Breaking Beautiful (7 page)

My hand automatically goes back to the scar over my eye. “No. It was an accident. I mean, I got this in a car accident.”

He looks at me strangely. “I meant why are you selling the earrings? You trying to get back at the guy who gave these to you?”

“No, he’s de—” I bite off the word and say, “Gone,” instead. He looks at me hard, but I acquire a sudden and deep interest in a piece of artwork on the shelf behind him—a collage of faces, different expressions and different colors flowing into each other.

He goes back to the earrings, studying each one with the
glass while the clock ticks by agonizing second after agonizing second. He finally looks back at me with no expression. “What did you want for them?”

I’ve seen enough bargaining on TV to know I should start higher than what I want. “One hundred fifty.” I bite my lip and wait for him to laugh in my face.

“Hmmm, I don’t think so.” He steps back and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Try again.”

“One twenty-five.” All of the faces in the painting laugh at me.

He fingers the earrings. “I won’t go higher than a hundred.”

I look down at the studs, sparkling hopefully even in the grimy fluorescent light. I feel like they deserve better than to end up in a place like this, but I look away from them and say, “Okay.”

“Done.” He grins.

I only wanted to get Dad’s money back so I wouldn’t be in trouble, but as fast as he agreed, and as big as his smile is now, I get the idea I’m being taken.

“There are a lot of jerks out there, Al. That’s why you need me around. I’ll always be here to protect you.”

The man scoops the earrings into a little box and a bubble of panic hits my throat. What is Trip going to say when he finds out I … ? I squash that thought with my hand pressed against my forehead. Trip can’t find out anything ever again.

Chapter
8

On the way home, my ears—used to Trip’s earrings—swell in protest. They feel bare and I keep pushing insufficient wisps of hair around them. I wonder if anyone will notice that they’re gone. Mom will. Now that we’re pretending everything is normal again she barely notices me, but missing earrings? That she’ll notice. But maybe because everything is supposed to be normal, she’ll pretend she doesn’t.

Dad’s truck feels huge and loud as I pull into the parking lot at Simmons’ Grocery. Since it’s the only store in town, Simmons’ sells everything from groceries to pocketknives to souvenirs for tourists. I spent so much time getting home that I’ve hit the after-work crowd. Instead of the store being empty, there are five other people shopping. The aisles are too low to hide behind, so I feel everyone’s eyes on me as I try to find the stuff on Mom’s list as fast as possible.

The first reactions I get from the other customers are mixed—a sympathetic smile from an old man who holds the door to the fridge open so I can get the milk and an open-mouthed stare at the side of my face from a kid standing by the candy aisle.

Then I see Grandma’s old friend, Sherry Clark, one of the gossip-seekers who came to see me in the hospital after the accident. She’s talking on her cell phone, but stops midconversation when she sees me. In a voice loud enough for the person on the other end and the entire store to hear she says, “Allie Davis, it’s good to see you out.”

I mutter something like “thanks” and try to squeeze by her, but her body seems to swell enough to fill up the aisle. “I remember when I lost my Patrick, I couldn’t bring myself to go anywhere for nearly six months.” She looks at me over the top of her glasses. I feel like I’m being examined for acceptable signs of mourning. I automatically reach to pull my hat down over my scar and, if possible, to cover my bare earlobes.

“Dad asked me to go shopping. I have to pick him up. I need to hurry—” I try again to push my cart in the little hole between her and the canned tomatoes.

“Just seeing other people, people getting on with their normal lives, is such a hard thing after you’ve lost someone so close to you.”

“Yes. It is.” I look down at the floor and try to look appropriately shattered.

She pats my hand. “Hang in there. You’re a trouper.” She lets me by, but I’m not even to the next aisle when I hear her on her phone again, even though she’s trying to whisper. “Huge scar on
the side of her face … horrible, poor child. She was such a pretty thing.”

I can’t leave fast enough, so I get the basics, skip the rest of the list, and push my cart to the front of the store. Angie’s mom is working the only open register.

I start unloading my cart. Angie’s mom looks at me like she’s surprised. “Oh, Allie, how are you feeling?”

I’m not sure how I’m supposed to answer that question anymore. I stick with a quiet “Okay.”

“Angie told me you were back at school. That you’ve been eating lunch together. I think it’s nice that they’re reaching out to you.” She’s running the groceries through, superspeed. She barely misses a beat when James walks in. “You’re late,” she says without looking at him.

I shrink back instinctively, but there’s nothing to hide behind. “Sorry,” he mumbles. He throws his coat under the counter, sends a dark look in my direction, and starts bagging my groceries.

Angie’s mom picks up her conversation with me without missing a beat. “Have you seen the monument they put by the cliff?”

I don’t know what she’s talking about, so I just shake my head. “No.” James is still watching me. His dark eyes bore into the side of my face, but I can’t look back at him. Why is he staring? What is he thinking? Does he notice the earrings are missing?

“… They did a beautiful job on it, but I would imagine it would be hard for you to go up there.” Angie’s mom hands me my receipt and says pleasantly, “This is such a sad thing for
you to have to go through.” She pats my hand. “Tell your mom I said hi.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, and reach for my cart, but Simmons’ is a full-service grocery store. James grabs the handle before I can. I walk around him and head for the doors. He follows me out, pushing the cart, his gaze on the back of my head. I want to tell him I can get it, that I don’t need his help, but I don’t dare say anything. We stop at Dad’s truck and I fumble around the tigereye for the keys in my pocket. I’m probably the only person in Pacific Cliffs who locks their car door, and now I wish I hadn’t. James’s close proximity and silent glare make me nervous. My hand slips off the handle once, but I manage to get the door open. He reaches past me and puts the groceries behind the seat. He straightens up but doesn’t leave.

“Thank you.” I study the front tire of the truck.

He lets out a heavy breath and then says through his teeth, “Nobody has forgotten anything. You aren’t going to get away with pretending everything is okay.” He turns around, shoves the cart hard, and heads back to the store.

I’m so shocked I can’t move. His words chill me as bad as Mr. Phillips’s touch. I stand for a minute, letting the rain soak through my sweatshirt, before I recover enough to climb in the truck.

What is that supposed to mean? Pretending everything is okay? I’ve been walking around school with my head down. Talking to no one. Looking at no one. How am I supposed to be acting?

I’m so distracted that I miss the one red light in town. When I’m halfway through the intersection, a horn blares. I slam on the
brakes, slide on wet pavement, and barely avoid hitting a blue clunker Ford Maverick. Every heartbeat sends sparks of adrenaline through my body. The driver, Marshall Yates, a sophomore with a garage band and a huge attitude, flips me off and keeps going.

I take half a breath before I see flashing lights in my rearview mirror and Pacific Cliffs’ new, unmarked black Charger behind me.

I pull over and lean my head against the steering wheel. How could today possibly get any worse?

Then the officer gets out—tall, blond, definitely not Chief Milton. He leans in my window. “How are you doing today?” Dumb question. “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

Hannah was right about the new cop being hot, but I’m not in the mood to try to flirt my way out of a ticket, and the way I look now it wouldn’t work anyway. I swallow hard. “I missed the red light.”

“Kind of a hard one to miss, don’t you think?” His blue eyes laugh at me. “License and registration, please.”

I pull my license out of my purse and reach for the registration in Dad’s glove box. The door sticks so I have to hit it and jerk on the handle a couple times before it falls open.

I glance at the clock—5:55. Between the ticket and my being late, Dad will never let me take his truck again, even if he never finds out that I ditched school.

He takes my license and registration. “Be right back.” Why are cops so friendly while they ruin your day? I wonder if Dad was wrong about this guy being some kind of detective. Traffic stops seem like grunt police work. Maybe it’s all a rumor and he’s just a regular cop.

Through the rearview mirror I watch him walk back to his car. He stops at his door, looks at my license, then turns around and comes back. “Allison Davis?” He’s still looking at my license when I roll the window down again. I keep my eyes forward, so my scar is hidden on the other side of my face.

“Yes.” I lick my lips because my mouth has gone dry. “Is there a problem?”

He smiles—even friendlier. “It might take a while to run your license through the system—old computer. I don’t want to stand out here in the rain. Do you mind sitting in the car with me?”

I do mind, but I don’t think I’m allowed to say no to a police officer. I slide out of the truck and follow him. He opens the passenger-side door of his car for me. I climb in and bury my hands in the pockets of my sweatshirt. The damp seeps into my skin and I have to hunch my shoulders to keep from shaking. The outside of the car looks like a regular Dodge Charger—sneaky—but inside the dash is covered in blinking lights, wires, and even a laptop. I focus on the dash while he gets in his side.

“So.” He reaches over to turn down the dispatch radio. The only thing coming over it is someone talking about the high school football game. “You’re Allie Davis?”

I nod and continue to study the dashboard while my heart pounds. I’m not sure what he’s doing. If he was going to question me, wouldn’t he do it at the police station? If he was going to arrest me, wouldn’t he have put me in the backseat?

“I want to talk to you about the accident last summer.” So much for him being a benign cop.

My answer is quick and sounds too defensive. “I don’t remember anything.”

He continues like I didn’t answer. “There were some inconsistencies I was hoping you could explain to me.” His mock-friendliness is gone. Now he’s all business. “I talked to one of the EMTs who was on the scene that night. He told me that there were some unusual things about your injuries. That your head injury wasn’t consistent with the way you were lying against the rocks. And that there was a lot less blood than he would have expected, considering how much you had lost.”

“I wouldn’t know.” I meet his eye with a look that I hope is braver than I feel. “I was unconscious. Did he mention that?”

“I also talked to a nurse at the ER in Aberdeen. She wouldn’t go on record, but she mentioned bruising on your arms and legs.” His gaze works to penetrate my shell. “Bruises that weren’t consistent with the accident. Old bruises.”

“My medical records are confidential.” My voice wavers, but I try to keep it steady. We learned that in civics last year. It was something I remembered clearly.

“Smart girl. You’re right. Without a warrant I can’t get those records. And maybe she shouldn’t have told me what she did. But it would be okay if you told me where the bruises came from.” His voice is coaxing but sure—he’s a guy who’s used to getting what he wants because of the way he looks, like Trip.

I keep my mouth shut, exercising my right to remain silent. He waits.

“Detective Weeks, we have that license info for you.” The dispatcher’s voice crackles over his radio. I don’t miss the word “detective” in his title. He ignores the voice and turns the radio all the way down. He crosses his arms, looks at me, and waits.

I scrape my fingernail against the rough edge of my stone
and wonder how long in a police car constitutes unlawful imprisonment. We studied that in civics, too. But the pressure of his silence and the pounding of the scar on the back of my head are killing me. “Mild cerebral palsy.” The canned answer comes out easy enough.

“What?” He leans forward, eager.

“I have mild cerebral palsy. My brother and I were born eight weeks early and deprived of oxygen at birth. Me, just a minute or two, him for much longer. He’s in a wheelchair. I don’t read so well, and I don’t have the best balance so I fall a lot. Thus the bruises.” I level my eyes at him and work to keep all emotion out of my face and out of my voice. “If my license is cleared, I need to go. I’m supposed to be picking up my dad right now.”

“Actually I want to—”

Something hits the window. I jump. Detective Weeks reaches for his gun. Outside the patrol car is Dad—standing in the pouring rain and pounding on the window. He’s soaking wet, and he looks pissed.

Detective Weeks calmly moves his hand from his gun, opens the door, and steps out to meet Dad. He shuts the door behind him so I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen Dad look this mad.

Tight-lipped all the way home, Dad doesn’t mention my being late, or the ticket that Detective Weeks still dared to give me. I don’t think he knows I ditched school—at least he doesn’t mention it. We’re sitting in the driveway before he says anything. Then he turns to me. “Is that the first time that cop has talked to you?”

“Yes, sir.” I sit up straight. Dad is in full sergeant-major mode.

His hands grip the steering wheel. “If he ever does anything like that again, I want you to let me know.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If he wants to question you, with the proper paperwork and down at the station, then we’ll cooperate. But I don’t approve of his methods.”

“Yes, sir.” I say it again, because I don’t know what else to say.