Sophie Littlefield - A Bad Day for Sorry

Any levity in Goat’s expression was gone now, and Stella felt her throat go dry as she let his words sink in. Ollie—he was talking about Ollie.

“Did you take some sort of weapon with you?” he demanded, his voice low. “ ’Cause they didn’t find anything when the EMTs went out to get you. Come on, Dusty, this isn’t about me trying to get your permit in order or give you a time-out for nonregistration. I need to know what you had on you.”

“I—nothing. I have pepper spray in my purse, but I left it in the car,” Stella said. Then she told a bigger lie. “I don’t even know how to shoot.”

Goat worked his lips, evidently trying to figure out a response, but ended up saying nothing. Stella held her breath until he eased back a little.

“So, you’re still sticking to just hand tools,” he said, irritation evident in the creases between his brows. “Maybe you ought to carry around a screwdriver or a hammer with you, at least. Maybe you could have pounded a nail into one of those guys.”

Stung, Stella said nothing at all.

She couldn’t believe Goat would make such a casual reference to the wrench she’d used to kill Ollie—even though she knew everyone in town talked about it. Made jokes, even. She’d bet that half a dozen housewives watched their husband under the sink tightening up a pipe seal and thought about the wrench he held in his hand, wondering what it had felt like when Stella, not even fully aware of what she intended to do, brought it crashing down across her husband’s forehead.

She blinked hard. That was a memory she had sealed up under the tightest security.

For the longest time, she couldn’t remember any part of it. After the funeral, she’d come home, and other than letting the ladies from church help her box up Ollie’s things for charity, she’d just gone about her days on autopilot. When she thought about that day, she remembered Sheriff Knoll taking her gently by the arm and helping her up, and she remembered looking down at Ollie, slumped on the floor, and thinking that it wouldn’t do for him to ignore their company that way.

Later—much later—little bits and pieces would come to her at the oddest times. Sitting in a hot bath the following winter, she remembered closing her hand on the wrench, picking it up from the top of the stove where Ollie left it after tightening up a loose bolt on the range hood. A few weeks after that, she was cracking eggs for an omelette and she remembered the peculiar sound he made as he crumpled to the floor, a whispered, nonsensical protestation.

Eventually, she remembered it all. Remembered it, and made her peace with it. But she still kept it tightly hidden in a corner of her mind. It shouldn’t be coming out like this—not while she was in this vulnerable state, lying here in a thin hospital nightgown with her face slashed and resewn, while the man she longed for tried to drag out her secrets.

She felt the barriers go up, the invisible ones, the walls that would keep Goat and everyone else as far away from her as she needed them to be. Chalk it up to emotional exhaustion, but she didn’t have the energy to juggle her conflicting desires. It was time to compartmentalize. There were evildoers walking the earth who badly needed to be dealt some justice, and Stella knew she was the only one who could keep dealing it until they got Chrissy’s boy back.

“What are you going to do now?” she asked, letting her eyelids slide down, setting her lower lip aquiver.

“I’ve been out to talk to Roy Dean’s parents,” he said. “They seem to think their son’s just taken the boy for a little father-son time. You know, camping, fishing, like that.”

“Funny,” Stella said, frowning as much as her stitches allowed. “He never struck me as the type.”

“Well, they say their boy’s quite the outdoorsman. They’re getting me directions to a little cabin he sometimes stays in, down near the lake.”

Had to be the trailer, Stella thought. “What else you got?”

“I’m planning to call on some people Roy Dean’s evidently been doing business with,” he said. “Evidently he’s been dealing in auto scrap. Plus I’ve got Mike and Ian out talking to Roy Dean’s neighbors, his friends, his parents. We’re on the lookout for his car, but so far nothing. We’re looking into phone records. You know—all the usual.”

Stella nodded. Just what she expected. “You must be exhausted,” she said, turning up the sweet in her voice. “Running around all night. I’m so sorry to have caused you all this trouble. I guess you best get home and get a little sleep before you start your day.”

Goat frowned. “Only one needing to rest here is you. I spoke to Dr. Guevera, by the way, Stella, and she says she’s keeping you another night to keep an eye on your head. They don’t take these concussions lightly.”

Stella nodded, keeping her expression as neutral as she could.

Dumbasses—didn’t they realize she’d taken her own concussions plenty seriously, waking up on the kitchen floor or sprawled across her bed, blood congealing from where Ollie’d split her lip or busted her ear, wondering if this would be the time she couldn’t avoid the hospital? She’d been lucky that way, if you could call it luck—it had seemed like luck at the time.

Because Ollie had never actually broken anything. She never had to go to the emergency room and make up excuses for why her arm or shin was bent at a strange angle. She never had to pretend to have fallen down the stairs or tripped over a laundry basket.

No, she dealt with all her injuries the old-fashioned way—at home, with a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a stack of bandages and a hell of a lot of CoverGirl concealer.

So one more concussion didn’t scare her all that bad, thank you very much.

But there wasn’t any reason to share that information with Goat. “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” she said meekly. “I’m actually feeling pretty tired myself, to be honest. Maybe I’ll see if they’ll give me a few more of those Tylenol, and take a nap.”

“That sounds like a good plan. I’ll tell Chrissy to come on back on my way out, so you all can have a short visit.” Goat stood, then hesitated, gazing down at her. “I’ll call you later in the day, let you know what I come up with. I don’t want you worrying. We’re going to find that little boy.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Stella said.

Goat stared at her a moment longer, and then, moving so fast she couldn’t even jerk out of the way, he slid one big callused hand under the thin blankets and ran his hand up her leg, letting his touch linger somewhere north of her knee.

“Tell you what, Dusty, I think you best get your money back for that wax job. You’re about as hairy as a polecat.”

Chrissy took one look at Stella and dropped her purse on the floor. Her hands flew up to her face, and she let out a little choked gasp.

“Oh shit, Stella, look what they done to you!”

So she was frightening people now.… Stella guessed she should be grateful that Goat had handled his horror so well.

“Just give me a mirror, will you?” she demanded, not bothering to cover her crankiness.

Chrissy nodded and blinked tears away. She picked up her purse and rummaged around in it, coming up with a plastic-handled makeup mirror, but she didn’t give it to Stella right away. Instead, she sat gingerly on the side of the bed and patted Stella gently on the top of her head and then on the shoulder, so softly it practically tickled.

“I’d hug you but I’m afraid I’d just hurt you worse,” she said miserably.

“Oh, come on, Chrissy, I’ll be fine. You and I both know—well, we know we’re tougher than people give us credit for. Right?”

Chrissy paused and mulled that over, then nodded decisively and leaned down for a big hug, smashing Stella’s tender ribs and pulling at the stitches. But Stella let her, and even tried to hug back a little.