41. Daphne
Daphne
The next sixty seconds are the longest of my life. I've seen fights on TV. Men circling each other, building the drama before a punch is thrown.
This is not that. This is Rickie hurtling at Reardon, crashing him to the asphalt, fists flying. This is Reardon letting out a warlike shout and then going silent again when Rickie smashes a fist into his mouth.
His rage steals my breath. Thick, choking rage. Rickie is a blur. His fists land several times before Reardon can mount a defense, punching Rickie so hard that his head snaps back.
The fight only burns hotter. Rickie pushes Reardon to the pavement and punches once. Twice. The sound of his fist colliding with Reardon's face is terrifying. He hits him again and my fear is so sharp that I can feel bile climbing my throat. "Rickie!” I shriek.
Miraculously, he freezes.
I don’t breathe at all for the next few seconds, as Rickie staggers to his feet.
Then I see Reardon move. And for one awful moment I think I've made a horrible mistake, placing Rickie at a disadvantage.
But Reardon only rolls to his hands and knees, his head dropped. “You will fucking pay," he spits. And there’s blood dripping down his formerly perfect cheek.
On autopilot, I grab the keys to the Volvo out of the passenger door. "Get in," I snap at Rickie.
And Rickie does. There's blood on his lip, and a wild look in his eye. But I block out the image of that blood. And I don’t even look at Reardon. Stiffly, I walk around and open the driver's door, sliding in behind the wheel.
With shaking hands I start the car. My breath is coming fast. I feel as though I'm watching a movie of someone else's life as I look carefully over my shoulder to check for obstacles before I back out.
When I look back at Reardon before pulling away, he's covering his face with two hands. But I can still see his eyes. And the rage in them is on a plane I’ve never seen before in my life.
I’ve never been so scared. But I’m angry, too. And that anger fuels me as I press down on the accelerator and get the hell out of that parking lot.
* * *
An hour later we're cruising up 91. I’m still too angry to breathe. But I’m no longer driving.
First, I’d made a stop at the inn.
"I can't go inside with you," Rickie had said when I pulled in. His delivery had been flat and cold, which terrified me almost as much as watching him try to kill Reardon. "Get your things. Don't speak to anyone if you can avoid it. Leave the key in the room but don't check out at the desk."
I’d cut the engine and turned to look at him. His lip was bloody and already swelling, along with one eyebrow.
But the worst evidence of the fight was the look he held in those beautiful gray eyes. It was nothingness. Like someone had drained all the Rickie right out of him.
I'd been in shock myself. I'd gone upstairs and retrieved my things exactly as he'd suggested, leaving the key on the unused bed.
When I'd returned to the Volvo he was sitting in the driver's seat dry-swallowing a couple of aspirin. His mouth was no longer bleeding.
"Are you really okay to drive?" I’d asked, tossing my bag in the back. He hadn't even answered. He'd just started the engine.
Now we’re driving up the right lane at a startlingly cautious sixty-four miles per hour in absolute silence, Rickie's eyes never leaving the road.
And I'm practically climbing out of my skin. “What happened ?" I finally gasp. “Do you remember Reardon?”
“Yes,” he grunts.
"If you remembered him, you should have said something. You should have stayed home."
At first I think he won't respond. But after a long beat, he does. "I was never letting you tangle with him alone."
My anger notches up another couple of levels, and my voice goes high with hysteria. “Oh, so this is better? Watching you try to kill him? Everything is fucked. He'll tell the dean I broke into his office, and that my boyfriend attacked him. He could have you arrested."
There’s silence from the driver’s seat for several miles. And when Rickie speaks again, his voice is pure ice water. "Take out your phone. I need to give you a number."
"Whose?" I gasp. There isn't enough oxygen, suddenly. Take out your phone . He’d said that to me before. On our first trip up 91.
Before I’d met Reardon. Before Rickie had been—
I’m afraid to finish that thought. The words Rickie had hurled at Reardon were terrifying. I put that thought in a drawer and close it. For now.
“Your phone,” he repeats.
“Whose number?” I gasp again. The air is too thin. I can’t think.
"My father's. Take this number. And try to breathe slow."
So I take out my damn phone, and I tap in the number he gives me. Then I plug my phone into Rickie’s charger.
And, as we drive up the highway, I eventually breathe more slowly. I close my eyes and I absolutely do not think about everything that just happened. I can't. Not yet. I put my fear into that same imaginary drawer and close it.
Instead, I picture Rickie's house on Spruce Street. In a few hours we'll be there, the door closed and locked. Nothing bad ever happens on Spruce Street.
And in the morning it will all be less terrifying. Maybe then I’ll be able to think what to do. Maybe I’ll be less angry.
I’m so angry.
“You should have told me,” I repeat. “When did you realize you recognized him?”
Silence.
“When, Rickie? Don’t lie to me. You said you’d never lie to me.”
“I didn’t,” he grunts.
“Really? Then tell me when you realized you knew Reardon.”
He sighs, which is proof—just barely—that he hasn’t been snatched by aliens and exchanged for a robot. “After your birthday,” he croaks. “I Googled him. I knew his face, but I didn’t know why. This week my Academy roommate finally wrote me back. And I learned some things about my accident.”
“You learned some things,” I repeat, while fury blooms in my chest, bright and dangerous. “You should have said! ” I shriek. “You’re probably in trouble now. And I’m in trouble. I’m in worse trouble than I would have been alone.”
“I’m sorry,” he croaks.
But it doesn’t help, because I’m working myself into a real lather now.
Anger is easier on my breaking heart than cold, cold fear.
“You’re sorry ,” I hiss. “That’s nice. That’s an uptick from the last man I trusted, who screwed me over without saying sorry.
Yay, me! Screwed over again, but I get a sorry this time. ”
“Daphne, listen—“
“ Why? ” I shriek. “So you can be sorry ?”
“ Listen! ” he shouts. He also puts the blinker on and decelerates, even though we’re nowhere near an exit. “You say whatever you need to. You tell them whatever you want. Don’t spare me, because I don’t deserve it. But do not talk to them when you’re angry, okay? And don’t do it alone.”
“Talk to who?” I gasp. And then I notice a flash of blue in the side view mirror out my window.
A cop car. Holy shit. Rickie is being pulled over.
“We’re not speeding,” I say, as if I could make more sense of this.
“He works fast. Senator’s son.” Rickie stops the car. “It’s probably on every cop’s radio for three states.”
My head swivels like an owl’s, and now there are two cop cars. One of them pulls to a stop in front of us. The other behind us.
And the cop up ahead gets out of the car with his hand on his gun.
Slowly, Rickie lifts his hands where they’ll be visible above the steering wheel. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and I can barely hear him over the sound of blood pounding in my ears. “Call your family, okay? They’ll help you. And call my father.”
The next few minutes are surreal.
“Step out of the car, sir,” the cops say. “You too, miss.”
It’s windy on the side of the road, and the cold goes all the way to my bones.
The cops are calm, in their commanding way. But I’m not. I watch them bend Rickie over the hood of the car. He doesn’t look at me. My throat closes up as they cuff him, his hands behind his back.
They read him his rights. They lead him away to the back of a cruiser, and shove him inside.
He still doesn’t look at me.
Again, it’s like I’m watching a film of someone else’s reality. Until the cops turn their attention to me. One of them, a woman with a tight ponytail, asks me for ID. I give it to her, and she makes a note of everything on my license.
“We’ll have questions for you,” she says. “You have to follow me to the station, back in Harkness County. Or else I’ll take you in the back of my cruiser.”
“I’ll drive,” I say, barely processing her words. I don’t want to go anywhere in a cruiser.
“All right,” she says. “You are right on my tail, then. If you’re not, we’re going to have a problem.”
“Got it,” I say, my good girl complex answering for me.
“I’ll give you a minute to get situated,” she says. “You flash the headlights when you’re ready for me to pull out.”
“Okay.”
She heads to the cruiser, and I get into the driver’s seat. My phone is right there on the charger. I pick it up, noticing that my hands are clammy and slick. I wipe my hands on the skirt I put on hours ago. A lifetime ago, really. And I unlock my phone.
Rickie wanted me to call his dad. But as my eyes fill with tears, I realize there’s someone else I need more right now. I hit a different name on my contacts list. The family lawyer. And then I hold my breath, listening to it ring.
“Daphne?” my sister’s voice says. “What’s up?”
“May?” I gasp. “I need your help. So badly. I fucked up. The police have Rickie!”
“What? Slow down. Tell me where you are. Exactly where you are.”
Instead, I burst into tears.
“Whoa, Daphne. Honey,” she says, her voice steady. “Are you in Burlington?”
“C-C-Connecticut,” I stammer between sobs. “On the s-side of the highway.”
“Where is Rickie?”
“Arrested! He punched Reardon!”
“Who?”
“My ex.”
May blows out a breath. “Okay, first I need you to move the car to a safer place, and then wait for me.”
“I can’t! The police expect me to follow them to the station.”
“Wow. Okay. First up, don’t drive until you’re calm, and you can see clearly.
Then you can follow the police to the station, but do not talk to them .
Wait in the car. No interview room for you until I get there.
You tell them you’re waiting for your lawyer.
You have no obligation to answer their questions. Got it?”
“ Yes ,” I sob. “Thank you.”
“Share your location from your phone, then wait for me.”
She hangs up before I can say anything more.
I put my head on the steering wheel and cry.