Thicker Than Water

by Brigid Kemmerer

  “I can take it.”

  “No, I’d like you to stay right here where your grandmother and I can keep an eye on you.”

  I scowl and scrub harder. I can rage-clean, too.

  But half an hour later, she runs out of flour, and she tosses me her car keys.

  “No comment!” she yells at me as I’m pulling my thong sandals onto my feet.

  “I know,” I yell back. But maybe Danny worked some sorcery, because the news van is gone.

  The grocery store is packed. Mom likes to do her regular shopping at the Super Giant closer to the main part of town, but I don’t feel like driving twenty-five minutes for flour. Lauder’s pretends to be a full-sized store, but it’s really a mom-and-pop type deal. Their bakery is to die for. Sunday morning, after-church shoppers crowd the aisles. More than one baby is fussing in a cart, ready to go home for a nap.

  Even though I only have one item and can go through the express lane, three other people are still ahead of me. I put the flour under my arm and pull out my phone to check for texts, but Nicole is working at the library this morning, and Mrs. Kemper gets on her case if she’s texting while she’s supposed to be shelving books.

  Because of the crowd and the noise, I don’t recognize the commotion to my left until the guy in front of me makes a comment about it. “You think they caught this kid shoplifting?”

  I glance over. The store manager is standing behind the service desk, her arms folded over her chest. One of the bag boys is blocking my view of whoever she’s talking to. Another employee is blocking whoever-it-is from the other side.

  The manager points at the store entrance. I can’t hear her over the general cacophony, but it’s pretty clear that she says, “Go.”

  A hand slaps a piece of paper down on the counter in front of her. A male voice, tight with irritation, carries over the din. “This is the third place I’ve gone that won’t take an application. Haven’t any of you heard of due process?”

  Then he leans forward, and I see his profile. Thomas.

  I stop breathing. He’s wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, but it’s definitely him.

  The manager doesn’t lower her hand. “Go,” she says again, her tone loud enough for me to hear her now. “If you’re refusing to leave the store, I’ll be forced to call the authorities.”

  “Fine,” he snaps. “Fine.” He picks up the piece of paper and rips it in half. The aggression in his motion doesn’t match the almost preppy outfit he’s wearing, a red polo shirt with khaki pants.

  The man in line in front of me shuffles forward, but he’s still watching the interaction, too. “That guy looks familiar,” he says. “Does he look familiar to you?”

  “Yeah,” I say absently.

  Other people are staring, too. I wonder how many people saw him on the news last night. The murder was big news, but no one knew Marie. Her son’s involvement wasn’t well known outside law enforcement circles.

  Now it is.

  Thomas storms past the line of registers and barely waits for the automatic doors to give way. People give him a wide berth.

  The entire interaction is somehow infuriating and pathetic and disappointing, all at once.

  I look at the gentleman in front of me. He’s a typical local: plaid shirt, sagging skin, gray hair. I thrust a five dollar bill at him. “Would you mind paying for my flour? I’ve gotta go.”

  “Wait—you can’t—”

  “Thanks!” I call, already jogging through the electronic doors myself.

  I look around, blinking eyes that are blinded in the sudden sunlight.

  He’s gone. I don’t know what kind of car he drives, and everything around looks like a mom-mobile or a late model pickup truck. My lungs are sucking in oxygen like I’ve run a race.

  I don’t know what I’d do if I found him. I don’t even know what I’m doing out here.

  There is absolutely no chance that he wants to see me.

  How did he get out of here so fast?

  My car has only been sitting in the sun for ten minutes, but it’s already baking inside. I fling the flour on the passenger seat and crank up the air conditioning. Sweat blooms on my forehead, and I’m glad I went with the cotton sundress this morning.

  I have this crazy urge to apologize. Danny made things bad, my other brothers made it worse, and now the local news has their teeth in it. I’m surprised there’s no news van in the store parking lot.

  I’ll find a job. Get a place of my own.

  If he can’t do the first, he definitely can’t do the second.

  I pull out onto the main road, and I almost miss the flash of red in the woods to my right. There he is, walking along just inside the tree line.

  What is he doing?

  Before I think about it too hard, I pull over onto the shoulder. Road grit crunches underfoot, then dried grass. He hasn’t noticed me. His steps are full of rage.

  I don’t want to leave the car. All I need is for someone to report that my car was abandoned on the side of the road.

  “Hey!” I call.

  He spins, startled, and looks up at me.

  Surprise lights his face for a brief moment, but then it shuts down. He turns around and starts walking again. “Go away,” he calls back.

  “Stop! Wait.”

  “Your brothers looking for another chance?”

  I’m not entirely sure what that means. A car flies by, sending gravel spraying. Some hits my ankles. “My brothers aren’t here.”

  “Good.” He pulls a little farther into the woods.

  “I’m trying to talk to you!”

  “I’m glad you weren’t hurt, but you’ve done enough, Charlotte.”

  The words aren’t a smack in the face. They’re a needle of guilt, sliding into my skin, injecting me with pain.

  I tried to help, and now his situation is worse.

  He’s deeper in the woods now. He must know a shortcut to Stan’s. All I can see are tiny glimpses of red as he walks.

  I glance at the car, then back at the woods. After a moment’s hesitation, I lock up the vehicle and jog down the grassy berm, nearly falling on my face.

  A sundress and flip flops aren’t the best clothes for traversing the woods in summertime, especially woods that don’t often have humans plowing through them. My feet keep sinking into ground made soggy from last night’s rain. The sun dried out the ground by the road, but here, under the shade of the trees, some mud still remains, mostly covered by underbrush. I’ve accumulated half a dozen scratches from brambles by the time I catch up to him.

  He still doesn’t stop. “I’m not looking at you,” he says.

  “You don’t have to look at me.” He’s walking fast enough that I’m out of breath trying to keep up with him. I’m glad he’s not treating me like a fragile flower, but I could do with a little less rage-walking. “I just need to talk to you.”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Would you please stop and let me apologize?”

  Still nothing.

  “My brothers aren’t trying to harass you. Whatever happened—that was my fault, okay? I didn’t eat lunch, and then it was so hot . . . They’re just protective.”

  Nothing.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again. I don’t know why this is so important to me. I can’t believe I’m chasing someone down for an apology. “I didn’t mean to—”

  The ground gives way. I stumble. Then fall. It’s so sudden that I don’t register the pain in my ankle as quickly as I feel the mud soak into my dress.

  So yeah. This is not good.

  Thomas has stopped, and he’s looking at me, but he hasn’t spoken, and he’s breathing fast.

  There’s also a bruise across the right side of his jaw. That wasn’t there yesterday.

  I shift and try to right myself. My dress is high on my thighs, and he’s getting a good look at my legs. In a second I’ll be full-on flashing him. There must have been a hole under the leaves.


  Now the pain hits me. It’s my ankle, it’s my hip—and it’s strong enough that I’m more than a little worried I’ve really injured myself. I try to move again and a whimper escapes my throat. Nausea hits me even harder, and for a terrifying moment, I’m sure I’m going to throw up.

  I seem to have discovered a hidden talent for making a bad situation worse.

  And OMG this hurts. I don’t know if I can talk without crying.

  Thomas swallows and looks around. His eyes are swimming with unease. He starts forward, but then seems to check himself.

  “Are you okay?” he says, his voice very low.

  He’s afraid. He thinks this is another setup.

  I feel so horrible I’d be totally all right with the ground swallowing me up right here. It’s more than the pain. It’s the situation. It’s him. It’s my role in his problems in the community.

  It’s the fact that I’ll never be able to keep this from my parents now. I’ll never be allowed to leave the house again.

  I’m such an idiot.

  Emotion crawls up my throat and finds my eyes. I put a hand to my eyes to stop the tears, but it’s full of mud. I’m painting streaks of dirt down my cheeks.

  At least the nausea seems to be abating.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again, my voice breathy and full of hitching almost-sobs. “I’m sorry. I should have left you alone. I just felt—” I choke and try to get it together again. I pull a forearm across my eyes and drag the tears away.

  More mud is soaking into my dress. I can feel it. My left ankle throbs, pulsing pain up my leg. Even if I can get back to the car, I don’t know if I’ll be able to drive. There is no way to explain this. My mother will kill me.

  Thomas is still standing there. Silent.

  “Go away,” I finally say. I bury my face in my hands. Mud is everywhere anyway. “Just go. I won’t bother you anymore.”

  He sighs. Leaves and underbrush crunch under his feet. He’s going. Good.

  But a hand brushes my ankle, and his voice is very close, still very soft. “Can you stand?”

  My hands slip down, enough so I can look at him. He’s crouching in the leaves in front of me. I have to sniff. “I don’t know.”

  He takes a breath, then glances around again. “If I help you?”

  “No one is here,” I say. “I’m alone. I promise.”

  “I think I’ve heard that before.” But he reaches out, and before I’m ready for it, his hands are under my arms and he’s lifting. I’m off-balance, braced against his chest, inhaling his scent.

  “Good?” he says.

  Very good.

  Thank god there’s mud on my cheeks, or he’d see me blushing for sure. I realize he’s asking me about whether I can stand. I attempt to put some weight on the injured ankle.

  Too much. It hurts. A lot. I whimper again and keep a grip on his shoulder.

  His eyes flick at the trees around us. “Not good.”

  Then he sighs, stoops a bit, and before I figure out what he’s doing, he’s put my arm around his shoulders.

  I hobble for a second, torn between falling on my butt again or clutching him more tightly. He doesn’t tower over me or anything, but he’s too tall for this. Or I’m too short, especially in flip-flops. I’m not going to be able to walk like this.

  And I thought this was awkward before.

  “This isn’t going to work, is it?” he says.

  I don’t want to cry again, but I might anyway. “Just leave me here. Can I use your phone to call someone?”

  He snorts. “One of the disadvantages of being a murder suspect is that they confiscate your phone for evidence.”

  Somehow I feel like that’s my fault, too. “I’m such an idiot.”

  “You’re not an idiot.” But his tone suggests otherwise. I’m ready to snap back at him, but his shoulders drop as he stoops again, and suddenly I’m in his arms.

  I nearly scream in surprise, but I bite it off. My hands grab his shoulders. “You can’t carry me!”

  “I’m pretty sure I already have.” Only a bare hint of strain hides in his voice. He heads deeper into the woods, away from my car.

  Immediately, I remember who he is, and why we’re in this bizarre position at all. “Stop. Wait. Take me back to my car.”

  “Oh, so I can be seen carrying you out of the woods, covered in mud and wearing a torn dress? No, thank you. I’ve already heard the word ‘rape’ thrown at me once.”

  “What? When?”

  “Yesterday.” He pauses, and now he sounds like he wishes he hadn’t brought this up. “Someone said something about a rape kit.”

  I’m speechless.

  He glances down at me. “I’m assuming that didn’t happen.”

  “No! I’m just—what exactly did they think happened?”

  “They thought I killed you.” His tone is flat now. “At least I guess that’s why they hit me.”

  My eyes light on the mark on his face. “Someone hit you?”

  “Your brother, I think.”

  “Danny?” I wonder if it was retaliation, for what happened beside the church.

  He shakes his head. “Not him. It doesn’t matter.”

  My hand flattens against his shoulder. “It does matter!” It wouldn’t have been Ben, and Danny is the most likely suspect. Matt? He’s not violent. He would have had to be pushed past a limit.

  Ben’s words echo in my head. When he carried you out of the woods—we thought he was carrying a dead body.

  Thomas just walks silently, not offering more information. The bruise on his face is a glaring reminder that a few stupid mistakes on my part led him down a more dangerous road than the one he walked yesterday.

  I swallow. “Where are you taking me?” I ask quietly.

  “Back to Stan’s. He can drive you home.” The baseball cap keeps Thomas’s eyes in shadow, but they glint with light from somewhere. He gives me a wicked smile. “You can make up your own story about how he found you that way.”

  I wonder if Stan driving me home would be better or worse than me driving myself.

  The muddy dress is going to be the tough part.

  “I’m sorry I came after you,” I say.

  He snorts. “I’ll bet.”

  “No. I meant—”

  “I know.” His expression sobers. “I know what you meant.”

  “And I really didn’t set you up. At the funeral.”

  “I really didn’t think you did.” He boosts me higher, adjusting the arm carrying my legs.

  “I’m too heavy,” I say. “Put me down.”

  His eyes flick to mine, then away. “You’re fine.”

  There’s a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. He’s not breathing hard, and he’s speaking easily, but I know he won’t be able to keep carrying me forever.

  Part of me likes it.

  Part of me knows this is a bad idea.

  If he’s strong enough to do this, he’s strong enough to do a lot of other things.

  Like strangle someone.

  Fear is a quiet friend, sneaking up to slip its fingers between mine.

  “It’s a thousand degrees out,” I say.

  “I hadn’t noticed.” His voice is dry.

  “Maybe you should put me down.” My voice is careful. Like yesterday, no one knows I’m here. Once again, I’m completely vulnerable and at his mercy. “I’ll figure something else out.”

  Just when I’m worried that he’s going to refuse, he gently lowers my legs to the ground. He holds onto my arms, though, making sure I’m not going to fall.

  “Do you want me to let you go?” he says.

  Yes. No. I don’t know. I wet my lips and have no idea what to say.

  His hands don’t move, but he looks up at the sky as if searching for answers. “Everything is upside down,” he says.

  I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  His eyes return to mine. “This,” he says, as if that explains everything.
“All of this.”

  “Much clearer.”

  He lets go of me to press the heel of one hand to his forehead. “I’ve never had an entire town hate me. I’ve never been so . . . alone.” He says it matter-of-factly, not self-pitying at all. The words aren’t empty, though. For an instant, the emotion in his gaze is so potent that it feels like it might leach into me and start a round of tears again. His eyes hold mine, and his voice is quiet and low. “I’ve never given a girl a reason to be afraid of me.”

  He sounds so earnest, so wounded. All at once, I want to beg him to pick me up again. Nicole would be a melted puddle on the ground.

  I’m not afraid of you, I think. And it’s almost true.

  Whatever I feel, it’s definitely not the same automatic revulsion that everyone else in town seems to feel.

  Quite the opposite, in fact.

  “What do you want, Charlotte?” he says.

  He’s so close, we could dance. We could kiss. A few inches of motion could turn his grip on my arms into an embrace.

  Or an assault.

  The thought hits me so suddenly that I almost stumble away from him.

  He must read it in my face, because his expression shuts down. “I’ll take you back to your car.” It sounds like he’s biting the words out. “Or you can wait here while I go back to Stan’s. Whatever. Just tell me what you want.”

  I shake my head. “No. Stop. I didn’t mean—”

  “What?” he says, his tone cruel. “What didn’t you mean this time?”

  Those words are the slap in the face.

  I had no idea you could be attracted to, afraid of, and irritated by the same person, all within a three-minute period.

  “Go away,” I snap. “Just go away. I’m sorry I tried to be kind to you.”

  He deflates like I’ve poked him with a straight pin. The fight goes right out of him. He shakes his head and his face twists. “You’re right,” he says. “I told you I don’t have any idea how to do this. You and Stan are the only two people who’ll give me the time of day, and I’m wasting time being shitty with you both.”

  “I’m pretty sure if you got shitty with anyone else, you’d end up in a jail cell again.”

  “Exactly.” He takes a deep breath. He looks aggrieved. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you into the middle of the woods. If someone sees me, they see me. I’ll help you back to your car.”