“Waking up in the car. Vomiting in the grass.”
“Nyet. Before that.”
“Uhhh. Derek was taking me for lunch. He showed me his costume for the party. Ohhh. The party, tonight…”
“Do you remember anything after that?”
I shook my head, instantly regretting it.
He muttered something.
“What?”
But Max was stil muttering, “… never thought…”
“Max, what are you talking about?” My head screamed, so I rested it in my hands, trying to keep it from flying to pieces.
He ignored me and flipped open his cel phone. A string of Russian words rol ed out of his mouth. Al of them too loud. I heard an answering set of words flinging back in kind. Cat’s voice.
“Da, wiped. Can he…? Shit.”
“Cat’l get on you about your language if you don’t stop,” I warned. Ow.
“Nyet. She smel s okay.”
I most certainly did not smel okay. Not after my vomit-fest.
“Nyet, Cat. He didn’t … nyet. I’d rip his ba—”
Cat plowed through more Russian.
“Nyet. I’m bringing her over,” Max barked.
“What?” I asked.
“We need to talk, Cat.” He hung up. “Buckle up,” he commanded, checking his side-view mirror.
“Damn it, Max. I may not remember how I got here, but I’m not stupid. What’s going on?”
He reached across me and tugged the door shut.
My hands fought with the seat belt until it clicked. Images rushed me. Derek and me curled up and kissing in the backseat of the Mercedes. No. Impossible. I struggled to examine the memory more closely.
Something was off. The perspective? I was seeing more of me than Derek. Like I was Derek. Like the memory was … I held my head more tightly, hoping I could keep it from tearing down the center.
My stomach rioted as I realized. I never went anywhere without my seat belt buckled.
“Stop,” I said as he readied to pul back into traffic. My head was going to split open like an overripe melon. I slung open the door just in time to throw up again.
“Max,” I whispered, “I need to know what’s going on.”
“Here, drink some of this.” He passed me a Gatorade.
I rinsed and spit with the stuff before taking a tentative drink. I gulped down a few sips and screwed the cap back on.
cap back on.
His voice cool and measured— cautious— he said, “You were out with Derek. You had some food and started feeling real y sick and the jackass didn’t know what to do, so he cal ed me to get you since he knows I drive and we hang out.” His gaze darted to me again.
“Eyes on the road,” I reminded.
He obeyed. “Jessie, food poisoning wil wipe you out.” His jaw worked silently. “Derek’s selfish.
Unreliable.” He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again before saying through a grimace, “Jessie, you need to stay clear of Derek. For me.”
“Max…” The clock in the dash glowed cruel y. “My appointment! How did I forget? I have to get to counseling. If I don’t…”
He nodded sharply, did an absolutely il egal U-turn, and didn’t say another word as he drove me to Dr.
Jones’s office.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Are you sleeping wel ?” Dr. Jones asked, her voice skipping around in my hol owed out skul . Loudly.
“No,” I groaned. “I keep having nightmares.”
“Mmhmm.” She scribbled something down on her blasted clipboard. Also loudly.
“Your father is concerned.”
“I know.”
“He’s more concerned since he found the gun.”
My head jerked up and I winced. “What are you talking about?” Unease crawled through my stomach, tying bows in my guts.
“The gun he found under your pil ow.”
The one time Dad beat me to the laundry and it hadn’t occurred to me that there was no longer a gun under my pil ow. I was way too new at al this subterfuge stuff.
“Are you scared of someone?”
This time I moved my head slowly, but I stil felt utterly disoriented looking straight at her. “No.”
“Why would you sleep with a gun under your pil ow?”
I thought. Hard. “I’m a competition shooter. I was loaned a new piece. An old training technique includes keeping a gun at hand almost al the time to familiarize a shooter with it. Like the way cops wear holsters even when they’re not on duty.” I paused. “Did Dad tel you where the gun came from?”
“He confirmed that a family friend, Wanda, loaned a gun to you. For competition.” She tapped the pen on the clipboard, frowning. “The mind is amazing, explaining away things that deeply bother people in oddly logical ways. Your father may accept your excuse. And I admit I’m not wel versed in the subculture of competition shooting. But I’m also not one hundred percent convinced there isn’t more to a gun being under your pil ow.” She frowned. “Do you want to hurt yourself?”
“No. I’m trying to get a grip. Have a more normal life.”
Scribble, scribble.
“The number of suicides in the area has recently escalated,” she commented.
“The train track suicides. Yes, I know. And yet, here I am. Thril ed to be in counseling. Weren’t we supposed to be focusing on a healthy expression of my grief?”
Scribble. “You seem disoriented. Have you been drinking?”
“I have too few brain cel s natural y to waste any on a temporary buzz.”
Scribble. “Drugs?”
“Just write See Above— the same philosophy applies. Look, I had a real y lousy lunch. Food poisoning of epic proportions. It’s messed me up.”
“I’d like to get a urine sample.”
“Give me your coffee cup.”
Scribble, scribble, scribble.
She stood, her heels clip-clopping a rhythm on the floor. Thrusting a plastic cup into my hand she said,
“Down the hal and to your right.”
I shuffled away, found the rest room, and peed into the cup. I stayed in the bathroom a moment longer, resting my hands on the cool sink and peering into the mirror at my image—thrown back to me under harsh fluorescent light.
Not a good thing.
There were places where fluorescents should be hung over mirrors—like in hel (or public school bathrooms—hey, they had things in common), and in underground CIA corridors, but not somewhere you hoped to improve a person’s attitude about themselves. Standing there, my brain felt like mush.