Maybe It's You

by Candace Calvert

  Even after years, the surreal image of that body bag still rose. Anger piggybacked on the memory. Always.

  “Like Stephen,” Micah agreed. “That kind of senseless loss. Crisis responders can’t change it, but somebody should show up.”

  “I hear you.” Coop rested his hand on the camera case. “I guess that’s a big part of why I’m doing what I’m doing—or trying to do. Only I ‘show up’ with a bag full of lenses and a recorder. To tell the story, find the justice, and make some sense of things that way. Put a face on the headlines.”

  Micah smirked. “Even if it’s a pumpkin face?”

  “Hey, not fair!” Coop scraped his fingers down his beard. “So much for glory.”

  “You’ll get your byline,” Micah told him, feeling a twinge of guilt. Coop was Coop. “I’ll be saying I knew you when.”

  “Remember that. And—hold on,” Coop said, lifting his ringing cell phone from the table. He squinted at the screen. “Oh, cool. It’s my source at State Prison.”

  Micah finished the last of his iced tea, trying his best to ignore one-sided snatches of the phone conversation. Coop was head down, scribbling notes on a salsa-splotched napkin.

  Despite Coop’s hit-or-miss sensitivity, Micah didn’t doubt his friend’s commitment to journalism or his dogged determination to finally get his byline on a big story.

  Micah’s thoughts were interrupted by a glimpse of two young women making their way through the café crowd toward the exit. Coming closer to his table now. The second one, a few strides behind the first, wore scrubs and sunglasses.

  Sloane.

  She slowed and stared at him for an instant, then picked up her pace.

  “Hey,” Coop said, leaning across the table. “Was that her? Ferrell?”

  “Uh . . .” Micah hesitated, realizing what he’d just seen. “I don’t think so.”

  “Scrubs. Like a military uniform. Everybody looks the same.” Coop chuckled, then returned to his call.

  “Right,” Micah said, though he didn’t agree. Despite the generic scrubs and sunglasses, he’d recognized Sloane immediately. And wasn’t surprised by the pinch of her lips as she connected with his gaze. Nor by the fact that she’d made no polite effort to acknowledge him. Considering their history, none of that was unexpected. On the other hand, Micah had been unprepared for who Sloane was with.

  Zoey Jones.

  7

  A DEATH NOTIFICATION.

  Micah had barely arrived at his condo—a seven-mile commute made transglobal by the infamous LA traffic—when the crisis team’s text buzzed his phone. A request from LAPD for volunteers to make a death notification visit to the wife of a man struck and killed by a vehicle. Micah had been halfway expecting it because Coop monitored emergency calls and he’d received an alert as they were leaving Manuel’s Café.

  “It’s fire dispatch . . . truck vs. pedestrian . . . older guy . . . No, wait. He wasn’t walking; he was sitting at a table? This driver crashed into a sidewalk café!”

  Wise’s Deli was an old mom-and-pop place, aiming for trendy by adding a few tables and plastic chairs outside. Along with vases of fake flowers and a new hand-lettered addition to the sun-faded “Se Habla Español” sign: We have vegan. The tofu alfresco option to lure more customers hadn’t much worked. Micah passed by the place every Sunday on his way to church and had always planned to stop in. For a goodwill gesture, not soy curd. And now . . .

  Six other people had been injured, two of them seriously according to the TV news. Including the Wises’ college-age grandson, who helped out at the deli. He’d been taken to surgery. The fatality, a man fifty-eight years old, was pronounced dead on scene by paramedics. It had taken more than an hour to extricate his body from the undercarriage of the speeding truck that jumped the curb, mowed down tables, and came to rest in the deli’s front window. Crushed, then dragged. The TV news had shown the property destruction in full-color HD but fortunately hadn’t photographed the victims or identified them by name.

  “I won’t have any of my personal information made public. No photos, no contact information . . .”

  Micah frowned and pushed away the intruding thought of Sloane. He grabbed his crisis team jacket, ID, and car keys. Then double-checked he had all pertinent information supplied by dispatch regarding the victim and the surviving spouse. In truth, he was triple-checking; he couldn’t imagine anything worse than showing up on the wrong doorstep with a death notification.

  No, that wasn’t true. Showing up at the right address with this kind of news was the worst. Micah would never forget what they’d said about death notifications during his California Crisis Care training: “In this one instance, the crisis responder is the cause of a survivor’s trauma. You are bringing unimaginable news into their ordinary day and will forever change their lives.”

  It had been crisis responders who brought the tragic news to Micah’s aunt and uncle all those years ago.

  Micah checked his gear bag to be sure he had the list of local resources, his small chaplain’s prayer book, bottled water, and several packages of Kleenex. No teddy bear today since no children were involved. It was scant equipment compared to Coop’s heavy bag of cameras, tripods, and lenses.

  He thought of what he’d said to his friend at the Mexican café. “Someone’s got to be there for the survivors. . . . Crisis responders can’t change it, but somebody should show up.”

  Tonight that somebody would be Micah. Bringing the worst possible news and offering the only thing he could: himself. A compassionate listener, a calm and caring presence.

  Micah hefted his bag and made his way to the door. He’d try with all he had to do that, listen and support, with the requisite calm. And without letting his own experiences get in the way. No judgment, no anger. It wasn’t going to be easy.

  The driver of the truck was intoxicated. Another life claimed by a worthless drunk.

  “This is good. Anywhere along here,” Zoey said. “Just pick a place to let me out.”

  “Right.”

  Sloane steered down a street dotted with vintage clothing shops, produce stands, the occasional tattoo parlor or vaping supply store. Neon signs had begun to glow and palms wrapped with tiny white bulbs blinked along the bustling sidewalks. Somewhere beyond, miles of hills would turn pink and lavender under the waning Southern California sun. Sloane had heard somewhere that smog enhanced the intensity of sunsets, pollution spawning splendor. She wasn’t sure she believed that. After all, while there was every reason LA air should smell of orange blossoms, suntan lotion, and crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, it actually reeked of—

  “I don’t want to be caught hitching too close to the freeway,” Zoey added.

  Stinking reality. It was the scent of Los Angeles air and the current truth. This kid with the pink hair, tough-girl attitude, and sad eyes was about to be swallowed up by it again. Suffocating, cruel reality was the real pollution, and there was nothing Sloane could do to stop that. Mostly because Zoey wouldn’t let her; she’d accepted the food out of basic necessity.

  Sloane steered to the curb after a truck loaded with surfboards pulled away. “How’s this?”

  “Perfect.”

  Zoey unbuckled her seat belt and slid her hand into her jeans pocket. She pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. The burrito wrapper. Then a stubby pencil. “I swiped it off a table when I went to the restroom.” She handed them both to Sloane. “Your address. Write it down.”

  “I . . .” What was Sloane going to say? That she wouldn’t give anyone her address because she’d been stupid enough to get involved with a lying, cheating con man? And because she was such a fool, she’d been hounded by creditors and threatened by gangsters?

  “You think I won’t keep my word,” Zoey said, snatching at her cap. Her hair, tangled and Disney-bright, fell around her face. “That’s what you’re saying, right? ‘Why bother to give this ghetto girl my address? She’s not worth—’”

  “Stop.” Sloane pinned her with a look.
“Don’t say that again.” She smoothed the burrito wrapper across her thigh and saw an immediate oily stain on her scrubs. She touched the pencil to the paper, then hesitated.

  “Forgot your address?” Zoey asked, her tone implying her accusation had been spot-on.

  “No.” Sloane set the pencil down. “Look, I’m not going to be the second person in a week to hold you hostage in a car. But I don’t like the idea of you, of anyone, hitching a ride out there. At least not after dark.”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  “You probably will. And then maybe you won’t.” Sloane tried not to imagine how bad it could be. “You need a shower. Those abrasions need cleaning up at the very least.”

  “You’re going use the last seven bucks on your Mexican food card to get me a motel room?”

  “No.” Sloane managed a small smile. What was she saying? Was she really going to—? “My place is minuscule. But I have a shower and soap. And a couch. It comes with a cat, but you’re welcome to bunk there tonight. Get cleaned up, have some breakfast in the morning. I’ll buy you a bus ticket—loan you the money. You can pay that back too.”

  “I don’t know. . . .”

  Sloane took a slow breath. “Suit yourself. I guess there’s no reason you should trust me, either.”

  “I like cats. And I know I stink. I’ll take your couch.”

  “Good.”

  Sloane reached for the gearshift, her hand trembling. Her whole insides were jittering. She’d probably regret this idiot idea. She needed to be working on her statement for the parole board. And there was the meeting tonight. Right now, as a matter of fact . . .

  “You see yourself as some sort of guardian angel?”

  “Nope.” Sloane’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. She pulled out of the parking space. “No angel here.”

  “Hmm.” Zoey wadded her hat and wedged it against the window, using it as a makeshift pillow. She closed her eyes. “Good. I wouldn’t know how to handle that.”

  Me either.

  Sloane lowered the window and breathed in the air. It definitely wasn’t a Rodeo Drive fragrance, but it wasn’t all that bad. Asphalt, motor oil, too-ripe fruit . . . hot dogs, bacon. Reality, but only borderline stinking. She wasn’t sure exactly why she’d done what she had—offered this kid her home—except that she’d had to. Couldn’t not do it. Any more than she could have stopped herself from running into the parking lot to save her from the would-be kidnapper.

  “You did a good thing, Sloane. I told you that before—I meant it.”

  The marketing man, trying to convince her to go public.

  He’d seen her at the restaurant tonight. Maybe he recognized Zoey, too. Surprisingly, Sloane didn’t really care. She was breaking her own rules for something that felt important. One thing, one night. Not a huge deal.

  “There was nothing ‘great’ about what I did. It didn’t change her life, and a dumb-luck incident in a hospital parking lot won’t ever change mine. It’s not like one random event can just pop things back into perfect alignment.”

  Sloane was no Yoda, but what she’d said in that office was the truth. She’d done what she’d had to. It wasn’t remarkable and, in the grand scheme of things, didn’t really matter. Someone like Micah Prescott wanted fanfare; he needed to put a marketable face on every action. Get some tangible value from it. He’d never understand—

  “What’s its name?” Zoey raised her head from the window, eyes sleepy.

  “Name?”

  “Your cat.”

  Sloane smiled. “Marty.”

  “But I packed a dinner for him,” the woman told Micah, denial replacing shock in her expression. Kathryn Fontana was about his mother’s age, attractive. Her eyes were red-rimmed and dazed as she twisted the dish towel in her lap. She’d been making a pie, and the house smelled of apples bubbling in cinnamon. Cindy, Micah’s crisis partner tonight, had discreetly turned off the burners and oven as Micah got Mrs. Fontana settled on the living room couch and pulled up a chair opposite her. Cindy was in the dining room now, checking with the coroner’s office regarding details.

  “A Waldorf salad,” Mrs. Fontana continued. “I made a big bowl of it because I had leftover apples and because it’s our daughter’s favorite too.” She gestured toward a framed photo on a bookshelf, a graduation shot of a dark-haired girl chin-deep in a flowery ruff of leis, her arms linked with her parents’. “It’s Brandi’s first year at OSU. Her cousin’s a junior. They’re driving down for the weekend. Tomorrow. They’ll be here tomorrow afternoon.” Tears welled.

  Micah leaned forward a little, his throat tightening. Listen. Just listen.

  “You see, Jim eats his dinner in the shop’s break room along with his employees,” she explained as if convincing Micah of that, telling him these details about her family, would change everything. Erase the unimaginable. “It’s a small company, almost like family, and he likes to encourage that relationship. Ask about their kids, hear any concerns, and talk sports and that sort of thing. Jim had his salad tonight. And some broiled chicken—no salt. Doctor’s orders. I’m careful about that.”

  Micah nodded, waiting for the question he knew was coming.

  “It doesn’t make sense that he’d be at the deli. Because I made his dinner.” Her knuckles whitened on the towel, eyes pleading as she finally voiced it. “They’re sure it’s him? My Jim? It couldn’t be a mistake?”

  Please, Lord, be here. . . .

  Micah held her gaze. “Your husband had his wallet in his pocket, Mrs. Fontana. His work ID badge was clipped to his shirt.” He tried not to imagine the kindhearted man grabbing a forbidden pastrami, maybe even joking with the Wises’ grandson while some irresponsible drunk climbed behind the wheel. Deep breath. This isn’t personal.

  “I wish it weren’t true,” Micah finished, “but the police have no doubt your husband was hit by the truck. And died from his injuries.”

  “Say died. Dead. Not passed away, gone. Leave no room for confusion in the survivor’s mind.” The crisis training was clear. The reality painfully complicated. Always.

  Mrs. Fontana’s voice was a ragged whisper. “Jim’s . . . dead.”

  “We’ll help in any way we can,” Micah assured her. “Cindy can make calls for you, if that helps. I’ll explain what’s going to happen and what needs to be taken care of. I’ll walk you through each step. One thing at a time, no rush.”

  She began to tremble. “This is happening. It’s real.”

  “Yes. Here . . . you’re shivering.” Micah grabbed a lap blanket from the arm of the couch and settled it around the new widow’s shoulders. Before he could return to his chair, she grasped his hand. He sank down onto the couch beside her.

  “Thank you,” she said, tears spilling over. She glanced toward the dining room, then back at Micah. “Both of you. I can’t say how much it means to have someone here right now.”

  “We must never forget that when we make that connection with a survivor, we forever become part of the event too. Part of the pain and, God willing, a first step in the healing as well.”

  “I don’t think I could do this alone,” she added.

  “You don’t have to.” Micah gave her hand a small squeeze. “That’s why we’re here. Let’s get you some water and we’ll work on a list of calls.”

  “We have a pastor.”

  “Good. We can start there.”

  Forever part of the event . . .

  Micah thought of Sloane’s insistence that the parking lot incident was “over and done.” That her actions wouldn’t change anything. And yet there she was with that girl tonight. Helping her again, probably. It was a good bet she didn’t want any credit—or visibility. Which was the reason he’d brushed off Coop’s question about seeing her. He wasn’t going to breach her privacy when it came to the media; Micah would respect that. But he had more than a few concerns about how it could reflect on the hospital. And he had a gut sense she’d waded neck-deep into trouble.

  8

&n
bsp; “I DON’T HAVE NATURALLY PINK HAIR.” Zoey sank her fingertips into her shower-damp roots. She tossed Sloane an impish smile. “But you probably guessed that.”

  “Probably. But I’m the last person who should go all preachy on the subject of hair,” Sloane admitted, unable to block the intruding memory.

  “Absolutely not, sir. She’s six years old. You won’t find any reputable beautician willing to bleach that child’s hair. . . .”

  “That’s not your natural shade?” Zoey asked.

  “Natural as it’s been in years. But six months ago you’d’ve been looking at spikes,” Sloane added. “Burgundy.”

  “Yeah?” Zoey returned to studying her hangnail.

  The cottage grew quiet again; the only sound was the tumble of the dryer in the hallway beyond. Zoey’s clothes.

  Sloane peeked at the wall clock, thinking for the umpteenth time that she was crazy to have brought this girl home. Zoey was a complete stranger and Sloane never invited anyone here. Still, she’d reconciled herself with that. And it wasn’t as though this girl seemed dangerous in any way. Squeezed tight as a bedbug into the other corner of this too-small plaid couch, she looked more like a detainee than a serial killer. It was just that this was so excruciatingly awkward. Worse than awkward. More like two people with no social skills stuck in an elevator. In an abandoned building—holding empty plastic cups.

  “Hey!” Zoey laughed as the black cat leaped into her lap, collar tags jingling. “You little acrobat.”

  On the other hand, her cat was the best idea Sloane had ever had.

  “Named after some guy?” Zoey asked, scratching under his chin. She lifted an ID tag. “Marty. A boyfriend?”

  “No.” Sloane’s heart cramped without warning. Too much history. Sacramento and the furtive, failed romance, San Diego and the accident . . . “It’s short for Save Mart. I found him at an animal shelter. Marty’s whole litter was tied up in a grocery bag and tossed off a pier.”