Here So Far Away(20)

Keith wasn’t that deep. He was a nice enough guy but, like all her boyfriends, about as complex as a baked potato.

“Probably not. You want me to break his knees?”

“Nah. I’m just calling to see if you’re okay. You know I would have told you that we were bringing Joshua to the party if Keith had warned me, right? God, this is why I keep telling Dad we need a car phone.”

“I know. Sorry for taking off like that.”

“What did you do last night?”

Lisa had always been the first person I wanted to tell whenever something important or interesting or embarrassing happened. Sometimes I started rehearsing the story in my head while the thing was still happening. But sharing what happened with Francis would make it all the more real, and I didn’t want it to be real anymore. If I could go to sleep, when I woke up I could pretend it had all been a dream.

“Listened to a bunch of cool music,” I said. “You know, sharpening my edge.”

“Oh yeah? Which one of your three records did you listen to?”

“The one that’s so cool you’ve never heard of it. Dude, I gotta go back to bed.”

“Hang on. I haven’t told you about the party.”

“Can we talk about it later? Sorry, I’m so wiped.” The line went silent. “Lise?”

“Something’s wrong, I can tell. What is it? Were you talking to Nat?”

“Wha? No, I— We’ll talk later, I promise. When I’m alive again.”

“Alright. Love you.”

“Like you immensely.”

“Love you.”

“What you said.”

“Love you.”

“Me too.”

“Good enough.”

I was drifting off when Matthew started shaking me. “George!” he whispered. “George!”

“Buddy, I am going to sleep, if I have to kill us both.”

“The guy’s here for lunch. Just tell me quick, are we supposed to go down and eat with them?”

“Who is it?”

“A cop. The new one, I think.”

“What new—”

My feet hit the floor.

I caught my breath when I saw him closing the trunk of his car from Matthew’s bedroom window. His hair was freshly buzzed off, the beard shaved, but there was no mistaking those angles, that coiled energy in his body, or those eyes.

I heard Matthew collapsing onto the floor behind me, but didn’t turn around, horror-struck as I was by the sight of the blood splattered all over Francis’s shirt.

Mum was little but she could move, and Francis had to do some fancy ducking and maneuvering to avoid her as she fired herself out of the house and ran at him. “It’s not my blood!” he said, pirouetting this way and that. “Don’t—please—you’ll get it all over you!”

“My god, did you shoot someone?”

“No, no! It’s cow’s blood,” he said.

Squeak of the screen door beneath Matthew’s window. “Francis McAdams, I assume,” Dad said.

“I would come over and shake your hand, but . . .”

“Feel free to stay where you are. You want to tell us about this cow you used to know?”

“A call came in while I was down at the detachment this morning; a farmer said his cow was stuck in the riverbed. She was knee-deep in the muck and we had a hell of a time getting her out, which, it turns out, was because she was delivering a calf.”

“My land,” said Mum.

“Calf live?” My father.

“Stillborn.”

“Well, hate to be the bearer of bad news, but once word gets out that you responded to an animal call, on duty or off, you’ll be getting them from all over the county.”

“That’s what they said at the detachment. Anyway, I thought I had a spare shirt in the trunk, but no luck, and by the time I get home and back . . .”

“Don’t be silly,” my mother said. “Come hop in the shower and Paul will lend you something.”

“Oh, sure,” Dad said. “My tuxedo is back from the cleaners.”

I turned and tripped over Matthew, who had come around but was still lying on the floor. Quick inspection: he’d survive.

No fully slept, fully sane person would do what I did when I got back to my room, tearing down posters and shoving any evidence that I was what I was—stuffed animals and magazines and school trophies and photos of my friends—under the bed. I tugged the coverlet down to hide the fuzzy duck peeping out. Yeah, that would convince Francis that I was—what? Some random adult who happened to be boarding with the Warrens? Never mind my landlords. They’re old and confused and think we’re related.

I opened my window and could hear Mum through my parents’ window rummaging in their closet. “You’re much trimmer than Paul, so I’m afraid we don’t have a lot to offer you. It might have to be this.”

“That’s fine, Marlene. Thank you.”

I waited until I heard my mother’s footsteps go down the stairs and the shower start running, then poked my head out and stared at the bathroom door. He won’t open it, I thought. Slip down the hall and be done with it. Do it. He’s not going to open it.

This was all within about three-quarters of a second.