The store was clearly open; the sign in front said so in blinking red-and-blue lights. The door was propped open, as was customary on warm fall evenings.
Emma leaned over the pharmacy desk and glanced both ways, almost expecting to find a dead body laid out behind it. Nothing but a scrap of paper lay there. She pressed her elbows and belly to the checkout counter, resting for a moment.
She’d asked, then insisted they meet at the pharmacy. His wife was out of town with the kids. It was neutral ground, untainted, and she didn’t want the distractions of the place that held so many memories.
He’d agreed, reluctantly, after she’d wheedled and begged, explaining her father was likely to get after-hours call, as the illegal dog tracks were open Thursday evenings.
“Why doesn’t he just shut them down?” Coach Thomas complained into the phone. “Then he wouldn’t have to bother with those hounds.”
“I-I don’t know. Daddy’s just that way. The same men who run dogs bring their puppies and kittens in for shots. Daddy sees the horses at their stables.” Emma evaluated her answer. “I guess he’s not going to bite the hand that feeds him—us.”
Coach murmured something under his breath.
“Daddy reads them the riot act if they harm those dogs. He makes sure to tell them he doesn’t want to see them back.”
“Emma, you just come around 8:50 p.m. I’ll be waiting.”
The dial tone rang in her ear.
Emma reached over the swinging door separating the front of the store from the back. The latch slid apart easily and fell into place. Without a sound, the divider swung open, allowing Emma to pass through.
She glanced behind her, thought for a moment about locking the glass front doors. No, this wasn’t her house or her business. She was here for a reason.
“Hey,” Emma whispered and crept toward the back of the building. High shelves were stocked full of Kleenex and tissue paper. Rows of Lysol and cleaning supplies lined the shelves in different-sized bottles and cans.
He was there then, all of a sudden, in the last room she checked. In the single light above a four-legged table, he sat, legs splayed, cell phone in one hand. His gaze was frozen, lost in some world of ice and mist.
Emma took another step.
“Angel, you came.” He stood, put his phone on the small table, and rushed over, his hand caressing her neck and the small of her back. He held her out at arm’s length and looked her over. “You’re looking so fine,” he declared and kissed her full on the mouth.
When she came up for air, she started to tell him. About the baby. About her love for him. How she wanted a family and a house and a dog.
“Shh,” he cautioned her.
“What is it?” she whispered. Her legs wobbled underneath her. She was hungry again. The thought was constant now, and she couldn’t think of much else.
“You’ve got to be so excited, sugar.” He slapped his leg and hooted. “I can see it. A few more games and we’ll be at the state playoffs, baby.” At the declaration, he spun in place and pretended to spike the ball.
Emma watched as he strutted in front of her, making a muscle sign with his bicep, posing on one knee, then jumping up with both fists extended into a warrior stance. All at once, his actions seemed petty and juvenile, a bit like a clown’s at the circus.
“Don’t you want to talk about us? The future?”
“There’s nothing more important than Wolverine football,” he rallied back and struck a haughty stance. “Come on. Show me some excitement. Give me something. Come on.”
Emma threw up both hands in surrender. She would let him have his moment of celebration. He was like a kid keyed up after chugging a six-pack of Coke and downing a dozen donuts. It wasn’t likely to change as long as they were winning. And there were a few more games to get through till the team made it to the Georgia Dome.
“Did you see them last week? Twenty yard line, ten, then five,” Coach described with vigor, his arms mimicking a running stance. “Over the top, in the end zone. He scores! Wolverines score!”
Emma smiled at his antics, trying to pay rapt attention, but she found herself drifting off, away from the room, as she leaned against the wall. She jerked her head up with a start. Coach was still ranting.
“We’re ready for tomorrow night.” He rubbed his hands together and slapped his thighs. “Oh, do we have some trick plays up our sleeve. And yeah, it’s gonna get messy. Those boys over yonder want to play dirty?” He pivoted to make sure Emma was listening. “We’re going to bring it on. Make them wish they’d stayed home.”
A small, tiny part of her began to fray at the edges, just in places, while she listened to him rant and rave about the next night’s game. In that moment, Emma realized she was just part of the crowd, one small bit of his audience. She wondered if it really mattered if she was there or if he just needed someone—a living, breathing female to listen and cheer him on.
Coach was still talking. “Had a little hiccup there, with our friend D’Shawn, but he’s back on board. Got him pumped up.”
“And after playoffs, will you stop?” Emma finally asked.
“Ma’am?” The coach stopped mid-sentence, mid-pose, mid-breath. His forehead wrinkled, and he waited for her to repeat the statement.
“You will have proven yourself.” Emma held up her chin and met his eyes. “Achieved everything you came here to do.” Now she wanted proof of their future, evidence that he loved her more than anyone else.
“What did you say?” His tone was accusing and strident. His lips formed a solid, straight line, his nostrils flared. His pat answers, the glib and fresh attitude, vanished. His personality and charm fizzled out like a candlewick doused in water. “Stop? No, I don’t think I heard you right.”
Emma held her ground, keeping her voice low and casual. She blinked up at him, maintaining an innocent face. “You took this team from a bunch of farm kids and molded them into a group of super soldiers. But if you keep winning, people will start to wonder.”
Coach whirled at the jab. “Wonder what?” he barked. “Who do you think you are?” He heaved a breath and regained his composure.
“I’m the person who loves you,” she countered.
“Love,” the coach scoffed. “This goes way beyond you. It’s over your head, girl.”
“Girl?” Emma lashed back. “I thought I was going to be your wife. A year, maybe two. Isn’t that what you promised me? The house, the yard, a ring . . .”
Coach Thomas stopped, skidding in his tracks. His motion became jerky and robotic.
Emma stared back into his eyes. “Unless that’s not what you want. Unless this has all been a big game. And you don’t care about me at all.”
“You might want to reconsider where you’re going with this,” he cautioned. “You’re treading in some dangerous territory.”
It was no answer and she knew it. The gamble was on. No time to stop it, no time to fix it. It was a test of the biggest kind. He needed to decide: trust Emma with everything or not.
“After playoffs, I want to stop,” Emma challenged. “Our supplies are way off.”
Coach simmered, then began to pace, his face darkening as he let her talk.
“I’ve had to order more and more.” Heart beating double-time, Emma added, “Someone is going to notice.”
“Really?” he muttered.
Emma opened her mouth. Before she could utter a sound, Coach yanked her up from the table and slammed her against the wall, sending an old wooden chair clattering to the ground. In one swift motion, he pinned one arm behind her back while he held the other wrist twisted above her head.
“Spoiled little rich girl wants to run the show, does she?” His breath burned hot and acidic on her cheek. “Tell me what to do, how to coach, run my life—is that it? Am I understanding you correctly, Miss Marshall?” Coach relaxed his grip, allowing Emma a second of relief, a reminder that he was in charge.
“Why? Y-you were supposed to love me. We’re getting
m-married.” Emma thrashed in disbelief. “Let me go. You’re hurting me.”
He tightened his grip on her forearm, fingers digging into the tendons and bone. “Now, where are those lovely manners your mama taught you? I’m not hearing them . . .”
Emma moaned in pain and slunk against the wall. Her arm throbbed. The ache radiated down her arm, through her elbow, and into her shoulder.
“Not so smart, now, are you, princess?” Coach sneered an inch from her lips, unblinking. “Don’t you realize what you’re doing? Questioning me?” He threw Emma down, casting her off like a used jacket. “You’re ruining everything.”
He spit on the floor inches from her head. Emma didn’t flinch; her body was cement, heavy and thick, attached to the ground.
When she didn’t look up or answer, he continued, “I’m the king here. And if I decide I need something or someone, I’m going to take it. Which includes anything I want from your father’s office, anything I want from you, anything to win the game and make it to the playoffs. That’s what this town wants, and that’s what this town is going to get. Year after year after year.”
Coach kicked at her shins and aimed for her stomach. Emma shrieked and scrambled to get away from the blow. His boot caught the edge of her abdomen. Searing pain shot through the lower part of her belly, as if the child inside her had cried out in fear.
“If you say a word, I’ll hurt you worse than this.” He grunted, reached down, and pulled her hair to force her to look at him. His voice was a hoarse whisper. “Do you hear me?”
Emma let out a groan as tears coursed down her cheeks.
“Yes. Yes. Stop, please—” He’d lost his mind. She needed to get away. She needed to save herself. Save the baby. He’d never have to know. She would figure out what to do later.
Coach let go, letting her slump, shaking and quivering, to the floor.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured and curled into a ball. The apology wasn’t meant for his ears. It was for her father. For her own bruised body. But most of all, for their baby.
He shook his head at Emma in pity, as if someone else had ransacked the office, beat up Emma, and left her for dead. He put his head in his hands and turned away from her, mumbling to himself.
Emma forced herself to ignore the throb of her forearm and the ache below her waist. Using both hands, she pulled herself away from him using the wooden chair that had fallen over, dragging her body. And the coach was still muttering, pacing now, eyes half closed.
On her final hoist, a weakened chair leg came off in her grasp. Breathing hard, Emma scrambled to her feet, tucking it behind her back before Coach could turn around.
“I need to go,” she said, just audible above her own heartbeat. She was asking for permission. He wanted to be in charge and needed Emma to be subservient and cowering. She could play the part. “Please.”
As she waited for him to reply, she glanced down at her free hand. The forearm above her wrist was swollen twice its normal size. Emma stared at the puffy tissue, the skin covering the veins and tendons beneath. Bruises began to blossom in angry streaks of red and purple. Marks from a man’s hand and fingers were clearly evident.
“Please,” she repeated. “I won’t say anything. I promise—”
“Oh, now you’ve changed your mind?” Coach sneered.
She kept her gaze on the floor.
“Now you don’t want to make me look bad in front of my community, my neighbors, and my players’ families? Well, Emma Marshall, I’m glad to hear that, because you are right. You don’t want to go there.”
Shifting her feet and pressing against the floor, Emma pushed herself up against the closest wall, resting her wounded arm in her lap. She let her gaze fall from his short-cropped hair to his pressed khakis. His neat, orderly appearance, not a fold out of place, every stitch in an even line.
It was so obvious. It had taken this amount of shock to recognize it, though. Allie had seen it, might as well have shouted it from the rooftops. She wasn’t afraid like Emma was. Her sister was a warrior, an Amazon. Her sister, who was always right, who always got what she wanted. Who was leaving this awful place and going to make a new life. She was leaving Emma behind. She hadn’t even asked if she wanted to tag along. Not even in a joking way.
They were supposed to have tonight, though. Just the two sisters. Popcorn, pillows, and a movie. Allie had cleared her schedule to spend time with her.
Meanwhile, all Coach cared about was himself. How he looked, how he felt, his record of success. Who he stepped on along the way was inconsequential. He hadn’t been telling the truth all along. Not to his wife or his kids or to Emma.
“Why?” Emma asked. “Why me?”
Coach smirked. “You’re young and naïve, not bad to look at, and your daddy’s got all the fixin’s we need to get a team to the state playoffs. I just needed a key to get in. Or the code.”
Emma winced as she remembered writing it down and handing the information over so freely. Coach reached for a glass of Coke and spun his straw in the ice, taking turns stirring and looking at her.
“Think about it this way. You helped get the team on track to the Georgia Bowl. Couldn’t have done it without you.” Coach winked.
Emma shifted her weight to one side and pressed her thighs together, still clutching the piece of chair leg. She glanced around at the racks of supplies, the pharmacy boxes, the dispensers and shelves of over-the-counter medication waiting to be stocked.
“Why not use what you already have at the store? Can’t you just order what you like? You own a pharmacy.” She frowned. “Why not take it? Why ask me?”
She loved him. Didn’t he see that? She’d have given him what he wanted, if he really loved her. Why couldn’t he see what was right in front of him?
“You’re so innocent, so unbelievably naïve,” he said and checked his watch. “Ever heard of the DEA? The folks that keep tabs on people like us? Pharmacies? Every pill that comes in and out has to be counted, checked, verified, double-checked. Those idiots are on us every five minutes about this or that. Fill out this form, sign this statement. They can walk in here anytime they please and turn the place upside down. It’s the crazy KGB all over again. The government wants to run everything. And you wonder why I’d look elsewhere for my product?” He laughed, shallow and raw.
Emma let out a gasp. Her abdomen cramped like someone had reached in and clutched her insides, then twisted. She forced herself not to cry out again or exclaim at the pain. It seemed to intensify with each pump of blood through her veins.
“Fine. I-I understand now. Really. I won’t say anything,” she coughed out, her eyes watering. “I need to go, okay?”
“We’re clear?”
“Yes,” she whispered, maintaining the apologetic look.
“Because, Emma,” he continued. “I promise you this. If you breathe a single word, I’ll find you.” Coach narrowed his eyes. “And when I do, I’ll kill you.”
Emma gulped, tucking the piece of wood close to her spine.
After a beat, he grabbed his ball cap, turned his head to check the front of the store. “I’ve got to close up.”
Muscles straining, she inched up the wall and straightened her legs. Once on her feet, her vision cleared. She steadied her footing, then took a baby step and caught the edge of the table with her fingertips. Emma let out a small moan, wobbled from side to side, then straightened, keeping both eyes pinned on Coach. He glanced in her direction as he pulled on a jacket.
“I’m fine,” she assured him, still hiding the chair leg in the folds of her skirt.
His forehead creased as he reached to straighten his ball cap.
Emma leaned over to grab her purse on her way out the back door. She didn’t want to fake too much, just enough for him to come to her rescue.
“Oh.” She let out a cry and bent her knees, hunching her shoulders, tucking her chin to her chest.
It was enough.
The coach hesitated, then reached for her again
.
This time Emma was ready.
With a battle cry worthy of adrenaline-pumped soldiers, Emma took the chair leg and swung with all of her might.
FIFTY-TWO
ALLIE
2016
Allie tried her sister several times on the way home. Voice mail. She would have to tie Emma down or sedate her to talk about the cabin and the coach. How had she possibly missed all of the signs? She had been so blind—so focused on her moral quest to prove Thomas was guilty of manufacturing steroids and abusing players—that she’d let it cloud everything else in her life.
She bit her lip, regret washing over her body in waves. There was so much she could have done differently.
As she reached her own tree-lined street, she parked her mother’s car, grabbed the mail from the box, and headed inside. She locked the door behind her and leaned against it, deciding to check her cell phone for the hundredth time. As she cradled it in the palm of her hand, Allie stared at the screen, debating her next move. She needed to call her father or mother. Path of least resistance first, she decided.
Her mother answered. “Hello?”
“Hey, Mom, it’s me,” Allie said and offered her the obligatory fine and good when asked. After a lull in the conversation, she dove straight in with questions about her sister. “I’m a little worried,” she explained. “Has Emma been acting strangely?”
Her mother made a brief humming noise, thinking. “Sweetie, we’ve barely seen her. Your father and I thought—we’d hoped—she was spending time with you.”
“Well, she has been, off and on,” Allie said. “Up until the last few days, she’s been here a bit.” She pressed her cheek against the cell phone, brushing aside the curtain to glance out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of her sister’s car. “It’s not like her to disappear.”
“Well, now, I don’t think that’s the case. Caroline said she left her a note—”
“Caroline’s there?” Allie interrupted, scratching at her forehead in frustration.
“She was at the library this morning. After that, she went home, found the note, and called and asked if she could go to a friend’s house for a few hours.”
Sister Dear Page 28
