These Deadly Games(33)

But maybe he could help us. That’s what cops were supposed to do, right? Help people who were getting hurt.

“Mom,” I’d whispered, grabbing a carton of milk from the cart. “Tell him.”

“Tell who what?” She didn’t bother keeping her voice down before glancing up and spotting Chief Sanchez behind me. Blanching, she tugged down her sleeve, covering the small bruises that bloomed on her forearm like sour grapes. “No.”

“But he’s right there—”

“No. He won’t believe me.”

I pouted. “Why not?”

“Good morrow, Mrs. Donovan!” Randall called out, handing the customer ahead of us her receipt. He often used fake accents and teased customers to keep from dying of boredom. “How art thou presently—”

“Yeah, hi.” I waved him off. To Mom, I whispered, “Show him the bruises,” pointing at her arm.

She batted my finger away and reached for the frozen peas. “No. We can talk about this later.”

“Well, then, I’m telling him—”

I started to turn, but Mom grabbed the hem of my sweater, tugging me back. “No!” She sighed. “Crystal … this happens to women all the time. I see them come into the hospital—” She cut herself off, eyes tortured, like she didn’t want to say too much. Like she was trying to protect me from life’s harsh realities, though our reality at home was already hell. “It’d be his word over mine.”

“And mine. And Caelyn’s—”

“I daresay, thou art troubled,” said Randall, dragging items over the scanner. “Pray tell?”

We both ignored him and glanced back at Sanchez, who stared down at his phone. If only he’d look up. If only he’d see the bruises for himself, the frightened look in Mom’s eyes, the desperation in mine. He’d have to believe us. “I don’t trust him to trust me,” Mom whispered. “And if your father finds out … I can’t risk it. I can’t.”

He’d been right there. Someone who could help. But he didn’t bother to look up. And if Mom didn’t trust him, how often did the police ignore battered women? How often did they let victims suffer?

Sanchez motioned to the brownies, jarring me from the memory. “These the culprit?” he asked, voice gruff. I was suddenly very aware of my cell in my back pocket. If you call the police, she dies. This didn’t count, did it?

“Probably.” Zoey scowled at me. “Crystal baked them.”

“Zoey—” Dylan started.

“I told you, there aren’t any nuts in them!” I frantically pointed to the ingredients scattered on the counter next to the stove, nearly clobbering Akira, who winced. “Sorry. That’s everything I used. No nuts. Nothing with nuts.” Randall sat alone at the kitchen table, gripping his head, face hidden. Matty was like his other half, and he loved him more than Matty ever knew. Seeing him so distraught was almost as unsettling as what happened in the basement.

“Mmkay. I’ll tell you what, though.” Sanchez peered into the open bag of flour. “Sometimes there can be contamination at the factory. Could’ve been any of these.” He shrugged, like it was no matter.

“You should test all the ingredients,” Mr. Bloom piped up. Zoey’s parents had come straight from work and hovered in the doorway like Secret Service agents, mouths set in matching grim lines, hands clasped in front of them. I honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if they had a code name for Zoey. Dark-haired Mr. Bloom towered over his wife, who had wispy blond hair like Zoey’s, but shorter and without pink ombre tips. I remembered how furious she was the first time I helped Zoey dye her hair; one act of rebellion she was brave enough to pull off. Now Zoey kept glancing at them, conflicted, like she was simultaneously mortified and comforted by their presence. “If there’s contamination,” said Mr. Bloom, “and no warning on the packaging, his parents could sue.”

My throat tightened. I wished Mom were here. She hadn’t picked up her cell—she must’ve still been in surgery. Sanchez had contacted Matty’s mothers, who’d headed to the hospital. If Mom saw them or Matty, or heard about this before I could reach her, she’d flip.

Sanchez gave Mr. Bloom an appeasing smile. “I hear ya. But those tests are expensive, and we don’t actually know it was the brownies that did it. Could’ve been something he ate earlier. Sometimes it takes an hour or two for a reaction to kick in.”

“What, so you wouldn’t even try to find out what did it?” Zoey asked.

“Matty didn’t eat anything right after school,” said Akira morosely. “I remember because he said he was hungry, and we talked about ordering in pizza later.”

“That’s right,” Randall croaked.

Dylan stayed quiet, withdrawn.

“And it happened right after he ate a brownie…” Zoey’s eyes went misty again.

“Yeah, that’s how it happens sometimes.” Sanchez smoothed down his black mustache. “It’s not the first time it’s happened. It won’t be the last. A real shame he didn’t have his EpiPen.”

“How the fuck didn’t he have his EpiPen?” Randall slammed his fist on the table. “How could he be so fucking stupid?” I flinched.