“Yeah.” Casey heard a disgusted grunt in the background. “Quality girl
bonding
, Wanda. Is that what we’re calling dragging me to stupid-assed antique store after antique store to look at overpriced junk while in between hunting garbage we stop at quaint little sidewalk cafés and order prissy tea with names I can’t even pronounce—or drink—then have massages by some weird guys with weirder names like Bjorn who really just wanna see chicks naked.”
“Nina!” Casey heard yet another voice interrupt, much sweeter in tone. “First of all, no one forced you to come, whiner. We only invited you to scare off anyone who might potentially want to become our friend anyway. Because honestly, the idea of adding someone else to our friendship mix when we have you is about as appealing as inviting the devil himself to play Russian roulette with the gun of his choice. Second of all, she’s on the phone with her
sister
. You know, the one who lives in Manhattan and doesn’t
visit much
. Just shut up, already!”
Casey sighed into the mouthpiece, avoiding at all costs letting her lips so much as graze the black, marred surface. Another pang of regret settled in her stomach knowing Wanda’s friends were apparently aware she was a total slacker when it came to keeping in touch with her family. She’d dwell on that if there weren’t more pressing matters at hand.
Like her life.
Or, at the very least, her wool socks—which, oddly enough, they’d let her keep and were no doubt warm and desirable in a place like this. But definitely not worth the threat of sawing off your feet with a nail file for.
Nausea turned her stomach in waves. Casey pressed a hand to her belly.
Her orange-clad belly.
A rustle of what sounded like material scraping against the phone ensued; then Wanda growled with a snap, “Nina, Marty, knock it off,
now
! You know damned well I’m not kidding with the two of you, either.”
Growled? Wanda had
growled
? Had the second coming of Christ been scheduled, and she’d missed the memo? Wanda didn’t growl. She didn’t swear, either. Wanda always went in whatever direction took her as far away from growling and swearing as she could get. Baffled at her sister’s confrontational tone, Casey cocked her head to listen more closely.
“Casey, honey?”
“I’m still here.” Still.
Here.
“Did you hear me? I can’t talk right now. Especially with these two beasts in the car. If you only knew what road trips are like with the two of them. Hell, I tell you. Utter and complete hell. Like total submersion in the ninth level of Purgatory. How about I call you when we get back from Connecticut on Monday? We can set up a time that’s convenient for you. Maybe when the Big Dipper’s in full view?”
Panic rose to lodge in her throat despite the fact that Wanda was taking a potshot at her. She peered over her shoulder at the line forming behind her. “No! No, you don’t understand, Wanda—”
“No, sweetie, I really do. I’m just teasing you about your utter lack of communication and acknowledgment of any and all familial ties. Honest. Now, you go do all the important things that keep you from pressing my number on speed dial and we’ll talk next week—or next year—your call.”
“Wanda!”
“Casey?”
“
Please
just listen to me.”
“Of course I’ll listen, but wait. Hold on for just a second.”
Hold on? Sure. She could hold on. She could hold on for as long as she could hold off the very angry mob of people closing in on her. A rather imposing, large woman with a small head and square shoulders like a linebacker butted up against her and whispered so the guard wouldn’t hear, “Hey, four eyes, hurry it the fuck up or you’ll be reading Braille.” Casey self-consciously pushed at her glasses, glasses a very nice guard had given her a Band-Aid to hold together after they’d been viciously stomped on with a red stiletto worn by a woman with a thigh the size of a tree trunk. She clamped her fingers firmly above the rims in case the hardened bully behind her decided to make good on her threat. “Wanda?” she squeaked, fighting for composure.
“One more sec, Case. Nina!” Wanda bristled once more. “Give Marty the frickin’ map and give it to her now. You know good and well you couldn’t read a map even if your IQ suddenly shot up fifty points. Hand it over, and hand it over this instant. I knew we should have taken Marty’s car. She has GPS.” More rustling occurred; then she heard her sister’s exasperated sigh. “Do you see why I can’t talk now, baby girl? It’s just madness when the three of us try to do anything like normal girlfriends do. An all-consuming trip into insanity.”
“Wanda!”
She’d resorted to a whisper-yell to get Wanda’s attention. And really, who, in the position she was in now, wouldn’t at the very least whimper?
“I’m just not getting through to you, am I? What’s this sudden need to talk all about, Case? You almost never want to talk. Not willingly, anyway. And to reiterate, I’m not blaming. I’m just stating a fact. I only wish you’d chosen a better time to call. If the timing were right, I’d yak with you for all of the three seconds you devote to saying the words
I’m fine
. But I just can’t right now. We’re lost somewhere in New York City, and believe me when I tell you: no one wants to be lost with Nina and Marty. No one. In fact, I’d bet the man upstairs himself would rather have a do-over of World War Two than he would be lost with Marty and Nina.”
“One minute remaining,” an automated voice boomed in her ear.
“One minute remaining?” Wanda queried. “Are you calling me from a pay phone, Casey? Do they even still have pay phones anymore? Where’s your cell, honey? I didn’t even check my caller ID to see who was calling. I—”
“Wanda! Quit talking and listen closely!” she yelped, finally blurting out the most heinous statement she’d probably ever make in her entire life. “Seventh Precinct, lower east side of Manhattan. Come get me—please, please come bail me out!” She realized her voice had risen to stratospheric proportions, but her mounting hysteria couldn’t be contained.
“Bail you out?”
A click in her ear meant the one minute she’d had remaining was up, but it wasn’t up before she’d heard the disbelief Wanda’s voice left ringing in her ear.
Yes.
Bail her out.
Of jail.
Of the poe-poe.
From the big house.
From the hoosegow.
For assault and battery.
Of an off-duty police officer.
A half an hour later, Wanda showed up just in time for the scheduled visitation with her two friends in tow. “Oh, Casey!” her sister fairly shrieked, gathering Casey in her arms and hugging her tight to her slender frame. Despite her dire circumstances, she couldn’t help but notice how pretty and healthy Wanda looked these days. Since she’d married Heath, her cheeks were always glowing and her eyes were bright. More ugly guilt ate at Casey’s gut. Seeing Wanda reminded her she hadn’t been able to take time off to attend Wanda and Heath’s wedding on the Island. Noooo, she’d been too busy catering to the grown women she literally babysat.
Wanda pushed a strand of Casey’s tangled chocolate brown hair from her forehead. “Are you okay?”
“Don’t ask her that, Wanda. Of course she’s not okay,” a blonde with shoulder-length hair, and a chic sapphire blue, formfitting sweater dress with a gold chain-link belt draped casually over her hips, chastised. “She’s wearing orange—a color I assure you isn’t even close to her color wheel. It makes her look sallow and almost yellow around the gills. And she’s in”—the blonde leaned in and whispered—“
jail
. Jail, Wanda. There’s nothing okay about jail.”
Another woman, as dark as the blonde was light, and a stark fashion contrast to her in faded jeans and a sweatshirt that read, “Yellow Sucks,” nudged the blonde hard with a flat palm to her shoulder and an irritated look. “Shut the fuck up, Marty. A—the color wheel bullshit is now a thing of the past. Or did you forget Heath, the director of marketing
you
hired, shot that shit all to hell and renamed it an ‘Aura Arc’ or some such crap? B—stop whispering the word
jail
like it’s the plague or something, and quit acting like you’re all above this, Miss Hoity-toity. Jesus! Don’t you think the poor kid feels bad enough without being reminded her color wheel’s out of whack, and she’s in jail? Sometimes you’re so fucking insensitive.”
The blonde—Marty, from what Casey had distractedly gathered—gasped and fiddled with the black coat she had draped over her arm, clenching tight fingers on the collar as though she was warring with the idea of a little physical violence. “Excuse me, but if you remember, I voted Heath down on the ridiculous idea a color wheel should be anything but what it is. A
color wheel
. And me? Insensitive, Nina? Um, helloooooo, Miss Potty Mouth. Who’s insensitive? Wasn’t it you who just the other day—”
“Nina, Marty, knock—it—off!” Wanda intervened with a stern look, putting a hand up between both women. “Now, my sister’s in crisis. This isn’t the time to have a knock- down, drag-out about arcs and wheels—especially here where I just might allow the nice policeman in the corner over there to haul you both off to cells. You know those dank, dark cages where you all have to share the facilities and some woman named Inga makes you her cellblock missus? Cut it out and behave accordingly.”
Wanda turned back to Casey, plastering a forced smile on her lips, but it didn’t hide the disgust she just knew her sister was undoubtedly experiencing. Casey could see it in the wrinkle of her pert nose and the pinch of her glossed lips. “Now, back to you. Are you okay?”
Casey glanced at the other prisoners in the gray, institutionally colored visiting area and blanched.
Oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus
—she was in jail. She fought for the calm, unruffled demeanor that was almost always her outward appearance. She liked to call it her “work face.” The face she used when someone had to remain calm in the midst of all the chaos and madness her employers’ twenty-something daughters created.
How you did that in the visiting room of the pokey while surrounded by criminals with something called a “grill” in their mouths was going to be a primo effort. Casey gathered what was left of her sane, levelheaded self and laid it right out there for her sister to see. “I’m about as good as can be expected in jail. Did you pay the bond? I know it was a bundle of money. I swear I’ll pay you back for all of it—every penny. I have most of it in my savings account. The rest I’ll make payments on every month. Promise.”
Wanda threw up a dismissive hand as though money was no issue. “Don’t be silly, honey. The money isn’t the problem at all. I took care of it, and I know you’re good for it. Here’s the real problem—you assaulted an off-duty officer, Casey—in a bar. What the
ef
, young lady? You’re standing here in front of me all stoic, like this is no big deal. I don’t even know who you are.You were always so studious—thoughtful—quiet, and I can’t ever remember you going to a bar. Don’t you remember how we were always saying, ‘That Casey, always with her nose in a book. She’s so quiet.’ So quiet in fact, now we hardly ever hear from you. Since when did you go all vigilante?”
Good question. If someone had the answer, she’d be all in for hearing the explanation. “I don’t know.” And she didn’t. She couldn’t remember past . . . well, she couldn’t remember. Period. Fear rose again like the swell of froth on a freshly tapped beer. “I don’t even remember what happened, Wanda,” she blurted out, then silently damned herself for not thinking before she opened her big mouth. Shit. Casey let her head hang low, dropping it to her chest to hide her eyes—and, okay, her shame.
But Wanda would have none of that. She tilted up her sister’s chin and forced Casey to gaze into blue eyes so different from her own. “You can’t remember? But you always remember—everything. Details are your thing. Wait . . . were you . . . drunk?” Wanda frowned with distaste, whispering the word so no one would hear her—as if that was the worst offense you could commit in a place like this. Wanda’s nostrils flared in an obvious effort to find alcohol on her breath.
Hah. Drunk.
As if there was ever enough time to so much as breathe the air designed especially for her when she was too busy breathing it for the Demonic Duo, Lola and Lita—her boss, Calvin Castalano’s, twin daughters. Spoiled, self-centered socialites who did virtually nothing but plan their eyelash-curling time around their next Botox injections and drive-by implants. Though drinking wasn’t a vice she heartily pursued—if anyone could drive someone to become a shoo-in for AA, it was Lola and Lita.
Casey focused on Wanda’s face again and replied with as much succinct calm as she could muster, “No. No, I wasn’t drinking or drugging or doing any of the things that would make me forget how I ended up here in jail for . . . assaulting an officer.” Casey cringed, folding her fingers together to rest at her thighs. She’d hit a police officer. Her. Casey Louise Schwartz.
And she hadn’t just hit him. According to what she’d overheard, she’d slammed one Arvin Polanski up against the far side of the bar’s wall—with just a single, delicate hand.
Oh, and then she’d hurled herself at him, suspending him approximately three feet above the ground, but not before she made an extra special effort to threaten to sacrifice the heart she’d rip from his chest in a ritualistic offering of satanic worship.
And sheep.
There was also a reference to sheep she neither understood nor wanted clarification for.
That the two arresting officers had even been speaking with the smallest, most remote reference about her and satanic rituals might just mean a psych eval was in her very near future.
She’d never raised a hand to anyone in her life, but clearly, when she chose to throw down, she did it with a thundering hand and wild abandon. And that could be handy info to have on her side should she ever encounter, say, a mugger.