Kathleen Hale - No One Else Can Have You

I sigh and punch in Davey’s number before I can change my mind. I’m feeling a lot less light-headed, so I guess the cookie pills are wearing off, but my hands still hurt from that fence. I look at myself again in the rearview mirror. My hair is all frizzy and my chin and cheeks look spotted with soot. I try to rub it off but Marion tells me to stop.

“Those are bruises,” he says. “Don’t make it any worse.”

The phone rings twice and goes to voice mail—“Hey this is Davey, leave a short message”—and my stomach sort of drops, because he must have clicked the Ignore button.

“Hi,” I say slowly. Marion turns around to look at me, thinking I’m talking to him, and I swat the air, mouthing, “privacy.” He and Mildred start whispering and giggling. Their moods change so quickly. The silence on the phone sounds like rushing wind and I take a deep breath.

“I’m sorry, Davey. I’m really, really sorry. I did a wrong, stupid thing.”

“Oooh,” Mildred says, looking at me in the rearview mirror. Marion slaps her arm lightly and laughs.

I shut my eyes for privacy. “I guess all I can say is that I didn’t know you liked me? And if I did, I would never have kissed Colt. And if anyone else treated you this way I’d hate them, so I don’t know why I did it—I mean, why didn’t you tell me you liked me? Sorry, it sounds like I’m making it your fault—it’s not your fault. It’s just I liked you so much I figured that . . . you know . . . when you kissed me”—I can hear Marion giggling again and lower my voice—“I don’t know, Davey, I guess I figured it was some kind of mistake on your part, like maybe biological hormones or whatever. I didn’t expect you to like me because I liked you so much. Does that make sense?” I kick the wall of the truck and roll my eyes. It isn’t coming out right. “Listen, I don’t want to bring up Ruth, but it feels impossible, because people can just go, you know? They can just disappear. And I should have said good-bye better to all of them, or whatever—and I guess if you really don’t want to talk to me anymore, that’s fine, but I need you to know that I . . . I don’t know.” I focus on my feet; Dom once said that if you’re nervous, thinking about your feet is a good way to ground yourself. “Davey, I’m haunted by the way I treated you—and basically the reason I’m calling is because I’m on my way to one last investigation, and I could really use your help.” I peer out the windshield. We’re turning onto my street. “I’m on my way to Ralph Johnston’s house, and I need a wingman, and I’m scared—so maybe you could come, if you don’t actually hate me all the way.” I hang up.

“That sounded like it went well,” says Mildred.

“Stop here,” I tell her. We’re about four houses down from the Johnstons’ place—far enough away that Ralph won’t notice the idling car.

Mildred pulls over and cuts the lights. She and Marion jump out into the pouring rain, then yank open the back doors and wrestle me out onto the sidewalk.

“You’re ready for this,” Marion booms, slapping me on the back.

Before I know it, they’re shoving things into my arms—a hammer and nails, and a hunting knife. I don’t know what exactly they’re implying with the hammer—or the nails, for that matter. Even if it turns out Ralph is 100 percent guilty, the idea of plunging a knife into him still makes me want to barf.

I push it all back at them. “It’s too heavy,” I say, wiping the rain from my eyes. “I gotta travel light.”

“Well at least take this,” Mildred insists, and gives me a package wrapped in black tape. A naked baby doll with eyes that open and shut when you rock it is strapped to the top. “Careful.” She digs around in her pocket and pulls out a clear plastic box, the kind of thing you put soap inside for traveling. She opens it carefully, holding it out to me as if it’s an engagement ring, shielding it from the rain with one hand. Inside is a tiny remote, with wires sticking out all over, tied in knots. “The detonator’s homemade, so it’s a little bit finicky,” she says sheepishly. Marion nudges her with his elbow as if this is all modesty. “But it’ll create a pretty big boom, I’ll tell you what.” She snaps the soapbox shut. “Put that somewhere safe,” she adds, and watches while I slide it into the front pocket of my backpack.

They salute me, turn on their heels, and drive off without looking back. Thunder rumbles in the distance.

I nod frantically. “Okay, yeah, bye guys, thank you,” I say to no one, then slink down the street to Ralph’s lawn and ditch the weird baby-doll package in his mailbox. Not to be ungrateful—I’m all about being a ruthless investigator and taking things to the max. But if there’s anyone on the planet who shouldn’t keep a finicky bomb made by a crazy person inside her backpack, it’s probably me

I’m hunched behind Ralph’s bushes, just under his front window, trying to keep my phone from getting wet while I grapple with the buttons. My fingers are shaking, my pajamas are sopping, and I can see lightning snapping above me.

“Focus,” I whisper. I press my back against the house and dial Ralph’s number. I can hear his cell phone ringing on the other side of the wall. It’s loud, some kind of blaring, complicated ringtone that he once told me was a Norwegian war anthem. He’d gotten it off one of his Thor websites. Ralph keeps his cell with him at all times, so based on how well I can hear the anthem, he must be sleeping on the floor in the front room again. Sometimes he gets out a sleeping bag and hunkers down there so he can play video games whenever he wakes up. Knowing he’s just on the other side of the wall makes me feel sick.

“Pick up,” I whisper, but he doesn’t answer, so I call again, squeezing underneath the porch to stay dry.

The phone stops ringing and on the other end I can hear the rustling of shiny fabric—sleeping bag fabric against lady’s tracksuit.

“Kippy?” he mutters. “Jesus, do you know what time it is? I thought they took away your cellular phone at Cloudy Meadows.”

“Hi Ralph.” I’m trying to pretend I don’t know him, that the familiarity of his voice is a ruse. He already thinks I’m crazy—nothing’s going to change that, so I might as well accuse him and wait for him to tell me he’s wrong. “I know what you did,” I say. The lights go on in his front room. I duck out from under the porch into the rain and peek in the front window. Inside, Ralph is staggering around in his tracksuit, picking up his home phone off the floor.

I duck back under the porch. “I know about you and Ruth.” I’ve got to keep him from calling the cops on his other line. “You’re not even going to deny it, are you? Well you don’t need to; I’ve got evidence, and I’ve broken into a Kinko’s”—where did that come from?—“I’ll fax the police what I have the second I hear sirens. I’ll fax the papers, too. They’ll listen.” Who faxes?

I hear him set down the other phone. “That’s impossible,” he says. His voice is cold and hollow, controlled.

I pinch the space between my eyes and swallow. “So you do know what I’m talking about?”

“Where are you, Kippy?” he asks. Through the spaces in the boards, I can see him pressed against the window, staring out at the front yard.

I duck even farther into the shadows. “I told you, Kinko’s. Come meet me and we can talk about it.” I’m telling myself there’s still a chance that this could all be wrong, that maybe the only reason he’s acting weird and wants to know where I am is because he’s worried.

Still, I need him out of the house so I can look around.