He brushed his thumb against her cheek. “Yes, you are.”
She cleared her throat. “It’s from the rain.”
He looked at her, didn’t believe her; she didn’t expect him to.
“You’re shaking.” He ran his hand up her sleeve.
“And wet. You came through the storm to find me. How?”
“Lucky guess.”
“I don’t believe in luck,” he said. “Divine intervention.”
“Don’t start down that path, Rafe,” she whispered.
He rubbed her arms, put his arm around her shoulders, and pulled her close to him. Her heart was racing. Why was she nervous around him? He wasn’t possessed, he wasn’t a spirit; he was unusual, and strange, but he was a person. A man.
“Let’s go,” she said.
“I’m in your hands.”
Something shifted painfully inside her. Moira had always been a loner, especially after Peter died. But just lately, people were depending on her. Jared. Lily. And now Rafe Cooper.
She didn’t want the responsibility. All Moira wanted was to stop her mother.
She pulled away from Rafe and stood, holding out her hand. He looked at it for a moment, then grasped it with a strength that surprised her given his ill appearance. She pulled him up; her workouts with Rico and her daily exercises kept her fit. But suddenly Rafe towered over her and she took a step back, startled.
Then he staggered, dizzy, and she caught him.
“Let’s go slowly,” she said.
She eased Rafe out of the cabin, into the dark, misty rain, and down the unpaved road to the truck. By the time she got him into the passenger seat, Rafe was weakening, and once again in pain. She didn’t want to take him to the hospital, but if he was in serious distress she didn’t think she’d have a choice.
She hopped into the driver’s seat and said, “Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?”
“I’m not sure about anything, but I can’t go back to the hospital. I wasn’t in a coma, but I wasn’t awake either. I don’t know what they were doing to me, but something … I just …” He stopped, looked at her, and Moira felt the anguish and confusion rolling off him.
“It’s okay.” She reached for him, held his hand and squeezed. “I have a safe place.”
He stared at her, his dark eyes troubled, fathomless. “There’s no place safe enough for either of us. But if we go back to the hospital, they’ll kill me.”
They won the game, no thanks to Chris.
“Don’t sweat it, you had a bad day. It happens to all of us.” Travis slapped Chris on the back as they boarded the bus back to school. “You’ll be on your game next week.”
Chris shrugged off his friend’s comments. Bad days didn’t happen to Travis Ehrlich. He was perfect, he had everything, he had the scholarship to UCLA and was MVP and scored twenty-fucking-eight points-including six three-pointers-in the game.
“Let’s hang at my place,” Travis said. “My mom’s working late; we’ll have the place to ourselves. ’Kay?”
“Whatever.” Chris didn’t want to look at Travis, let alone spend any time with him. He took a seat in the back of the bus and sulked while Travis took kudos from the coach and the rest of the team.
After the bus started down the dark highway, Coach sat across from Chris. “Listen, Kidd, you screwed up but I know you’re better than this. Get your head together and we’ll work one-on-one tomorrow after practice.” He slapped him on the shoulder, then went back to the front of the bus.
It was obvious to Chris that Coach was simply placating him. Coach could care less about Chris and his future. It was all Travis all the time. The Santa Louisa Star Player, the Local Boy Done Good. Asshole. Prick.
Why did Travis have all the talent? Because he was black, that’s why. God gave black guys all the moves. It had nothing to do with working harder, practicing, it was because they were born black and sports just came easier to them. Chris had to work his ass off for every point, every ounce of sweat. That should matter, dammit, it should
Forty minutes later, the bus pulled into the school parking lot and everyone got out, unusually quiet after a win. As they were gathering their gear from the undercarriage storage, Chris overheard Coach tell Travis, “You’re Kidd’s buddy, see what you can do with him.”
Can
Travis came over to Chris, his duffel tossed over his shoulder. He handed Chris his bag. “My place?”
Chris stared at the bag. What the fuck was wrong with him? Travis was his best friend; they’d been buddies since Travis moved up from L.A. six years ago after his dad died. His dad had been a beat cop, killed by gangbangers as part of a ritual stunt. Travis wanted to be a cop; his basketball scholarship was his ticket to college because his mom couldn’t afford to send him.
And Chris wanted to kill him. His hands itched to punch Travis’s face, to beat him to death. His anger and jealously surged, and Chris shook his head, trying to rid his mind of the violent image.
Excruciating, blinding pain hit Chris all at once. It was as if a knife were slowing carving his scalp from his skull, and he fell to his knees, his hands holding his head.
“Chris? Coach!
Chris didn’t hear anything but the drumbeat in his brain. His hands were sticky and he was choking on something. But the foul, metallic taste was nothing compared to the numbing pain.
He mumbled something, over and over, but didn’t know if his brain translated it to his mouth.
Coach ran over, knelt beside him. “What happened?”
“I don’t know! He just fell over. Why are his ears bleeding? What’s happening?”
“Chris, can you hear me?” Coach shouted.
Travis knelt beside him, took his hand. “Hold on, Chris.”
“Sorry sorry sorry.”
“Call 911,” Coach said as he took off his jacket and stuffed it under Chris’s head. He pulled off his T-shirt and wrapped it around Chris’s ears and skull, tightening it, and applied pressure as Travis dialed 911.
The last thing Chris heard before he lost consciousness was Travis on the phone. “I need an ambulance at Santa Louisa High School. My buddy is bleeding a lot. Coach-”
Coach took the phone, but Chris didn’t hear what he said.
He died in the ambulance.
EIGHTEEN
And it’s never pretty when somebody’s dream dies
But those are the rules in a mean little town
At 1830 hours, a 911 call of shots fired came in from Rittenhouse Furniture Emporium. Now, thirty-three minutes later, Skye commanded the crime scene from a makeshift staging area, the beams from several squad cars lighting up the parking lot. Inside the store, an employee held several hostages at gunpoint.
Skye listened in as Deputy David Collins talked on his phone to a victim, the manager Grace Chin, who was hiding in a bathroom stall and had had the wherewithal to call out using her cell phone.
