by Brea Viragh
“Yeah. A victim. In every sense of the word.”
I sputtered, searching for a reply and blaming the fog in my brain on the unfortunate car crash. “And someone in your position should...should...”
He quirked an eyebrow. “Yes?”
I turned to stare out the window instead. “Shut up and drive.”
Isaac let out a bark of laughter. “Whatever you say.” He waited a few moments to answer. “I want to get my old job back.”
“The job you had in high school?”
Isaac nodded. “I was a good cook. Damn good. Why should I give up on myself now? Although not many people want to hire a criminal.”
He said the word knowing I would react. “You aren’t a criminal,” I asserted. “It was a mistake—”
“And three people in the entire world are aware of this. I haven’t heard any of you say anything, especially given someone’s position in town.”
“Trent tried to get your sentence reduced. He told me himself.”
“It’s fascinating. You actually believe everything you hear, don’t you? Fascinating.”
“What about Brad? Have you spoken to him since you’ve been back? Or are you too busy attacking defenseless woman?”
“Brad went into special ops. No one’s seen him in years.”
My nose scrunched. Another mile and I would be home. “So the people who know of your innocence are—”
“The only people who matter are in this vehicle right now and I don’t want to talk about it anymore. It’s done, and you all had plenty of time to speak up. I expected the silent treatment from Trent, despite what he said. What he did to me. Not from you.”
“What he did to you? Did you know about the drugs?”
“I had an inkling. Couple guys on the soccer team mentioned the possibility, and I know one of them was toying with calling the cops. Said a friend of his got a bad batch and almost died.”
News to me. “Excuse me?”
“I went to see for myself. And because I couldn’t stand to see you going off with that creep, Zacklin. Now I know why.”
“I can only say I’m sorry. It was your choice.” I glanced down at my hands and noticed something odd: I had stopped shaking.
“I know. Believe me, I know.” He turned, catching me staring from my wrist to him. “What?”
“Nothing. I’m just...I’m not scared of you anymore.”
“You were scared of me?”
“There was a certain...fear of retaliation when you came to see me.”
“Trust me, sugar, you are always on my mind. Sorry if my emotions got the better of me the other day. I never want you to be scared of me. Ever.”
Isaac pulled into my driveway, following the rickety picket fence up to the small parking pad covered in grass. I took in the white Cape Cod structure with black shutters. This time of year, I should be planning my autumn decorations. Scouring the stores for deals on Halloween décor and gathering flats of mums for the garden.
Now I wondered if I’d survive the week.
My gaze fell upon the two cars parked in the yard and my stomach plummeted. “Oh, God. I totally forgot.”
“What?”
I shot him a nervous look. “Book club.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Isaac let out a single rolling roar of laughter. “This is great. This is rich.”
For some bizarre reason that annoyed the poop out of me, his laughter was the fly topping on the mud pie of my evening. I scowled, the slightest movement sending a slice of hurt through my skull and teeth. Would an entire bottle of aspirin kill me quickly enough to stop the pain?
“No, this isn’t rich or great. This is a disaster. A huge, flopping disaster.”
The moment he came to a stop, I was grasping at the door handle, pulling harder when it failed to open.
“You know, they make this wonderful gadget. It’s called automatic locks.” Isaac pressed a button and at once the door flew open. I tumbled out of the seat, catching myself at the last moment.
“You need to leave,” I moaned, fighting the wave of dizziness causing me to stumble against the side of the truck.
“Or what?” he taunted, his aggravation visible once more. “Afraid your gal pals are going to see you with me?”
I didn’t have the energy to make up excuses. “Yes.”
“For a person who has me to thank for getting you out of a ditch, you sure are being an asshole.”
Thoughts swirled around my brain like water down a drain. I wanted to tell him I’d been called worse. I wanted to tell him he was right, and I was an asshole. “It’s hardly constructive for you to insult me, but yes. I’m sorry. Thank you.”
Frank squirmed in my hold, recognizing the scents of his new home. I set him down and watched him waddle away.
“I guess I’ll take what I can get,” Isaac responded. He leaned back in the seat, waiting for me to make my grand exit. “Now get out and close the door behind you. At the moment, I have better places to be than babysitting an ungrateful woman.”
Seconds later I pushed inside the house, grasping the doorframe to steady myself. Frank trotted inside without any further prompting. He seemed to be handling the ordeal a thousand times better than I was. If the five minutes it took me to find my keys were any indication.
Shari scowled at me when I finally made it to the living room. “You’re late. We let ourselves in. Do you know how long it took me to find the extra key so we weren’t standing outside waiting on you?”
Probably as long as it took me to find the key ring in my purse.
Leda grabbed a cookie from a platter on the table. “And you look awful. Good thing I brought the sweets this time. They’ll perk you up.”
Oh, my mini éclairs. Now a pile of crushed delight somewhere on the side of the road. Drat.
It was just the two of them there, Leda and Shari, seated on my sectional sofa like they’d lived with me their entire adult lives. I didn’t complain, waiting instead for one of them to notice the truck backing out of the driveway. No one did.
“Where are the rest of the girls?” I asked, pushing back my hair.
“Rosemary sends her regrets. Her daughter went into labor. Nell is still on her extended honeymoon. Poppy is under the weather—” Shari stopped. “Yuck, is this the rat you adopted? Leda was telling me about him. He needs a bath.”
“And Kristen is running a little late,” Leda finished, crossing her legs and smiling. “It’s the three of us for now. And the dog. Although he doesn’t count.”
I sighed, sinking into the sofa and holding my hand out for a cookie. My head pounded like timpani behind my ears and I was reminded of high school marching band. All four glorious years. “I was in an accident. Call Kristen and tell her to stay home.”
Both of them shot out of their seats with mirrored expressions of concern.
“Are you kidding me?” Leda’s hands went to her hips. “What happened?”
“How did you get home?”
“Why didn’t you call? One of us would have come to pick you up!”
“Did someone drive you? Please don’t tell me you walked,” Shari finished. Her lips thinned under the weight of her unspoken reprimand.
I listened to their onslaught of questions occurring in tandem. Definitely not a help for my head. Holding up a hand to stop the chatter, I wondered if I was remiss in coming straight home instead of going to the ER. No broken bones, my ass. My ears hurt to the point where their chatter sounded worse than a toddler banging on pots and pans.
“I’ll tell you about it later. There’s too much to talk about and I feel like someone...” Ran me over. What a distasteful saying. I motioned toward the kitchen counter. “Someone pour me a glass of wine.”
Leda ran to grab the bottle while Shari patted my knee, concern lining her face. “Sweetie, you don’t have to tell us anything. We’re just happy you’re alive. I’ve been trying your cell, but you never picked up. Now I know why.”
“It’s probably smashed against th
e dashboard.” I leveled a look at Shari. Even though I didn’t want to talk about it, this needed to be said. “Some jackass ran me off the road.”
Shari gasped, not bothering to mask her look of astonishment. “What?”
Leda returned with the wine post haste and shoved the glass into my waiting hand. “Did you call the police?”
I mentally slapped myself. What an idiot. “No, I didn’t yet. My car is sitting on the side of Briar Ridge, leaning on a poplar tree, and I’m sitting here planning to get drunk.”
“Not exactly the best plan. As long as you don’t have a concussion...?”
Try finding a way to communicate without moving your head. It’s pretty damn difficult, which I found out when I tried to move and spots swam in front of my face. “I don’t think so. I’ll be fine.”
“You don’t look fine. Give me the wine before you spill it all over the carpet.”
“I can handle myself.”
“And you’re going to call the police?” Leda asked.
“Yes.”
She dug her cell from her pocket and primed the keyboard without me asking. “Do it.”
“I will!”
“We all know you get a handle on things. It’s what you do. But this time, I’ll do the dirty work.” Shari took matters into her own hands with a single glance at the wine threatening to slosh over the rim of the glass. “And put the red down before you have an accident.”
“I already did. My bumper is crunched.”
“Be happy it’s not your head. Who drove you home?”
I let out a breath. The moment, I decided, called for a cookie. Leda was not going to like this. I reached for the plate she offered and brought the snickerdoodle to my mouth. “Isaac brought me home.”
Leda’s brows drew together, gaze casting down with a swell of frustration. “Oh, convenient. He shows up right when you have an accident. You think he might have been the one to do it?”
“You hush!” Shari admonished.
I quickly spoke before the girls could continue. “I did think so, when he first arrived. I’m just happy he was there. It wasn’t him, Leda. I know it.”
“How do you know?”
I settled on the couch and chewed the rest of my cookie, chest still tight. For a moment, it felt like someone had punctured my lungs with a meat hook. “Because I do. He said he’s innocent, and I believe him.”
Shari nodded once, apparently satisfied. Distrustful, Leda bit her lip and sat down.
I watched my two best friends in the world take charge while I became a spectator. Shari insisted on making the calls, an amused smile brushing over her lips when I tried to rise and interject. It was our way, both vying for control, both realizing what we were doing and coming to a compromise: in this case, me shutting my mouth.
If their schedule went accordingly, the local towing company would be on the scene within the half hour. I became one with the couch, going over the details of my near demise. Someone wanted me dead. It was more than a game of chicken. This time, one of us should have ended up with their head cut off. Me, if I had to hazard a guess.
My fingers trembled, and Isaac’s face swam through my double vision. It was convenient, I thought, having him show up right after I’d been run off the road. Kismet or not, I wasn’t sure, and while I would have been happily singing a different tune an hour ago, for now my suspicions were laid to rest. He might be angry, furious with me for not speaking up for him, but he wasn’t the type of person to do me harm.
I sipped the wine, a dry red that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, and let the tannins slip down my throat. Each drop stung for approximately a picosecond before blissful numbness set in. Aside from the single glass of red I indulged in every Saturday night, I did not consider myself a drinker.
But...desperate times and all.
Adrenaline burned beneath my sternum and spread over each rib. I clutched the stem hard enough to snap the wineglass, waiting for my nerves to calm. I’d been in a wreck. I could have died. My heart beat in time with a hummingbird’s wings, and the scent of Isaac stuck in my nostrils. The saccharine sweetness of the car air freshener, the hint of wood chips. Sweat. Soap. If I hadn’t felt the way I did, with a heady mixture of guilt and terror and anxiety, I would have found the medley sexy. Intriguing.
The way his shirt hid the breadth of his chest and the play of light on those muscular forearms... I hadn’t noticed before, but I remembered now. He’d managed to insert himself into the situation easily enough. What was his motive?
Maybe I did have a concussion. There was no earthly reason for me to fantasize about a truly spectacular set of abs while there was a potential killer on the loose. Especially when said abs belonged to Isaac Howard. There were too many knots associated with our relationship to think about going further.
Shari pressed the screen to end the call, satisfaction lighting her features. “Easier than pie. The police are on their way to speak to you. Should coincide with the towing company. Do you want me to go down there with you to meet them?”
“Yes, I guess that would be best.” I scratched the sore spot above my ear and winced when I gouged the bump. There was no way I wanted to be alone, not when the shakes began. Worse than a rickety ride on an old-timey wooden roller coaster. “I guess we’d better go.”
I PUSHED MYSELF INTO work late the next day, bones creaking and feeling double my age. Mom definitely hadn’t been happy to offer her chauffeur services.
“Should you be doing this?” Amora Townsend eyed me up and down. She was a mirror version of me, but with an aged sepia-colored filter. The product of too many days in the sun and vats of tanning oil at her disposal.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Sure?”
“Positive.”
“Only fools are positive.”
“Mother!”
Every attempt I’d made to relax during the night was met with a crack. A snap like a branch breaking and a pop of pain reminding me of the collision. Which meant I’d gotten little in terms of sleep. The few hours granted to me felt like sweet salvation, and with each breath the weight of exhaustion on my shoulders fell heavier.
The dog had slept curled at my feet. The slightest hint of movement or whimpering on his part had my eyes bursting open. It was going to take more than a couple of cups of coffee, my precious Joe, to keep me mobile today.
Shari and Leda had lectured me repeatedly on the drive down to meet the police and the tow company. The discussion multiplied tenfold in pitch and severity when we got to the scene of the crime to inspect the damage. The bump on my head was a small price to pay for my life.
My concern was trying to figure out my next step before something else happened to me. Something homicidal.
Upon awakening the next morning, I’d glanced around the house as though surprised to find it quiet. Without noise or hassle generated from my ordeal. Every knickknack and piece of furniture was in its place. Like nothing had happened. Feeling like a pile of death warmed over, I made myself a pot of Joe—the godsend—and got a good start on the morning.
I’d get a chunk of baking done, talk with some folks about a table at the farmers’ market, and do some inventory. Easy peasy.
“You should be at home resting,” Leda admonished the moment I trudged through the bakery door. She shook a vanilla pudding-covered spoon, apron dotted with the remnants of her morning endeavors. “You’ve been through a traumatic event! Go home. I got here early to handle the orders. You are not needed.”
“I’m sorry.” Throwing off my cardigan, I limped to the prep table. It took effort not to sag against the wall and fall into an instant state of catatonia.
“Do you have any idea how long it will take for your body to heal? Longer than twelve hours, let me tell you.”
“And the orders will pile up until we get a larger staff. Unless I somehow won the lottery overnight, I’m here.” I cracked my neck first to the left, then the right. Owning a small business meant putting
in the hours to make it work. Bills didn’t pay themselves, and there was no one to step in to help handle my finances.
Leda gave me a swat on the tush, her version of encouragement. “Everything is going to work out in the end. We take it one day at a time, and when you’re a millionaire, you can hire a hundred people to bake for you. But I don’t think it will happen if you push yourself when you need time to rest.” Her skeptical gaze raked me from top to bottom while she continued to mix. “I don’t like your being here.”
Years of practice made me good at hiding my emotions. I relied on the perfected smile the outside world saw. None of the bitterness at my uphill climb towards establishing myself, or frustrated guilt from my past showed through the Essie Townsend everyone recognized on the street. The perky, upbeat girl with a heart of gold.
The truth behind the smile set my head pounding again. Was I too young for an aneurism?
I rubbed my hands together and forced the usual grin. “What’s on our agenda today? I haven’t had a chance to check the bakery email. You have the calendar handy?”
Leda gestured toward the printed stack on the counter. “There are a few things. Kid’s birthday, and a bridal shower. I mean beyond the regular bump and grind.” She eyed me up and down once more to take in any little details she may have missed. In response to her X-ray vision, I fought off the fatigue and kept my voice cheerleader-on-uppers chipper.
“Sounds great.” I nodded my head. “Let’s get to work.”
With the steady increase in business over the last few months, Leda and I were in the building keeping up with demands thirteen to fourteen hours a day. I wanted to begin branching out to larger functions and gatherings, but without the funds in place and the extra manpower, I was out of luck. Even an auto accident wasn’t enough to keep me from my ovens. If I wasn’t dead, I was working.
“We are going to pump it up and pump it out.” I squinted against the tiny printed letters and blamed the blurriness on the wreck. Unless Leda had invested in a 3D font.
“That’s disgusting.”
“Come on, you know you like it.”
