Truly, Madly, Deadly

Chapter Seven

SEVEN

The tremble that started at Sawyer’s fingertips spread through her entire body until her teeth were chattering and her bones, it seemed, clattered against each other. Her throat closed to the size of a pinhole, and she struggled to breathe, feeling the blood rush to her head in a thunderous pound that brought tears to her eyes.

Is this what it’s like to suffocate?

She clamped her eyes shut and tried to focus on bringing her sensibilities back under control.

Is this what it was like for Mr. Hanson?

Vaguely, she felt the vase slip from her fingers, heard the echo of glass shattering on the floor, the water pooling at her feet. The roses scattered, blood-red petals scarred with shards of glass, cut, torn, turning in on themselves.

“Ms. Dodd?” Sawyer heard from a thousand miles away.
“Ms. Dodd?”

She felt the slight weight of a hand on her shoulder, felt her eyes try to focus on the figure before her. She worked to move her mouth, her body, but all she could do was ball the peanut oil label up in her fist, the telltale crinkle of the cellophane screaming for everyone to look at her, to look at the girl who could cause a man to die.

“Can we get the nurse in here?” Detective Biggs was yelling over his shoulder, his hand firm now, holding Sawyer up.

“I’m okay,” she finally forced her mouth to say. “I’m okay. I just slipped and—”

The school nurse rushed out next, a pin of a woman who doubled as a lunch lady and a part-time librarian. Her lips were pursed, her eyes slanted in that sympathetic way, the pink sweater buttoned over her shoulders flying like bat wings.

“Oh, Sawyer.” She looked at Sawyer and then at Detective Biggs. “She’s had a rough couple of weeks. Shall I call your father, hon?”

Sawyer stepped back, sliding out of Detective Biggs’s reach, her sneakers crunching on the broken glass. She licked her Sahara-dry lips and nodded. “Yes, please. I think I need to go home and lie down.”

Nurse Tucker slid a motherly arm across Sawyer’s shoulders and pressed her hand against Sawyer’s cheek. Her fingers were soft and cool, and Sawyer longed for comfort, for her own mother. “This must be too much for you. First Kevin, and now Mr. Hanson,” she clucked, tucking Sawyer’s head underneath her chin. Then, she dropped her voice into a totally audible whisper, her chin jutting toward Detective Biggs. “Her boyfriend was Kevin Anderson, you know. The one who died in the accident. It was so tragic.”

Sawyer didn’t have to look to know that the detective nodded knowingly. For the last three weeks, people had exchanged glances whenever Sawyer was around, glances that spoke volumes, glances that reminded Sawyer that she was now and forever would be attached to Kevin’s death—more so than she ever was to his life. A lump strangled what breath was left in Sawyer’s throat and she doubled over, coughing and heaving.

“Oh, honey!”

“No.” Sawyer wagged her head, using her fisted hand, peanut oil wrapper locked inside, to wipe her eyes, her nose. “Can you just let my dad know that I’ve been excused? I need to go home right now.”