Page 87 of Everything We Give

“Sarah’s weak. She’s a coward.”

“Sarah?” The trucker looked at her, mouth agape. “Is that you?”

Jackie held out her arms. “Here I am,Francis.” She sneered the name. “Miss me?”

He looked left and right, then pointed a finger at Jackie. “Don’t say that name around here. Now tell me, Sarah, why are you here?”

“It’s Jackie, you sick prick.” Her arm flopped against her side in exasperation over their name battle. She groaned with exaggerated irritation, then raised the gun again.

Frank parked his hands on his narrow hips. He smiled into the barrel of the pistol aimed at his chest. “You still using that hooker name? Fine. We’ll play it your way. Why don’t you put that gun away and join me inside? You can call me whatever name you like in there.” He thumbed at the cab behind him. “It’s nice and cozy, plenty of room for two people.” He held his palms a few feet apart and smiled, a thin spread of lips. “I have a big. Wide. Bed.”

Jackie fired the gun. Ian jumped, his hands covering his ears. Sparks and asphalt splintered in all directions at Frank’s feet. He danced out of the way. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Ian’s hands shook as he brought his camera back to his face. He clicked away, the camera’s bulb flashing.

“Stop with the photos,” Jackie screamed over her shoulder.

Frank leered at her, making Ian’s skin crawl. That was his mom the trucker had in his sights.

“I still have all those photos I took of you, sweetheart. Trucking’s a lonely business. Someone’s got to keep me company on the long haul. Those pretty pictures make my nights seem—”

A shot fired and Frank screamed, jerking back against the truck. Blood splattered the side.

“Shit,” Ian said to himself.Shit, shit, shit.

He dropped his camera. It swung from his neck and smacked him in the chest. The lens would have shattered on the ground had he not thrown the strap over his head and shoulder when he got out of the car.

Frank clamped a hand over his bloody shoulder. “You bitch,” he shrieked.

Sirens pierced the air in the distance. Jackie fired again. Tremors racked her body and the shot misfired, blowing out Frank’s knee rather than his head. He collapsed, screaming like a gutted pig.

A trucker in a rig off to the right laid on his horn. It blared, waking other drivers. Headlights and spotlights flared on around the parking lot. Jackie turned and shot out the nearest truck’s headlight, the bullet zinging over Ian’s head. He dropped to the ground, panting, and covered his head.

The sirens grew louder, drawing closer.

Ian looked up from under his arms. Jackie’s face had gone white. The anger and loathing replaced by panic. She stared at the gun in her hand as though she couldn’t believe she held it. She tossed the pistol and ran to the car.

“Mom!” Ian chased after her.

Sarah started the engine and floored the vehicle. Tires squealed. Ian tried to jump into the open passenger door, but the door knocked into his hip, throwing him off-balance. It slammed closed, trapping his camera. Sarah peeled away, jerking Ian against the car, his head and shoulder stuck in the camera strap. He screamed for his mom to stop. He tried to stay on his feet, running alongside. But the car swerved and he lost his balance, stumbling, his upper body hanging on the door, as he was dragged across the parking lot, his track shorts no protection against the asphalt.

Sirens blared. Gravel sprayed Ian’s face. Asphalt tore up his thighs. The car swerved again and jerked to a stop. Ian twisted his head to see that three police cars blocked their way. Then his head fell forward and he passed out.

CHAPTER 25

IAN

Lacy sits across from me at the dining table, hands folded on the worn pine surface.

“You said a friend dropped you off?” I reaffirm, looking for a logical explanation to her sudden appearance on the porch, like a ghostly apparition.

She smiles, humming an affirmation. It’s conceivable I walked past her without registering her presence. More than once I’ve walked into the front room at home and stared out the window, deep in thought while drinking my coffee, without realizing Caty is sitting on the couch near me until she pipes up with a “Hi, Daddy.”

But I should have heard Lacy’s arrival. The crunch of gravel under the weight of a car. The porch cracking and popping when she walked up the front steps. This house doesn’t hide visitors. It announces them.

Lacy traces the divots on the table’s surface, scars left from my mom’s work. A dropped stack of embroidery books, the pointed tip of a pair of scissors, the weight of equipment. As I watch Lacy touch each mark, I get the sense she’s reading them, learning their memories. Her smile fades, she frowns, and then she murmurs, the words indecipherable to me. When I realize where my thoughts have taken me and that Lacy is visualizing my mom, I shift uncomfortably in the chair.

“Did you fly in this morning?” I ask, and the image of her on a broom wielding a wand gels in my head. Thank you, Harry Potter. I silently curse my imagination. That’s what I get for reading the book to Caty.

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