gave them lots of trouble, practically every minute. I punished them for not being my parents, and it wasn’t even their fault.
Still, that trouble she’d given her grandparents: staying out too late, sleeping in on weekends when her grandmother could have used some help with the housework or errands, ignoring her homework until teachers called the house to complain, mouthing off for very little reason, dating the “wrong” boys, not because she liked them especially, but because she knew perfectly well everyone would consider them the “wrong” boys … all of that was peanuts compared to the trouble she was in now. She was in this one up to her neck.
Now she knew how people felt when they were drowning.
And there wasn’t anyone to throw her a life preserver, was there?
Your choice, Echo, a stern voice reminded her. You were the one who didn’t want any close friends.
True. And she didn’t want any now, either, because anyone who was really close to her would be able to see in her eyes that she’d been on Tenth Street last night on the back of a murderous motorcycle.
I will get out of this one myself, she vowed, throwing the afghan aside and hauling herself out of bed. Just like I always do. I will!
But she had no idea how.
There was only one person she could talk to about this. Pruitt. Not because he was a friend, oh, God, he was no friend of hers, but because, like it or not, he had shared the horrible experience. The last person in the world she wanted to see on this warm, sunny morning was Aaron Pruitt. But there wasn’t anyone else.
Echo had heard the expression, “Politics makes strange bedfellows.” She wasn’t exactly sure what that meant. Something about all the wheeling and dealing that went on in politics making it necessary for people who didn’t really have anything in common to hang out together. It occurred to her now that the same could be said for crime. Pruitt was not someone she would ever have been interested in if not for the bike, and if it hadn’t been for her interest in the bike, she wouldn’t have been on Tenth Street last night in the first place. Now here she was, stuck in this weird, uneasy alliance with someone she wouldn’t normally give the time of day to, someone she really hated for what he’d done.
How could she make Pruitt disappear from her life? More important, how could she make last night disappear? Erase it from her life, and from the lives of the injured four?
She couldn’t.
Feeling incredibly heavy, as if her body were suddenly encased in a coat of metal, Echo dressed in the jeans she found on the floor and a clean blue T-shirt. She ran her fingers, but not a brush or comb, through her hair as she left the room. What difference did it make how she looked?
She found Pruitt sitting on the low stone wall around the fountain on the Commons. He was reading, his head bent over a textbook. The wide, grassy area between the tall, stone buildings was crowded with sun worshippers, Frisbee players, and joggers. At first, it struck Echo as odd that no one looked particularly upset by what had happened the night before. And then she realized that any close friends of the four victims wouldn’t be out here goofing off. They’d be at the hospital or the infirmary, visiting the injured.
She really didn’t want to be seen talking to Pruitt. Not a good idea.
“Meet me behind the infirmary wall,” she said in a low voice as she passed him without stopping. “Now.” Then she went on to the wall herself. As she passed the infirmary, she breathed a quick sigh of relief that she didn’t have to work that day. Liam McCullough was probably still a patient there. Being around him would make her more of a basket case than she already was, if that was possible. Maybe he’d remember that she’d already run into him once on a bike. That might make it easier for him to place her on that motorcycle last night.
She couldn’t take that chance.
Pruitt came around the
Still, that trouble she’d given her grandparents: staying out too late, sleeping in on weekends when her grandmother could have used some help with the housework or errands, ignoring her homework until teachers called the house to complain, mouthing off for very little reason, dating the “wrong” boys, not because she liked them especially, but because she knew perfectly well everyone would consider them the “wrong” boys … all of that was peanuts compared to the trouble she was in now. She was in this one up to her neck.
Now she knew how people felt when they were drowning.
And there wasn’t anyone to throw her a life preserver, was there?
Your choice, Echo, a stern voice reminded her. You were the one who didn’t want any close friends.
True. And she didn’t want any now, either, because anyone who was really close to her would be able to see in her eyes that she’d been on Tenth Street last night on the back of a murderous motorcycle.
I will get out of this one myself, she vowed, throwing the afghan aside and hauling herself out of bed. Just like I always do. I will!
But she had no idea how.
There was only one person she could talk to about this. Pruitt. Not because he was a friend, oh, God, he was no friend of hers, but because, like it or not, he had shared the horrible experience. The last person in the world she wanted to see on this warm, sunny morning was Aaron Pruitt. But there wasn’t anyone else.
Echo had heard the expression, “Politics makes strange bedfellows.” She wasn’t exactly sure what that meant. Something about all the wheeling and dealing that went on in politics making it necessary for people who didn’t really have anything in common to hang out together. It occurred to her now that the same could be said for crime. Pruitt was not someone she would ever have been interested in if not for the bike, and if it hadn’t been for her interest in the bike, she wouldn’t have been on Tenth Street last night in the first place. Now here she was, stuck in this weird, uneasy alliance with someone she wouldn’t normally give the time of day to, someone she really hated for what he’d done.
How could she make Pruitt disappear from her life? More important, how could she make last night disappear? Erase it from her life, and from the lives of the injured four?
She couldn’t.
Feeling incredibly heavy, as if her body were suddenly encased in a coat of metal, Echo dressed in the jeans she found on the floor and a clean blue T-shirt. She ran her fingers, but not a brush or comb, through her hair as she left the room. What difference did it make how she looked?
She found Pruitt sitting on the low stone wall around the fountain on the Commons. He was reading, his head bent over a textbook. The wide, grassy area between the tall, stone buildings was crowded with sun worshippers, Frisbee players, and joggers. At first, it struck Echo as odd that no one looked particularly upset by what had happened the night before. And then she realized that any close friends of the four victims wouldn’t be out here goofing off. They’d be at the hospital or the infirmary, visiting the injured.
She really didn’t want to be seen talking to Pruitt. Not a good idea.
“Meet me behind the infirmary wall,” she said in a low voice as she passed him without stopping. “Now.” Then she went on to the wall herself. As she passed the infirmary, she breathed a quick sigh of relief that she didn’t have to work that day. Liam McCullough was probably still a patient there. Being around him would make her more of a basket case than she already was, if that was possible. Maybe he’d remember that she’d already run into him once on a bike. That might make it easier for him to place her on that motorcycle last night.
She couldn’t take that chance.
Pruitt came around the
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