He gave a half-hearted shrug and said nothing. I could tell he didn’t want me to make a big deal out of it. So I just sat there, pulling glass and brick from my hair, wondering how sick my subconscious must be to come up with such a horrifying vision. And what did it mean to have this hot guy come to my rescue? I bet Freud would have something to say about that one.
After a long while, Blue asked, “Feeling any better?”
The wet sand feeling seemed to have moved to my ankles and feet, making my legs heavy and somewhat still immobilized from shock, but I thought I might be able to stand. I nodded and he pushed himself to his feet. “Where are you staying? I’ll walk you.”
I took his outstretched hands and stood up. My muscles shuddered and felt like oatmeal. “Shouldn’t you talk to the police before we leave? Give them your statement?” I asked.
His eyebrows shot up his forehead. “Are you nuts?”
“I thought you of all people would want to. You were all Defender of Justice at the newspaper stand.” I wobbled, and he gripped my elbow to steady me.
“That was different.”
“Yeah, that was a newspaper and these are human lives.”
“You really aren’t from around here, are you? I can’t go to the cops. They know me. They’ll rat me out.”
“So you’re just going to walk away?”
“Yep. You point the way.”
I stood there, staring at him, trying to think of what to do next. I guess I didn’t necessarily have to talk to the police. If Dr Farrow was correct and this was just a hallucination, then I didn’t have to do anything. And if I was correct and my visions showed me things that really happened in the past, then how would my witness statement make a difference? The explosion had already happened. Those people were long dead.
I didn’t know what to make of it all. I just wanted to forget about it and find a way out of the vision. “I think I can manage on my own from here,” I told Blue, “but thank you. For everything.” I paused so he knew I was sincere, then willed my oatmeal feet to move down the alley.
Within seconds, I heard his footfalls behind me. “Wait,” he said, catching up. “I’d really feel better if you let me walk you home.”
What was he, a compulsive gentleman? “Really, I’ll be fine.”
He hurried in front of me, his hands out, making me stop. “Look, Cafferellis’ thugs? They saw you. With me. That means you’re in trouble. And it won’t matter to them that you’re a girl.”
Maybe not, but it wouldn’t matter at all once the vision was over. I stepped around him. “Don’t worry,” I said. “The Cafferellis won’t lay a finger on me.”
I rounded the corner, Blue trailing my heels, but we stopped short the moment we saw the bakery scene in full. Glass covered the sidewalk in a lace veil of winking ice. Spots of blood mingled with the glass, and I remembered what Blue said. Aw, geez. You’re covered in blood.
Was that my blood on the concrete?
I reached up and my fingers skimmed over a knot forming at the back of my head. Even that slight touch was enough to make me wince. Then there came a sharp ache, spreading from the knot to my temples. The kind of headache that causes you to shut out the world and lie still and silent until the sun goes down.
I tried not to think about it.
Instead, I patted my hair gently, assessing the damage. There were more glass bits, and the hair around the knot was coated in thick, sticky blood. At least that meant the wound was clotting. I could live with clotting. Healing. Even if it did feel like an ice pick stuck in my skull.
I remembered the blood I tasted in my mouth and ran my tongue over my teeth. There it was again, that salty tang. I found the source – a slice inside my lower lip. I wouldn’t be able to leave that alone for a while.
As beaten up as I felt, I was glad to be alive. Especially when I saw a pair of paramedics pushing a stretcher out of Sloan’s Bakery – a large body draped in a white sheet.
Another crowd had gathered, all looking on but giving the scene a wide berth. Eyes were wide. Whispers swirled behind cupped hands. A handful of policemen stepped in and out of the bakery, some asking questions, some canvassing the scene, and one standing off to the side, smoking a cigarette. He didn’t wear a cap like the others. His hair was jet black and combed to the side, and he had a scar on his lip that made him look like he was mid-snarl.
My eyes lingered on him for a moment too long. He must have felt my gaze because his eyes snapped to mine. He took one last puff of smoke, flicked his cigarette over his shoulder, then started toward us.
Blue gripped my wrist. “We gotta move.”
I didn’t resist this time. We hurried down the sidewalk, turning left down a side street after the newspaper stand. Newspaper Boy scowled at me as we passed. Another turn down a street on our right and Blue broke into a run.
I couldn’t bear the thought of running while I was so sluggish and bruised, but to my surprise, running wasn’t as difficult as I thought it would be. I kept pace with Blue, even though I could tell he was sprinting at full tilt. He still had hold of my wrist, but he didn’t need to pull me along. Perhaps it was adrenaline – fear that the snarl-lipped cop would catch up with us – but it didn’t feel like it. It felt like something different.
It felt like running was something I did every day. And not the track and field type running, but real run-for-your-life running. I’d never run this fast or this hard in my life. Mostly because I could barely make it around the track at school without keeling over from an asthma attack. But in this body, my lungs were clear. My leg muscles were rock solid. They burned to go faster, to run harder, regardless of how battered I felt.
I felt Blue tug at my wrist, guiding me off the sidewalk and down a dusty path behind a row of tiny brick houses. When we were halfway down, he slowed to a stop, and we both bent over, our chests stretched full. We gulped and gasped until the blood in our ears stopped pounding, and we could once again hear ourselves think.
I stared down the path, my hands on my knees. “Do you think he followed us?”
“No.” Blue spat on the ground. “He doesn’t have to. He knows where I live.”
“So why did we run?”
Blue continued on down the path, his boots scuffing at the dirt and gravel. I followed.
“Because I needed to get away. I need to think.”
“About what?”
“About what all this means. About what he’s going to tell the Cafferellis.” Blue looked shaken. His calm exterior had given way to panting breath and darting eyes.
“So, back there,” I said, pausing to gulp a breath, “when we almost got shot and blasted to bits, that didn’t unnerve you one bit. But now that that cop saw you, you’re white as a ghost?” I rested a hand on his forearm. He stopped walking and looked at me, but his eyes wouldn’t focus. They were hazy with worry. “Tell me what you’re up against here.”
“What we’re up against.”
I nodded, letting him know I was on his side. Then his eyes found mine, and they suddenly snapped into focus.
“What did you mean when you said the Cafferellis wouldn’t lay a finger on you?”
I dropped my hand from his arm. “What?”
“Are you working for them? Are you in the Family?”
“What? No. I’ve never heard of the Cafferellis before today.”
“Then why did you say it?”
How could I explain that I would’ve said whatever I could to get rid of him? That I thought this whole thing would be over, that he’d disappear, if he’d just let me walk out into the street?
“I don’t know.” I took a step back, scrambling for something to say. At a complete loss, I tried the only thing I could think of. “I’m sorry. I don’t even remember saying it.” I touched my head lightly as I spoke, using my most convincing where-am-I? look.