“For what?”
I hold up my aching, mangled wrist. The night has given it time to swell even more and turn an angry mottled black and blue.
Her eyes widen in that expressive, childlike way. “What happened?”
“I fell.” I nod toward our fridge with a whisper of “go” before the onslaught of questions start.
Taking the receiver in my left hand, I settle into the chair. “Hey, Mom.”
“Are you insane? You climbed into a burning car?” My mom’s shrill voice fills my ear, catching me off guard.
Panic sets in. Did the police release my name against my wishes? “How did you—”
“Keith was jogging by and ran into your father. He told him.”
“Oh.” I sink into the La-Z-Boy with a wave of overwhelming relief, even as I remind myself to call and yell at Keith the moment I hang up with her. What was he thinking? I’ll bet passing by my parents’ house isn’t even his usual route, especially right after a midnight shift.
But at least the reporters haven’t figured it out. Yet.
I smile my thanks at Brenna as she settles the ice pack on my lap, already wrapped in a tea towel to lessen the bite of the cold. She clambers into the small space beside me in the chair, her tongue curling out as she grins. A telltale sign that she’s proud to be helping me.
“Keith said you weren’t going to tell us?”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal! Have you turned on your TV? The story is all over the news.” Before I can answer, she hollers, “Ted, turn up the volume!”
Reporters’ voices fill the background and I picture my parents, sitting at the kitchen table with their coffees in hand, already dressed for the day when most people would happily sit in their robes and enjoy a lazy Saturday morning.
All over the news. Great. I glance over at the old tube TV sitting in the corner, resisting the urge to search out CNN. While I probably don’t censor myself as much as I should in front of Brenna, she doesn’t need to be exposed to that first thing.
“I mean, seriously, your car is right there, on TV!”
“Yeah, it’s toast.” Burned toast, to be more specific. “What else have they said?”
“Just that there was a witness. But they haven’t released your name.”
“And I don’t want them to. You haven’t told anyone, have you?”
“No, of course not. Keith asked us not to,” she answers with a hint of indignation in her tone. I swear, the guy walks on water as far as they’re concerned.
“Okay, good. Please, don’t. Tell anyone, I mean. Especially not Emma and Jack.”
“I wouldn’t. They’re still taking their exams. I don’t want this affecting their grades.”
It’s not an outright accusation, but I hear the hidden tone behind it. Less than an A would be due to Catherine’s recklessness. I told you so, Keith!
“I don’t want this circus in Brenna’s life.” I use my five-year-old as a scapegoat, but in reality, I can’t handle it.
“Circus?” Brenna’s eyes widen, hopeful. “We’re going to a circus?”
I shush her with a kiss on the forehead.
“Be realistic. You won’t be able to stop this, Cath.”
“I’m going to try.” Keith is right, the police don’t have to officially release my name. But word of mouth will out me, and in a town this small and connected, it’ll out me pretty damn fast. Considering who Brett Madden is, I’m afraid “circus” might be an understatement.
“I just . . . We . . . What were you thinking, climbing into a burning car? You could have died.” Her normally even voice breaks with a rare show of emotion.
“It wasn’t fully on fire . . . yet,” I mumble, closing my eyes. I can’t really fault her for her reaction. The only time I ever lose my temper with Brenna is when she’s doing something dangerous. Just imagining her with a broken leg is enough to make me want to lock her up in our house for good.
“What was on fire?” Brenna chirps next to me.
I lean away from her prying ears, hoping she can’t hear my mother through the receiver. “I wasn’t really thinking at the time.”
“Obviously.”
“Mommy! What was on fire?” Brenna tugs impatiently at my arm.
I let out a hiss of pain. “Brenna, careful!”
“Keith said you hurt your wrist but refused to let him take you to the hospital?”
I sigh, wondering how long it will take my hand to heal before I can use it to throttle my dear friend. Isn’t it against some police code to run—literally—to my parents like that? “I had to get home to Brenna. It’s just a sprain.”
“You don’t know that, you’re not a doctor. If there’s a hairline fracture, it won’t heal well. You’ll only make it worse. You won’t be able to work. Then what will—”
“Okay! Okay.” I hold up my wrist to examine it. It does look bad. “I’ll figure out something.”
“Ted! Get the keys. We’re going to Cath’s.” To me, she says, “I hope you’re dressed.”
“You don’t have to . . .” I begin but realize that she’s already ended the call.
I frown at the receiver, long after the dial tone fills our quiet living room.
The Philadelphia Flyers head coach wears a somber expression as he addresses the media, seemingly unaffected by the steady stream of flashbulbs and clicks. “The franchise’s thoughts and prayers are with the players and their families. We’ve been told that Brett is in stable condition. We pray for a speedy and full recovery for him. And Seth . . .” He pauses, his voice growing shaky, the first sign of raw emotion I’ve seen from the gruff, stony-faced man. “He was an exceptional hockey player and human being. He will be missed by everyone.”
A reporter asks a question about game one of the Eastern Conference finals, scheduled for next Friday, and if the coach thinks the team still has a real shot, even though they’ve lost arguably their two best players. My dad jabs at the Mute button on the remote before I hear the answer. “There goes our chance at the Cup.” A deep scowl settles across his weathered forehead. “Idiots and their sports cars.”
I glare at him, the mental image of the driver lying across the hood of the car still too fresh in my mind.
“Don’t tell me he wasn’t speeding,” he adds, but he has the decency to look sheepish over his callous remark.