Chương 7
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then he said, “You enjoyed this.”
I almost answered too quickly.
Instead, I considered it.
There had been one moment, when he first saw my identification and his certainty collapsed, that had satisfied something petty in me.
I could deny it.
That would make me a liar.
“A small part of me did.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“At least you admit it.”
“I also hated most of it.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t expect anything from you right now.”
He studied me.
Some of the anger left his face.
Not enough to become regret.
Enough to become fatigue.
“You embarrassed me in front of my whole family.”
“You embarrassed yourself before I called anyone.”
His jaw tightened again.
I had ruined the fragile opening.
Maybe that was fine.
Maybe not every conversation needed to be rescued.
He climbed into the truck.
The engine started.
Chloe raised one hand through the rear window.
I waved back.
Jessica did not look at me.
Ryan did.
Then he drove away.
Dust lifted behind the tires and hung among the trees after the truck disappeared.
Dan waited until the road was quiet before speaking.
“Well.”
I exhaled.
“Please don’t say anything wise.”
“I was going to say your weekend seems relaxing.”
“That’s worse.”
Ortiz laughed from beside her cruiser.
Shaw checked the front porch for anything left behind.
There were two folding chairs, a bag of charcoal, and a child’s purple flip-flop.
He held up the shoe.
“Evidence?”
“Probably not.”
“I’ll leave it by the door.”
Dan walked with me toward the porch.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
He looked at me.
I sighed.
“No.”
“That sounds more accurate.”
“I don’t know whether I just solved a problem or detonated one.”
“Both can be true.”
“I said no wisdom.”
“That was barely wisdom.”
At the door, I inserted my key and stopped.
The house was quiet now.
Not peaceful.
Quiet.
There was a difference.
Inside, the living room smelled like grilled onions, sunscreen, and somebody’s floral perfume.
A wet ring marked the coffee table.
The red popsicle had left a sticky smear along one sofa cushion.
There were crumbs everywhere.
One cabinet door in the kitchen hung slightly crooked.
I stood in the center of the room and felt an unexpected wave of loneliness.
I had wanted silence.
Now I had it.
Dan remained by the doorway.
“You want help cleaning?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“I’ll have Ortiz document that everybody left voluntarily.”
“Good.”
“And Emily?”
I looked at him.
“Change more than the locks.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means decide what access people get to you before they decide for you.”
I stared at him.
“That sounded suspiciously wise.”
“Occupational hazard.”
He left before I could throw anything.
I locked the door behind him and leaned against it.
My phone buzzed almost immediately.
Mom.
I looked at the name until the screen dimmed.
Then it rang again.
I answered on the third ring.
“Hi, Mom.”
“What happened?”
No hello.
No preamble.
That meant Jessica had gotten to her first.
I walked into the kitchen and set my phone on speaker while I found a clean glass.
“Which version did you hear?”
“Emily.”
“That’s a fair question.”
My mother sighed.
Her sigh had categories.
This one meant disappointment mixed with fatigue.
“Jessica called me crying from the car.”
“I assumed.”
“She said you brought the sheriff.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
I filled the glass at the sink and watched water splash against the steel basin.
“Because twenty people were in my house, and Ryan told me to leave.”
“That’s not what she said.”
“What did she say?”
“She said there was a misunderstanding.”
I drank half the glass before answering.
“There was.”
“And you couldn’t resolve it without police?”
“I tried.”
There was a pause.
My mother lowered her voice.
“You know how Ryan is.”
I set the glass down.
That sentence had been used in our family for years as though Ryan were weather.
You know how Ryan is.
Meaning everyone else should adjust.
“I do know how Ryan is.”
“Then why provoke him?”
Something in me tightened.
“I came home.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know.”
“Emily, I am not saying Jessica was right.”
The phrase made my shoulders sag.
Whenever somebody began with I am not saying, they were usually about to say exactly that in softer packaging.
“She should have asked you,” Mom continued.
“Yes.”
“And Ryan should not have spoken to you that way.”
“No.”
“But bringing law enforcement into a family disagreement is serious.”
“It became a property issue when they refused to leave.”
“She says you never actually asked them to leave.”
I looked through the kitchen toward the front window.
The driveway was empty now except for my truck.
“That’s technically true.”
“Then—”
“Mom.”
She stopped.
“Ryan stood in my doorway and ordered me off my own property.”
Silence.
“I told Jessica I was coming.”
“I know.”
“She knew before she handed over the key.”
Another pause.
“She thought your plans might change.”
“That’s what she said.”
My mother was quiet long enough that I could hear the faint sound of a television in the background.
Dad was probably in his recliner pretending not to listen.
He was bad at pretending.
“Your father says hello,” Mom said.
I almost laughed.
“Tell him I said hello.”
“He also says this is none of his business.”
From somewhere away from the phone, my father shouted, “That is not what I said.”
Mom snapped, “George.”
I smiled despite myself.
Then Dad’s voice came closer.
“What I said was nobody should be in somebody else’s house after they’re told to get out.”
“You also said family should talk first,” Mom said.
“I said both things can be true.”
The line crackled.
A second later, his voice came directly through the phone.
“Emily.”
“Hi, Dad.”
“You all right?”
“Yes.”
He waited.
“You sure?”
“No.”
May you like
“That sounds right.”
Apparently every older man in my life had decided accuracy was a personality trait.
