
“You have to take Sam and Beau to the vet, remember? I’ll be perfectly safe, I promise.”
“Julia probably thought she was perfectly safe too,” Holden mutters, but he’s not going to back out of helping Sam, and he’s definitely not going to tell me what I can and can’t do. That’s not his style.
December 21
Unfortunately, Katrina doesn’t show up to school on Friday. I text Holden after class to tell him I’m going to look for her at Fintastic.
Holden: Wait for me to get off work. I’ll be home by 9:30.
Me: That’s too late. If she’s not closing she might have left by then.
Holden: Do you even know she’s working?
Me: No, but I figure it’s worth a try. I won’t go anywhere alone with her I promise.
Holden: I still don’t like it. How are you going to get home after you talk to her? She could follow you.
I start to tell him I can hold my own in a street confrontation with Katrina Jensen, and then I remember Julia talking about how she might have bought a gun. But Katrina wouldn’t shoot me—that’s crazy. No crazier than her poisoning Julia.
Me: I’ll drive my mom’s car.
Holden: Good. Come see me at the gas station afterward. It’s supposed to rain. You can give me a ride home ;)
Me: Ha, I knew this wasn’t about my safety ;)
Holden: You know it is though, right? I care about you, Embry. I don’t want anything to happen to you.
I care about you too, I think. But I don’t type it. I can’t type it. My mom cared about my dad, and look how that turned out. And Holden’s parents—he said they used to be so happy, and now they barely speak. I like the way things are with Holden. I don’t want to mess that up unless I have to.
Me: You’re sweet.
Holden: You too, even though you like to pretend you’re not.
Me: Whatever. Did the trip to the vet go okay?
Holden: Yeah. They’re keeping Beau overnight to give him IV antibiotics, so I dropped Sam off at the Tillamook shelter and he’s got a bed lined up for tonight.
Me: Good. I’ll text you before I head to the gas station.
Holden: Ok. Be careful.
Me: I will.
The Fintastic parking lot is nearly full as usual when I pull my mom’s car into it at about 8:30 p.m. I hop out and click the locks, even though I’m not planning on staying long. I do a quick survey of the parking lot, just to make sure the guy in the leather bomber jacket isn’t lurking around. Nope, it’s just one elderly couple and me out in the cold right now. The gravel crunches beneath my boots as I head for the front door.
I pause outside the entrance to peer through one of the front windows. Frannie is standing at a server station that has urns of coffee and iced tea. She’s rolling silverware for tomorrow, her hands moving methodically as she stares off into space. I watch for a few seconds as she lays out a maroon cloth napkin, stacks a knife, fork, and spoon in the center, folds in the corners of the napkin, and then rolls the bundle into a tight cylinder.
Behind her I catch a glimpse of Katrina as she glides past with a tray of food. Good. I don’t know exactly what I’m going to say to her or how she’ll respond, but this madness needs to end.
I hold the door for the elderly couple who have made it across the slick parking lot, the man leaning heavily on a cane. The warm air of Fintastic wraps around me as I duck into the restaurant behind them. Frannie looks up from where she’s standing, as if robotically linked to the opening and closing of the front door. A quizzical look appears on her face. She knows there’s no way I’m dropping by to eat by myself.
The man and woman in front of me both head to the restrooms. Frannie makes her way over to the door. “Embry. What’s up?”
“Hey, Fran,” I say. “I just need to talk to Katrina about something.”
Frannie makes a face. “Good luck. She’s been in a foul mood all night. Also, I wouldn’t say anything about her eye.”
“Her eye? What do you mean?”
Frannie starts to reply, but then the front door opens again and a middle-aged couple who live up on Puffin Hill enter. She gives me an apologetic look and then dashes off to seat them.
Katrina is working the back section again, where my mom and I sat the other night. She has only one table of customers right now—a family of four in a booth—so she’s busy gathering all her salt and pepper shakers onto a tray to refill them. She turns around as I approach.
Immediately I figure out what Frannie was talking about. Katrina is wearing a thick coat of makeup, but it’s obvious that she has a black eye. It looks like someone punched her. I remember what Julia said about her stepdad being violent toward her mom.
“Sorry if you want to sit up here,” Katrina says. “I’m not supposed to get any more tables tonight.”
“I’m not eating. I came to ask you about something.”
“Oh yeah?” Katrina gives me a curious look. “Make it quick. I still have half my sidework to do.”
I glance behind me at the family of four. “I, um, is there some place we could talk alone?” As I say the words, I realize I’m doing exactly what I promised Holden I wouldn’t do.
“No,” Katrina says flatly. “Look, Embry, whatever it is, just spit it out. I’m not here for your melodramatic bullshit.�
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I’m still trying to figure out exactly how to phrase things. “What happened to your eye?” I ask, stalling for time.
“You have got to be kidding me.” Katrina moves to the next table and adds the salt and pepper shakers to her tray. “I fell. I bumped into a wall. Take your pick.”
“I heard that your stepdad—”
“Just stop,” Katrina says. “We both know you don’t give a shit about me, and my mom fell even harder than I did, if you know what I mean. I need to get my work done so I can get home to her.”
“I do give a shit,” I say, as Katrina adds another pair of salt shakers to her tray. “I hope you at least called the cops. But I came here to ask you about the video, the one of Holden and me that got sent around school.”
Katrina laughs under her breath. “That was you? I thought it was Rich Bitch, but why am I not surprised? You should try finding your own guy sometimes instead of stealing everyone else’s.”
“Look. I don’t know what happened with you and Luke, but whatever it was, it ended months before the two of us started dating.”
“You’re right,” Katrina says. “Funny, though, how Luke and I were together for an entire summer, and then he ended it because he said I was too young for him. And then there he is with you a few months later, and we’re the same age.”
“So is that why you’ve been threatening me? Because you think I took Luke away from you?”
“Threatening you?” Katrina’s face twists into a scowl. “What are you talking about?”
“I know you’re the one who filmed Holden and me,” I say firmly. “And the one who’s been sending me the messages. Julia could have died that day, you know.”
“Okay, no, I did not film Holden and you—like I said, I didn’t even know that was you. And unless sarcasm kills, I haven’t done anything to your precious bestie either.” Katrina looks past me, to the family of four. “Please leave before your bullshit talk gets me fired. I need this job.” She sets her tray of salt and pepper shakers on the nearest table and strides past me.
“Can I get you guys anything else?” she says sweetly to her customers, like everything is fine and I didn’t just accuse her of attempted murder.