“She’s . . . cheery,” my mom says, though I don’t doubt she’s using another word in her head to describe Misty, and it’s not an entirely flattering one.
Lou has reappeared from the kitchen, her arms loaded with a tray of glasses for the drink fountain. I feel the urge to get up and help her, but I wouldn’t be much use right now, and she’d only yell at me to sit. She’s a fifty-nine-year-old lady, but she has more energy than most of the waitstaff at Diamonds.
“Turn it up!” Jimmy, a Saturday regular, hollers, pointing at the flat-screen hanging over the serving counter, where someone’s flipped the channel over from the baseball game to CNN.
The diner can hold ninety-six customers, and I swear, every last head turns to take in the charred wreckage of the Corvette that flashes across the screen, surrounded by police tape. The fog and the darkness helped dull the raw tragedy of the scene last night, but now in broad daylight, nothing can hide. Not the singed bulrushes, not the blackened trunk of the oak tree where the bark caught fire. I wonder if it will survive that wound.
A woman with high cheekbones and flawless olive skin stands to the right of the screen, giving the camera the opportunity to capture the bleak scene in the background.
“After sweeping Boston and Florida in four games apiece, Philadelphia Flyers right wing Seth Grabner and Captain Brett Madden were on a break before the Eastern Conference finals begin next Friday, and driving to a team gathering at franchise owner Sid Durrand’s mountain house when the accident occurred. As you can see behind me, there is a near ninety-degree bend in this side road. Police believe that foggy conditions and speed may have been factors in the crash that left Grabner dead and Madden in the hospital. Police are reluctant to release details, but they have confirmed that a witness was at the scene of the accident.” The screen pans to poorly lit video footage from last night, of Keith weaving around the barrier in his cruiser, a person with a dark gray blanket over her head sitting in the passenger seat.
I feel the blood drain from my face.
That’s me.
“This witness is being credited for saving Madden’s life, pulling him from the wreckage before the fire could claim him.”
“Oh, my God!” Misty gasps, gaping at the TV along with everyone else. “Do you think it’s someone we know?” she asks, to no one in particular.
“The Balsam County Sheriff’s Department has not yet released the name; however, we suspect that the person is the driver of this car.” The camera pans and zooms in on my Grand Prix.
I’m torn between the urge to run out the door and crawl under the table. In the end, I accept that neither is an option and simply sink into my chair.
It’s a Grand Prix, though, I remind myself. There are plenty of them. There’s no reason to automatically tie that car to me. And it’s not even really recognizable as a Grand Prix, what with the damage. Misty, who’s been in the car plenty, hasn’t so much as glanced here. If she hasn’t made the connection yet, I’m probably safe.
I feel eyes boring into my face.
Lou, staring intently at me from across the way.
I duck my head as she approaches, focusing on the menu that Misty forgot to collect. I memorized it front to back years ago and nothing has changed except the prices.
“Cath, why don’t you come back to the office with me for a minute, to get that paycheck of yours.” There’s that tone, the one where I know I can’t get out of this so I shouldn’t bother to argue. And I never argue with Lou, even though sometimes she gives me more grief than my mother ever did.
Not until she pulls her office door shut behind me, enclosing us in the cramped room, does she speak again. “Catherine . . .”
She uses my full name only when she’s annoyed with me, which is rare.
I sigh. “Yes?”
“That was your car on the news.”
I mock-frown. “Why would you think that?”
“Because of that zebra-striped tissue box thingy sittin’ in the rearview window. You’ve had it for a good year now.”
Now my frown is real. Lou has an uncanny sense of awareness. How does she remember these things? Will anyone else remember that?
Will I be outed by a decorative metal box?
“What? I’ve been admiring it. Anyways, that doesn’t matter.” She nods toward my wrist. “That happened last night, helpin’ that man out of the car?”
I hesitate, then finally give her a single nod.
Her desk creaks loudly as she leans her weight against it, folding her arms over her ample chest. “Spill it. Tell me everything. Start from the beginning.”
When I’m done, Lou is staring at me with that same stunned look that my parents wore earlier.
“What?”
She gives a headshake. “It’s just . . . That must have been terrifying.”
“Every time I think about it, I want to puke. And then I feel guilty about feeling guilty about it, and I want to be sick all over again.”
“That’s understandable. You’re still out of sorts. A few good nights of sleep will help.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” I don’t know how many good nights of sleep I’ll be getting, given that I’ll be worrying about money. I sigh, my eyes wandering around the small office, taking in the cotton candy–pink beanbag chair in the corner. It faces an old TV and DVD player, a stack of Disney DVDs next to it. Lou brought that in for Brenna, so she can hang out somewhere quiet when she gets bored with her coloring books out front.
Lou must be able to read my mind. “You gonna be able to manage with the bills?”
“I have some savings, if I need it.” A meager few thousand that has taken me two years of scrimping, never touching, to squirrel away under a loose board in my bedroom, because I’m afraid I’ll get cut off of government assistance if they see it sitting in a bank. It’s money that is meant to go toward a future life. A better life for Brenna and me, whatever that looks like.
I will need it now, though.
Lou leans back and slides her hand into the top drawer of her desk. She taps my paycheck against the desk’s surface several times, her gaze lost in thought, then hands it to me, and reaches back inside. “Here.” She pulls out a wad of cash. “You’re going to need another car.”
I’m already shaking my head, but she thrusts the cash into my hands, folding my fingers over it. “Consider this an advance on your paycheck. It’s all I’ve got on me right now.”
After almost seven years, I know Lou well enough to know that when time comes to write me a paycheck, she won’t be accounting for this. “No, I can’t. It’s not right. I’ll manage. I’ll—”
“Take it. I insist.” She pushes it forward again. “It’ll make me feel better. I’m doing it for purely selfish reasons.”
If there’s one thing Lou is not, it’s selfish. The woman would give me the shoes off her feet if I were barefoot.