Page 94 of Ghosts Don't Cry
He means the police. I don’t answer him, because I don’t want to tell him that yeah, Iamworried. It has nothing to do with what Dan might try, and it’s not really just about the cops. I know how this town works, the way whispers spread. I know how quickly people will twist this story so I’m the one at fault.
Ex-con loses control. Violent criminal shows his true colors.
Same old story, different day.
“People are gonna ask questions.”
My eyes go to my bandaged hands, then back up at him. “Why do you care?”
He shrugs. “Harris asked me to keep an eye on things.”
“He had no right.”
“No,” Tom agrees. “But he did it anyway.”
I swallow down the instinctive angry response. Harris is gone, but even in death, he’s somehow found a way to tether me to this place.
“Do you need a minute, or do you need to do something about it?”
I take a sip of coffee, absently noting that my hands have almost stopped shaking. “I don’t know.”
“What’s running through your head right now?”
That’s easy. If Dan presses charges, I know exactly what will happen. The cops will show up, and it won’t matter that I was defending her, or that Dan threw the first punch.
I’m the ex-con with a record. He’s the hometown boy with a family name that means something.
I push the empty mug aside and roll my shoulders, the ache in my muscles settling deep. Everything hurts. My hands, my shoulders. But it’s nothing compared to how Lily must be feeling.
“Finish your coffee, then go and put some clean clothes on. Whatever comes next? Well, we’ll deal with it.”
We.
The word catches me off guard.
Not you, but we.
I look at Tom, this man I barely know who just spent twenty minutes bandaging my hands and making me coffee.
“Thank you.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
RONAN - AGE 18
The attack comesfrom out of nowhere.
One second, I’m walking along the hallway, heading toward the library to meet Lily. The next, an arm hooks around my throat, and drags me back. My feet leave the ground for a second before I’m slammed against the lockers. Hands clamp onto my arms,multiplehands, bruising grips locking me in place. My heart kicks into overdrive, panic rising before I can shut it down. A shove sends me stumbling, sneakers skidding against the linoleum floor, before I’m hauled through the doors of the locker room.
The air smells of mildew and cheap soap, and the lights buzz overhead. The door swings shut behind me, muffling the distant hum of the school. And then I see them. Dan Hartman’s offensive line, spreading out in a loose semi-circle, and blocking the exits.
Two by the door. Three more fanned out. Me in the center.Trapped.
Dan takes his time with the tape, wrapping each knuckle slowly and carefully. This is the kind of preparation that says it’s not a spontaneous idea. This was planned. Probably over days.
“Saw you with Lily Gladwin in the library the other day.” His voice carries an ugly edge.
“You were in the library? Didn’t know you could read.” The retort is automatic, buying time my brain needs so I can assess my options. “Moving up in the world.”
