Page 74 of Thicker Than Water
He turns to go, but I grab him by the arm. “Seriously? You’re just going to walk away?”
Like he did from the party. Like he did from the crash. Like he did from prison. Each time unscathed. Unscarred. Unaccountable.
Clive looks at my hand, my fingers bolted around his bicep, then looks at me. “What else can I do?”
I grip tighter, but I don’t answer. I hiss in breaths, huff them back out. My palm feels like an iron burning through fabric, straight to his arm.
“Hey!” he says. “Shit, you’re bleeding!”
I follow his gaze, and when I see it—bright red smeared across the white of his sweatshirt—I leap back, checking my hand.
There are semicircles gouged there, each one deep and dark. But only one of my nails actually broke the skin. I wipe at it, more curious than alarmed, but the blood doesn’t stop. It wells in my palm like tears in an eye.
As the sun skirts from behind the clouds, it shines on my wound. The red gleams in the light. I stare at it in awe.
“Shit,” Clive repeats. And when a man exits his car and sees my cut, sees the scuff of blood on Clive’s shirt, he approaches with caution, like I’m a rabid animal—unleashed and untamed.
“What’s going on here? Ma’am, are you okay?”
Even as the man expresses concern, he looks so spooked. Like he’s never seen somebody admire their own wound. I glance at Clive and see the same fear on his face. He’s shocked by my strength, my power—how exquisite it all is. And I could do anything right now.
Leaving them there, I march to my car. I ignore the calls of “Ma’am?” and “Sienna?” that would only slow me down.
In the driver’s seat, I punch Henry’s address into GPS. My fingers smudge the screen with red, giving it a glossy, angry sheen, and I love it, I love it. I might never clean it off.
What else can I do?Clive asked. He can burn in hell. But beyond that: nothing. Because he can’t go back to those nights, can’t un-touch me, un-whisper in my ear, un-press me to some stranger’s wall. He can’t un-drink, un-drive, un-sentence himself to an insulting number of years. The damage he’s done is permanent, fathomless; it’s branded onto all of my bones, and I’ll be damned if I let another injustice mark me like that again.
I’m glad Jules isn’t here. She’d only try to cool my fire. She’s never understood that my fire is not a flaw, not a thing to be extinguished. It’s beautiful and dangerous and fucked-up and perfect—and it’s fueling me now, fifty miles an hour on sleepy back roads. I won’t let up, won’t lift my foot from the gas, because the cops are useless, Henry’s a liar, and I’m ready to do anything—Icando anything—to smoke out the truth.
“Your destination is on the left,” my GPS tells me, and I pull up to the curb on the right side of the street. It’s a rundown house—a duplex with sagging porches and drainage issues, from the looks of the swampy front yard. It’s exactly the kind of place a bankrupt business owner would be able to afford.
I rummage through my purse, looking for a napkin or tissue, something to wipe the blood off my hand before I head up Henry’s walkway and knock on his door.
Or maybe I should make sure he sees it. Make sure he knows exactly what I’m made of.
I waffle too long on the decision, because now the door to the duplex’s garage is opening. Brake lights flash, and a car reverses down the driveway, quick and careless. When it swings onto the street, I’m close enough to identify the man behind the wheel.
Shit. He’s already getting away from me.
Henry’s timing is immaculate, almost like he knew I was coming, like he could feel my rage, my need, barreling closer, and decided to flee.
As he takes off down the road, I don’t think, don’t plan. I only follow.
We snake through quiet neighborhoods, pass through streets that are dotted with storefronts, until we’re back in the bustling section of Hillstead. The Home Depot is up the road, half a mile away. Maybe that Customer Service kid was wrong. Maybe Henry is on the schedule today. But soon, he streaks past the entrance, glides through a green light, and keeps on going.
When he finally makes a turn, it’s toward a building I’ve never looked twice at: Hillstead Community Center. He parks, and I park, tucking my car into the row behind Henry’s, and if he’s noticed me following him, he doesn’t show it. He only sits in his driver’s seat, and when I crane forward to peer through his back windshield, I can tell he’s scrolling on his phone.
I drum my fingers on the wheel—smeared now with my blood. I lean back, stretch out my arms, feel my veins pulse and pulse, expectant and electric.
I craft my questions, my line of interrogation:Where were you really last Friday night? Why did you lie to the police? Who’s this friend who lied for you too? What did you mean when you told Gavin Reed “You should have kept your mouth shut”?
Thud, thud, thud—my heart, my drumming hands.Thud, thud—Thud.
The rhythm stutters. Then it stops.
Because another car has just pulled into the lot. It passes Henry’s, passes mine, parks diagonal from me with its bumper facing out. And on that bumper: a dent I’d know anywhere.
A lopsided, crumpled heart.
