I lace my fingers behind my neck and squash my head between my arms.
Garrity says, “Kid, do you want some water?” Birdwell looks as if he might bite him. His hands linger, but they come off me.
It’s late, and my mind is Swiss cheese, but I can still recognize his provocation for what it was. I wouldn’t give him what he wanted, so he issued an invitation to assault a cop. Thanks, but no thanks.
My ability to control myself for much longer is doubtful if I don’t get somewhere I can punch something other than Birdwell’s face. I want to land it right in his smug mouth right now, when he’s reveling in how much power he has over me.
I’m not going to prison for something a blowhard who likes pushing me around claims I did, a confabulated tall tale that ends with me trying to kill Nicolette. I didn’t. I want to be with Nicolette. I want to wash the blood off my hands and go to sleep and wake up to her—not this.
“I want a lawyer. I invoke my right to counsel.”
Birdwell doesn’t make a move out of his chair, but Garrity yawns. “He’s invoked, Bill. Let’s call it a night.”
Birdwell looks as if he’d like to make it Garrity’s last night on earth.
I say, “If you haven’t contacted my mother, I want to make my phone call. On the off chance I’m telling the truth, she needs more security.”
Garrity says, “On the off chance, yeah, we did—about three hours ago.”
“Thank you.”
Birdwell is so pissed at Garrity for giving me this, he half-throws a chair.
83
Nicolette
The car they use to drive me back and forth to the hospital has dark tinted windows and door locks the passenger can’t control. They hustle me into the house through the back door. It’s somewhat weird to be there with police nannies and not Steve.
At the hospital, Steve said, “Are you all right over there? I could sell that house in a week, move to the south shore, get more land.”
“Then I’d have to go to Jefferson! Please! I have to be in school with Liv! I just want things to be exactly like they were.”
Steve was so doped up, he couldn’t control his face. How sorry for me he looked. How amazed at my cluelessness.
I said, “Except for the kitchen.”
He looked relieved I wasn’t in a total state of (sick) denial. He paid a counselor big bucks to get me to stop that before. When the therapist thought I was substituting sparkly nail polish for a mother.
“Sweet girl, I’ll tear it out. I’ll gut the whole room.”
I pictured him hacking away at the bloodied cabinets with a sledgehammer, tearing up his left arm even worse. “No! I’ll do it!”
He laughed. “Nicky, I don’t need you pulling out the stove. You pick the colors.”
I don’t want to think about it in color.
Bloodred.
Meanwhile, my guards don’t want me having visitors. No point asking them why. They don’t answer questions. They say to sit tight. Buck up. Ratchet it back.
Meaning shut up.
They have semi-control of me. I get it. But Olivia’s in the front hall, yelling. “Is she here or not? People saw her at St. Francis. What did you do with her? Where is she? Niiiiick!!!”
I want to make a break for it and squeeze her so hard, no one can pry us apart.
She yells, “I’m not ratcheting anything back! It’s a free country!”
I yell, “Olivia!”
Two guys block like I’m the QB, and Liv is a blitzing linebacker.
They want everything but her birth certificate.
Steve doesn’t get out of the hospital for three more days. He’ll let me see my friends. Even if they don’t bring two forms of government-issued photo ID. In three days, maybe he’ll forget he ever said Jack Manx can’t live in the same universe as I do.
Olivia keeps craning her neck, looking past the crime scene tape on the kitchen door, down the hall to where I’m blocked by guys trying to protect me.
She calls, “Niiiiick! Hey! It’s not like she’s invisible. She’s right there.”
I start chanting “please” while she yells at them. They think this is hilarious, but they let her come upstairs.
We close the door to my room and hug for a half hour while she cries into my hair.
Everything we want to say is so cheesy, we can’t actually say it. I missed you. I love you. Thank you.
Promise you’ll still be my best friend when we get old.
Promise you won’t get shot.
Promise Summer’s not your new best friend.
“Promise you didn’t do any idiotic thing with that Jack.”
Uh.
“Oh sweet Lord, promise you didn’t!”
I nod and try to look as not-guilty as possible about the fact that I did. It’s not that challenging given that I don’t feel at all guilty. At least not about that.
“Don’t get snot in my part.”
“Shut up. Did you see that girl get stabbed? You could have told me.”
“Does everyone know?”
“No murders in Cotter’s Mill for twenty years, then two murders. What do you think?” She’s walking around me. “You want me to help put your hair back?”