“I can see that.”
He had a nice manner, and she liked talking to him. He wasn’t bad-looking, except she didn’t like his shaved head, and he was in good shape. A lot of the guys who dropped in from nowhere to do seasonal work tended to look more down-and-out. “I just want to pick a few more apples,” she said. “Then I’ll head back to the house. Tell Gram not to worry, okay? My dad, too.”
“Sure, kid.”
“Thanks.”
But he didn’t move.
She tilted her head back, wishing she were taller. Her arm and leg muscles ached from carting her backpack and tote bag all over New York and pushing Juliet’s bureau in front of her bedroom door yesterday—and from the tension of fighting off that awful man. She couldn’t get his pale gray eyes out of her mind.
A killer’s eyes.
“Wendy,” Kelleher said quietly, gently.
“What?”
“You okay?”
“Oh.” Suddenly she thought she’d be sick, but she made herself nod. “Yes.”
“You’ve gone a little white there, miss. Are you thinking about what happened yesterday?”
“I didn’t mean to,” she whispered.
“Sometimes bad memories will pop up out of nowhere and won’t let go. It’s normal. Give yourself some time. Be patient.”
She nodded at his understanding, the urge to vomit subsiding. She squinted at him. “I know I was lucky.”
He seemed taken aback. “Lucky?”
“Not to be hurt.”
“A guy you knew was murdered. Another guy tried to kill you—”
She shivered, suddenly cold. She could hear the fish tanks breaking, the water rushing out of them—it’d seemed like such a huge amount, more than she’d expected. Fish squirming. Glass everywhere. That man—Tatro—cursing her.
Matt Kelleher touched her elbow. “Wendy?”
“I’m okay.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to remind you. But ‘lucky’ is going to New York to visit your aunt and coming back with bags from Saks Fifth Avenue. I know what you’re trying to say, but you don’t have to pretend nothing happened just because you walked away.”
“You’re right.” She brightened, focusing on her basket of apples, then scooping one up and shining it on her flannel shirt. “You’ll tell Gram and my dad I’m okay? I’ll be down soon. I’m making applesauce and apple crisp later.”
Matt smiled. “Apple crisp is one of my favorites.”
“Really? I’ll make sure I save you some. Gram puts ice cream on hers, but I don’t eat dairy products. But it’s okay if you do. I mean, I’m not going to make a big thing about it.”
“No wonder you’re so skinny.” He winked at her in a reassuring way. “Sure you’re okay?”
She nodded.
“See you around, then.”
After he left, Wendy realized her teeth were chattering. She touched her lips. Cold. It wasn’t just the October weather, she decided. It was nerves. Psychological trauma. Even when she was trying not to think about yesterday, all of a sudden she’d remember Bobby Tatro whispering awful things to her through Juliet’s bedroom door.
She stared at her apple and tightened her jaw muscles to keep her teeth from chattering.
His words were like a physical wound. Hadn’t her father told her that, as a way to help her understand what she might go through in the next few days, even weeks?
An amputation, she thought, not of an arm or a leg—of her innocence. Her faith in people. Her belief in her ability to navigate a big city—to navigate life.
She plopped under the apple tree, tucking her feet against Spaceshot’s chunky frame, wishing she’d brought her journal with her. Her mother had told her that writing poetry when bad things happened—when she was just feeling bad—was therapeutic.
Maybe later, after she’d finished picking apples and had made her applesauce and apple crisp, she’d forget about her college essays for a while and write a poem.
“The Amputation of Innocence.”
She said the title out loud and nodded, liking it. It would be a private poem. She didn’t need to show it to anyone.
Feeling better, not so alone and out of control and crazy, Wendy carried her basket to another tree and reached for a misshapen but otherwise perfectly good apple.
She had four lines of her poem set in her head when she saw her father walking up the lane. Spaceshot actually got up and stretched, then wobbled toward him.
Wendy could tell something had happened. Something new.
He put out his hand, and Spaceshot pushed his head under it, wanting to be petted. But her dad’s eyes were on her. “I just talked to your aunt in New York,” he said. “There’s been a development. Something you should know.”
“I’m picking apples.”
“Wendy—”
“I don’t want to know anything.”
“All right,” he said. “It can wait. Need some help?”