Thicker Than Water (12 page)

That startles me into looking up. I’m not shy, but I’ve never met someone quite
this
forward.

Her expression is bold, and she’s waiting for me to fire back. I keep thinking of what Stan said, about how anything could be used against me. I don’t know how to act, so I keep my mouth shut.

I glance around the library again. The mother with the little girl has poured some snacks onto the wooden table, and she’s offering the kid a sippy cup. There’s a huge sign over her head that says, KEEP OUR LIBRARY CLEAN: NO FOOD OR DRINK ALLOWED. Maybe she didn’t see it. Or more likely, she doesn’t give a crap.

The mother looks up and catches my eye. I quickly look back at the application before she can figure out who I am.

“Don’t worry,” Nicole says. “Molly didn’t recognize you.”

“Molly?”

“The lady with the kid.”

Am I that obvious? “I’ve been locked in the house for days. They keep running my picture on the news. Everyone here seems to think I’m a murderer.”

“I don’t know about
everyone
, but Charlotte doesn’t. She’s my best friend. I trust her judgment.”

This girl is a complete stranger, and she believes I’m innocent. Friends from back home are speculating that I did it all over Facebook. In a flash, I wonder if that will work against me. I imagine Ryan Jandy, a guy I worked with at Best Buy, sitting on the stand at a trial, telling them about how I always seemed like the type to keep a few dark secrets.

I bend over the application again, filling in data because it’s easy and it keeps me from having to speak.

Nicole hasn’t moved. I want to ask if she’s memorizing my social security number.

“I like your handwriting,” she says.

“I’ll pass that on to my elementary school teachers.”

“Did you do it?”

My hand goes still. I look up and meet her eyes. The question is asked just as equably as everything else she’s said, but there’s no doubt about what she means.

Nicole is tough as nails, too. She doesn’t flinch, and she doesn’t look away. It’s a real question, and she wants a real answer.

“I was asleep,” I say. I keep my voice soft so it doesn’t waver. “I found her. After.”

Her expression softens. “How horrible.”

“It still . . . it doesn’t feel real yet. Sometimes it’s like I’m still waiting to wake up.”

Her lips part with a soft gasp, and in a flash, I can see her as a single thirty-five-year-old woman, writing letters to convicted felons because she finds their mug shots sexy. I’m not entirely convinced that she wants me to be innocent. Something tells me she’s more of the rehabilitation type. She doesn’t know me, but if she took the witness stand, she’d probably say that she always knew I had a dark side, but I knew how to look for the light.

I look back at the application and fill out the rest of the boxes, then slide it back to her. I have to clear my throat. “Do you know when I should hear something?”

“Give me a minute.” She yanks the form off the clipboard and walks to a closed door behind her. She knocks, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “Hey, Mrs. Kemper. There’s a guy here who wants the computer job.”

A woman’s voice calls back, “Did he fill out an application?”

“Yup.”

“When can he start?”

Nicole raises her eyebrows at me.

I raise mine back at her. “Now?”

“Now,” she calls back.

“He’s hired. Send him back.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

I
’m sitting at the kitchen table slicing the ends off of green beans when my phone lights up with a text message from Nicole.

Knowing Nicole, it could be anyone. The president of the United States. The garbage man whose pants fell down in front of her house because his belt snapped. Brad Pitt. The guy who loads groceries at Lauders. Anyone.

I slide my fingers across the face of the phone.

She sends back a photo. She’s obviously taken it surreptitiously, but she’s lucky enough to have one of those newer phones, so it’s pretty clear. I recognize Mrs. Kemper, the older librarian, but it takes me a moment to recognize the guy standing beside her, holding a stack of books.

Thomas.

It’s a good thing I’ve stopped slicing beans, because I’d probably cut a finger clean off.

I text back as fast as I can.

A hand touches the back of my head. “How are my two favorite girls doing?”

I jump and squeal and my phone goes flying. My father gives me a puzzled glance, then crosses the kitchen to kiss my mother. She’s peeling potatoes, but she kisses him back with gusto without losing her rhythm.

They make me blush, but they’re so in love that it’s charming, too.

And here I am thinking about my crush on an alleged murderer.

My father stoops to get my phone, and I can see another text live on the screen. “It’s okay!” I cry. “I can get it!”

He gives me another funny look before scooping it off the floor. “I don’t need you falling out of the chair, Charlotte.” He holds the phone out without looking at it.

Maybe I can stop acting like a complete and total freak.

“Thanks,” I say.

He taps my exposed toes. “How’s the ankle?”

My foot is up on the opposite kitchen chair, my toes painted fluorescent pink with yellow polka dots. My grandmother complained that the pink was too bright for dignified young ladies, which made me add the polka dots. I’m also wearing the shortest shorts I own, just to spite her.

She hmphed at me. I’m freezing in the air conditioning, but she can suck it.

“The ankle is fine,” I say. My phone keeps buzzing with messages, but I don’t want to look, just in case Nicole is sending more pictures of Thomas.

I really, really, really
want
to look, hoping she
is
sending more pictures.

“Have you been keeping your weight off it?”

I nod quickly.

He frowns. “Why do you seem so keyed up?”

“I’m not keyed up!”

Okay, maybe I’m a little keyed up.

“She’s been sitting here all afternoon,” says Mom. She glances over her shoulder. “Did something happen with one of your friends, sweetie?”

“Yes. Yes!” My brain finally kicks into gear. “Nicole. Work stuff. They’re hiring someone to put the books on a new computer system, and they’ve hired some gross pasty nerd who keeps wanting to talk to her about his theories on
Game of Thrones
.”

My father takes a handful of green beans and heads out of the kitchen, sufficiently bored by the conversation. “I’m going to get out of this uniform.”

“Those aren’t washed yet!” I call.

“If these kill me, I’m ahead of the game,” he yells back.

I unlock my phone so hastily that I almost fling it across the floor again. Nicole has sent me nine more messages. Nine! Almost all of them are some version of my name.

I almost have a panic attack at that last line. My fingers trip over the letters from typing so quickly.

She responds immediately.

OMG, I so didn’t just type that. If she sends me another picture of him, I will die. Right here in this chair.

A picture comes through almost immediately. He’s wearing a T-shirt and that baseball cap, and he’s carrying enough books to make his biceps flex.

I don’t die. I bite at my lip and just keep staring.

She sends another text.

I know exactly what she means. My fingers fly across the letters.

Mom glances over, so I cut a few green beans and try to look bored. Another text comes through, and I grab the phone.

She doesn’t respond for a little while, and I go back to slicing. Five minutes later, another picture comes through. He’s surrounded by stacks of books, and he’s got his hat off. He’s wiping his forehead on his arm and stretching at the same time. Biceps, check. Hint of stomach, check. He is so sexy. I wish I could blow these up and tape them to my bedroom ceiling.

I feel like a creeper.

I don’t care.

Then another text.

It’s horrible but I burst out laughing.

Mom turns around. “Something’s funny?”

“Nicole is being ridiculous.”

Mom is used to that, so she turns back to the sink.

Another text comes through.

Then another text.

It’s him. He has her phone.

I choke on air. I cannot breathe.

HE HAS HER PHONE. And he’s reading her texts.

This is awful. I need to die.

Is he mad? Or is he flirting?

Another text.

I still can’t breathe. He’s been worried about me?

“Almost done with those green beans?” Mom says.

“Just about.” I haphazardly cut a few more, then check my phone again.

Another message.

I giggle and text back.

Once again, I’m not sure how to take that. Playful? Or irritated?

I can’t believe I’m exchanging text messages with him.

The next message tells me Nicole has her phone back.

I am too. A little bit.

But I’m also a little excited.

And a little nervous. He’s working with Nicole.

I don’t know how to categorize all of my emotions.

Mom puts a glass bowl on the table, and I quickly scoop all the green beans into it. She brings me some onions to slice, and a piece of bread to put in my mouth so I won’t cry.

When she turns her back again, I spare a glance at my phone.

The next day, I have the hardest time getting ready. I want to look nice, but not
too
nice. Mom will never believe I’m bringing Nicole lunch if I overdo it. They haven’t mentioned Thomas since the day I followed him through the woods, but I’m not in any hurry to relive the lectures.

I go with a casual sundress and leave my hair loose and air-dried. I can put on mascara and lip gloss in the car. The crutches make me look less sexy and more pathetic, but there’s nothing I can do about that. At least it’s not my driving foot.

As it turns out, I didn’t even have to worry. Mom is meeting friends for lunch and shopping, so she’s already gone. Dad is working. Grandma is knitting or crocheting or sitting around having judgmental thoughts. I have no idea. The food is packed into an insulated bag, and with a little maneuvering, I can manage the bag, my purse, and the crutches, too.

My grandmother’s voice catches me. “Where are you going, Charlotte?”

She’s sitting on the couch in the living room, nowhere near the front door. I’m not even sure how she knows I’m leaving.

“I’m meeting Nicole for lunch,” I call back.

“Come in here. Let me see what you’re wearing.”

I heave a sigh. “I really need to get going.”

“You can spare a moment for courtesy. You didn’t even tell me you were leaving, dear.”

I set everything down except the crutches, then hobble back toward the living room. I was right on my first guess: knitting needles fly between her fingers, and pale green yarn trails into a basket by her feet.

She gives me an up-and-down, and her lips flatten into a thin line.

“What are you making?” I ask, not because I care, but maybe it will distract her from my perfectly decent outfit.

“Your father told me one of the secretaries at the station is having a baby,” she says, fanning the start of a blanket out along her lap. It’s quite lovely, actually, alternating shades of green and yellow. I drop the crutches against the arm of the sofa and reach out to touch the yarn. It’s soft and velvety, and something about it is familiar.

“That’s beautiful,” I say.

“Thank you. People don’t make things themselves anymore. Blankets always come in handy with little ones.”

I keep stroking it between my fingers. “This feels so familiar to me. I must have had a blanket like this.”

“Of course you did.” She gives me a look as if it should be obvious. “Yours was green and lavender, though. Your mother didn’t want anything
pink
. God forbid we treat you like a young lady.”

“Sometimes I wish you all would treat me
less
like a young lady.”

She frowns, but instead of looking cross, she looks disappointed. “There’s nothing wrong with being a young lady, Charlotte. I don’t understand young women nowadays, so eager to dispose of anything feminine.”

“I’m wearing a dress!”

She points a knitting needle at me. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

Wow, for a second there, it seemed like we might get along. “Well, I hate to rush out the door, but I’ve got to meet Nicole for lunch, and then I’m going to shoot a few rounds at the range with Ben. If there’s time, Matt said I could stop by, and we could work on takedown holds for self-defense while I’m injured.”

She
hmphs
and looks back at her knitting.

My hand is still on the blanket, the softness of the yarn sliding under my fingers. For an instant, I feel guilty for what I said.