18

Minneapolis

“What the hell, Lemming!” Connor Sawyer jumped away from Salem. “Did you piss yourself?”

Salem stood in the warm puddle of her pants, fear mashing with shame to create a horrible, throat-clogging paste. She turned slowly so she was facing him. Her face was on fire.

Connor laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. He was a beefy man, blond, with the kind of face that would be hard to describe to a police sketch artist without making him sound like a Johnny Fabulous cartoon character. When Salem had first spotted him at the Law Library two years earlier, she’d blushed. He hadn’t even glanced her way. A week later, he finally noticed her when he checked out some books. He’d invited himself over that night.

“How’d you get in here?” Her voice was high and squeaky. She wanted to run to the bathroom, strip her clothes off, burn them, never show her face again.

He was still smiling, staring at the drops dangling from the hem of her jeans before joining the pool on the floor. She saw him parsing the words in this head, deciding how he would tell this story to his friends for maximum humor. “The stoner next door let me in. I was heading to a friend’s Halloween party up the street. Thought I’d stop by while I was in the neighborhood.”

The fear subsided enough for her to notice his costume. He had nickels taped to the back of his t-shirt. He caught her glance. “My favorite band.”

In that moment, she saw their relationship for what it was—she was his booty call, plain and simple. He wasn’t stopping by to ask her to tonight’s party, or to any party. He’d never once appeared in public with her, which was her fault as much as his, but it still hurt. He would never take her to the doctor if she was sick, ask her about her day, or care which of the Jordan neighborhood kids she’d helped or what computer program she’d written.

They didn’t have a relationship, never would, no matter what she hoped for or tolerated from him. What was even more painful was the awareness that she still cared what he thought, cared desperately, and here she was standing in front of him drenched in her own urine.

The scraping sound of the hallway fire door made her yelp. Bel was coming! Salem tossed an afghan over the puddle on the floor and leapt toward the bathroom.

“It’s normal to lose bladder control when you’re scared, right?” Salem asked as they dropped off Bel’s duffel at the Delta counter. When Salem had gotten herself all cleaned up and worked up the courage to leave the bathroom, she’d discovered Connor and Bel on opposite ends of the couch, paging through magazines, not talking, Beans knitting mittens on Bel’s lap. While Connor and Bel had never before met, and in fact Salem had never even mentioned him to Bel, they’d clearly struck up an immediate and lasting dislike for one another.

Connor had left shortly after.

It had taken Salem the rest of the evening and the entire drive to the airport to tell Bel that she’d been “seeing” Connor for over a year and that he’d scared the living daylights out of her.

“You need to dump that asshole,” Bel stated unequivocally. They’d both packed light, but Bel was checking her bag so she could haul her Glock 19. “Here. You can use my phone.”

Salem didn’t take it. “Not now. Maybe later.”

“How’d he get in?” Bel asked, watching her bag ride the belt out of sight.

“Said Skanky Dave let him in. That’s the first time Dave has ever done that.”

“You should have kneed him,” Bel said, accepting her luggage receipt from the attendant. “That’s exactly what he deserves for breaking into your apartment and scaring you like that.” She led the way through the crowd, raising her voice to be heard. “Actually, if I read his douche meter accurately, he’s earned a good kneeing simply by being Connor Sawyer. But damn, Salem, a decent guy doesn’t jump people. Ever. I’m going to bone you up on the Krav Maga.”

Salem jogged so she could walk alongside Bel. “You know the weirdest part? When I was walking him out, he offered to watch Beans. He’s never offered something like that before.”

Bel rolled her eyes. “What a hero.”

The security line loomed ahead. As horrible as Connor’s surprise had been, it had distracted her from much of the worry about leaving Minnesota. After that wore off, she had let the Ativan and her rational mind convince her that this wouldn’t be so bad, Bel was by her side, the worst had already happened when her dad had died and Grace and Vida had disappeared, and it was time to take action and stop being afraid.

If she passed through security, however, she’d be committing to leaving, to tempting Fate, the Universe, God, whoever, demonstrating to them that she didn’t respect their power to rip her world into twitching shreds. That’s why she had never left Minnesota, hadn’t left the Twin Cities since her dad’s suicide, had lived her quiet life in its prescribed track.

Chaos lived beyond.

Salem knew she had to walk through security to save her mom and Gracie, but a fear so raw it burned like shame churned the fourteen-year-old memory to the tiptop of her consciousness: Daniel Wiley wading into the cool abyss of Nelson Lake (Mom, where was Mom), Salem on shore, twelve years old and wearing her first bikini, so proud of its rainbow colors, of her flat belly, of the way the shadow of her hips curved on the movie screen of the dirty brown beach.

When she looked up, her dad had disappeared, had been underwater far too long, but she was too scared shocked this can’t be real it’s happening to someone else to save him, to even scream for help. A family from Iowa, renting the cabin next door, had found her on the shore, unconscious, bleeding from her left cheek, a cut she sustained when she fainted.

Her dad’s body surfaced later that evening.

She had never told anyone, not even Bel, that she hadn’t tried to rescue him.

She weighed and measured that reality every day of her life.

“You okay?” Bel asked.

Salem was twirling a chunk of hair with her finger. Twirling, pulling, twisting. Suddenly, the lock was in her hand, loose, something you’d find in the drain. A man wearing a trench coat and pulling a wheelie suitcase pushed against her to get into line. Bel shoved him back. A TSA officer was striding toward them. Salem was breaking into so many tiny pieces that she’d never be whole again.

“Salem.”

Bel gripped her hands. Salem saw the gesture but could not feel it.

“It’s okay to be scared. I’m scared too.”

Salem looked into her eyes, her teeth chattering. She’d stared into those blue pools more than she’d looked at anything except a computer screen.

“You remember the baby ducks?” Bel asked. “You were eight. Nine, maybe. I was sleeping over. You and I snuck to Powderhorn to break into the wading pool, except you heard something.” Bel squeezed her hands. “Remember?”

Salem did, distantly, and then with greater focus. There’d been a heavy rain, and it had washed the streets with that bright green smell like the inside of a grass blade. They’d gotten as far as the slide when Salem heard the noise.

“It was a baby duck, trapped in a cistern.” Bel put her hands on her hips. “I know you remember. And I wanted to get somebody, but you said we didn’t have time. You pulled off your jacket, grabbed one sleeve and made me hold the other end so you could save that duckling.”

The pit had been as dark as a grave. They’d only known a duckling was down there from its frantic cheeps. Maybe it’s trying to steer clear of the alligators and clowns that’re also down there, Salem remembered thinking. But she’d gone down, gripping the elastic end of that jacket so tightly that even now, almost two decades later, she could call up that feeling of her hand bones crushing together.

“That’s right,” Bel said, kissing her forehead. “You’ve got a superhero in there. And both our moms need her now, so come on.”

“Yeah.” Salem bit her lip and stepped into line.

“Hey.” Bel lightly punched Salem’s arm. “How about we make a deal?”

“What?”

Bel’s eyes were sad, but there was a twinkle to them. “If we get through this, you and me, next time you see that Connor dude, you flush him like the turd he is.” She held out her pointer finger and pinkie for Salem to match in their ritual gesture. “Deal?”

The gesture was automatic. Salem touched her matching fingers to Bel’s. “Deal.”

But she couldn’t match Bel’s smile, as faint as it was, because an icy dread had taken up residence between her heart and stomach. She and Bel wouldn’t be coming back to Minnesota, not ever. She was sure of it.