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“Right? But maybe I could help identify the person. You know, if they have trouble?” For the most part, I was thinking out loud. I didn’t know who his enemies were. The only person I’d ever seen Andrew get in a confrontation with was Joel.
In a panic, I gripped my twin’s arm even though she was driving. The car swerved slightly, but she had a handle on it.
“Maye! What the fuck are you doing? You’re going to get us killed.”
“Sorry,” I rushed out. “I just thought of something—something bad.”
“Ohhhkaaay. Great. That doesn’t mean we need to get in an accident over it.”
“You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” I copped to my mistake and explained my concern. “What if it was Joel?”
My sister looked at me like I sprouted a second head. “Your ex, Joel? Why would he have anything to do with this?”
“Remember I told you what happened the night I fell? When he got physical with me?”
“Yeah, but that’s no reason to try to kill someone.”
“I agree. But he wasn’t acting rationally that day. I saw a different, frightening side of him that I had never seen before.”
We were quiet in our own thoughts for a few miles before Shepperd asked, “So what are you gonna do now? Go to the hospital, I’m assuming?”
“Absolutely. But I probably have to wait until tomorrow. That visit took longer than I thought it would, and I doubt visitors are welcome at this hour at the hospital.”
“Good point. Although”—she gave me a mischievous grin—“why let that stop you?”
“Because I’m the good girl, remember? The rule follower.” I sighed and slumped back in the seat. “Before you say anything, yes, I hear how lame that sounds. You think I always want to be exactly what everyone thinks I am?”
“Give me a break, Maye,” she said with zero sympathy or compassion.
I looked at her without hiding my frustration, and she went on. “You’re the only one with the power to be who you want to be. You can’t play the victim to the lottery of life all the time. If you don’t like the perception everyone has of you, change it.”
“That’s so easy for you to say,” I muttered while looking out my side window.
“No, it’s just the truth. No one wants to hear the truth or, God forbid, speak it. That house we live in? Everyone walks around pretending to be the perfect little all-American family when the reality would horrify people. We have more dysfunction than the Spellings.”
“The Spellings?” I laughed the question. “So random, Shep. Seriously…”
She laughed her throaty laugh, and the tension was instantly sliced. I didn’t want to argue with my sister tonight. I was emotionally exhausted, and her issues with our family were so deep and complicated, I suspected it was going to take a professional to sift through them with her.
I just hoped she took on the challenge before it was too late.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ANDREW
“Now push against my hand,” the doctor instructed as we went through the daily exam. It had been a week since someone struck me down like the last standing pin in the tenth frame. The police were diligently—according to them—investigating the accident, and I would ensure the responsible party was punished to the fullest extent of the law.
I had a good idea who was behind the wheel of the car that night in my office building’s parking lot based on the exchange I had with that kid obsessed with Maye. But so much about the incident was unclear, and on the slim chance it wasn’t him, I didn’t want to bring attention to what was going on between Maye and me.
The whole thing was a fucking mess, and to top it all off, I hadn’t been able to see her once. We spoke briefly on the phone a couple of days ago, but I was climbing the walls of the orthopedic rehabilitation center I was moved to last night. I didn’t need to be here. In my opinion, at least. The medical team caring for me was exercising an abundance of caution, the head doctor explained, because of the delicate nature of the accident.
Delicate? What’s so delicate about a one-and-a-half-ton Toyota mowing me down?
My mother sat quietly in the corner of my room. The night nurse brought her a blue vinyl monstrosity of a piece of furniture, but at least she wasn’t left to stand or perch at the foot of my bed like before that eyesore arrived.
I blamed the miserable combination of pain, lack of sleep, and concern for Maye for my disagreeable temperament. My mother, who by all accounts was a saint among the living, even gave up cheering me up and sat across the room silently working on a sewing project.
As long as I could remember, she had always done needlepoint when things weren’t going well. She said it calmed her nerves and occupied her mind so she didn’t fixate on the negative.
