But should I be saved?
I murdered a man, and this officer was simply doing his job. Why was I hiding? Why was I avoiding my punishment?
Speaking of the man, Hercule Poirot himself appeared next to me, standing over me like a pillar of judgment. He was older, from the ’20s era, three-piece suit.
The only difference being that he stared down at me with disappointment, shaking his head. “Really, Jeraline, this is very unbecoming of you. If this officer is a good detective, you will be caught and brought in for an accounting of your actions right away. Hiding in these . . . stacks . . . won’t help you.”
Guilt replaced fear, but then flipped right back to terror as I tried to ignore him and his stupid truthful words.
Rachel walked by without seeing me. “Where is that girl?”
That was too close.
Crawling down another row of stacks, Poirot followed me with more glares of disappointment. “This only makes you look guilty.”
“I am guilty,” I shot back.
I really, really was.
Poirot nodded, acknowledging my confession. “True, but there is a certain civilization in at least carrying yourself with some dignity. Turn yourself in. Now’s your chance.”
He was right. Now was the perfect opportunity to hand myself over to the authorities without anyone getting hurt. I almost stood up. I almost decided to do it.
But like the coward I was, I panicked and crawled down the aisle at full speed toward the front exit.
Poirot shook his head once more, then disappeared.
Arriving at the end of the aisle, I was about to make a mad dash for the door when a pair of legs stepped in my way.
Slowly, I cranked my neck up to see Rachel, glowering at me.
I managed a half laugh that sounded both creepy and absurd. “I . . .”
My fear and guilt turned to confusion as the officer finished paying for a book and left the bookstore.
I carefully stood up, embarrassed and befuddled.
Rachel stared at me as if I were an escapee from an insane asylum. “That nice officer needed your help, and you’re here crawling on the floor? Did you hear me calling you?”
“No, I . . . didn’t,” I lied.
Eyeing me up and down, Rachel sighed, exasperated. “See that it doesn’t happen again.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Rachel left toward the back of the store, and I ran a hand through my hair trying to calm my frazzled nerves.
As the officer walked by the window, he turned toward me, staring into my soul, recognition in his eyes.
He pounded on the window in slow motion, his voice distorted. “Murderer!”
I jumped back, and the officer was as he was before, normal speed, walking past the window and out of view.
Rooted to the ground, I tried to move, to function, to do anything.
Edmond materialized in front of me, placing his hands on my shoulders. “You defended yourself. You are not a murderer.”
My mouth was dry, and my throat felt as if it were closing. Edmond’s words weren’t registering.
“Jeraline?” Edmond shook my shoulders not so gently. “Snap out of it. You have a life to live.”
I found my voice. “How can I? When I ended someone else’s?”
“By taking one step at a time, physically and mentally. You may have ended that criminal’s life, but it wasn’t intentional. It was survival. As you survived that moment, you will survive this moment.” Edmond kept his eyes trained on mine.
I pushed down my overwhelming feelings of dread and guilt and forced myself to walk toward the counter. Edmond disappeared with an expression of concern on his face.
Not even seeing Josh could force the ache in my stomach to go away as I approached him. Before I made a fool of myself, I nodded toward the stacks and my abandoned cart. “I better finish.”
Innocent and kind eyes sparkled in greeting, and Josh offered, “You need any help?”
“No, I’m good. Thanks, though.”
I left for the stacks.
Shockingly, the rest of the day proceeded without mishap. I began to feel almost normal again as we locked up for the night.
Entering the night air, with garbage in one hand, my backpack full of art supplies and dinner for Hank in the other, my fears had subsided a bit for calmness. I decided to enjoy the moment.
Tossing the garbage in the dumpster, I searched for Hank. “Hank?”
Stepping up next to the dumpster wasn’t Hank, it was my attacker.
Backing up in fear, all the terror rushed back to me.
“Jeraline?” My attacker morphed into Hank, his expression concerned. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Mortified at what Hank must have thought, I shook my head, stepping forward. “No, Hank, I’m sorry. I’m a bit jumpy lately. Here.”
Pulling out the plastic bag full of art supplies and Hank’s dinner from my backpack, I handed them to him.
Hank stared at the art supplies in the bag, his voice quiet as he said, “I didn’t think you’d do it.”
“What do you mean? You promised me a painting.” I pretended not to understand his doubts, but my body tightened at the thought that he’d questioned my sincerity.
Breathing deep, Hank beamed. “I will start tonight.”
That was when I noticed how clean Hank was and that his clothes appeared fresh and new. “Hey, you got new clothes.” I didn’t want to make a big deal of it, not sure how insecure he might be.
But he had an air of assurance that I’d only ever seen when he talked of the past. “I found a nice shelter a few blocks from here near the hospital. They gave me clothes and a shower. I can’t go every day, but at least I have a nice bed to look forward to a couple times a week.”
Warmth spread through my limbs at the thought of Hank having a place to rest his head. Even if it wasn’t every night like he deserved, at least it was something. “That’s great, Hank.”
