Heartbroken (17 page)

Chelsea let go a little laugh at that. Strumpet. Ditz. Stray. All words Birdie had used to describe Lulu over the years, never to her face, naturally. But Birdie didn’t need words to communicate her dislike. It didn’t seem to bother Lulu; she seemed to enjoy getting under Birdie’s very thin skin.

“I’ll think about it,” said Kate. She glanced at her daughter, who appeared to be thinking about something else, staring with a slight frown at the ceiling. Kate couldn’t read her expression. “We’ll see.”

“Lemme know,” Lulu said, and went back to tapping on her phone, the permanent condition of the teenager.

“I’ll call your mother,” said Kate.

“She won’t care.” Lulu didn’t look up from her device.

Kate considered screen etiquette to be as important as a reasonable bedtime or limiting television and sugary treats. It was her personal “broken windows” theory of parenting. Meaning, if you didn’t have at least some control over the little things, you couldn’t hope to manage the big things. Chelsea and Brendan were not allowed to text or play games at the dinner table, when other people were talking to them, or until homework was done. It was a matter of priorities.

When Kate looked back at Chelsea, her daughter was watching her in that careful, sensitive way she had. Even when Chelsea was a baby, Kate felt as if her daughter could read her mind.

“It’s fine, Mom,” Chelsea said. Her daughter gave her a sweet, comforting smile. “It’s going to be fine.”

“Yes,” Kate said. She clapped her hands together and forced a bright smile. “Just us girls.”

chapter twelve

“W
hat the fuck?” Angelo said.

His face went slack, but he lifted the mop like a weapon. Emily spun around to see two men in masks walk through the back door. Fear rocketed through her before she realized it was Brad and Dean; she almost let out a little shriek. Angelo grabbed her by the arm and pulled her behind him. He obviously hadn’t put the scenario together and was moving to protect her. There was a yawning moment of silence as Brad pulled the gun from his pants.

“Emily?” It was Carol coming up behind her.

“Carol, stay back,” she managed to say. Her voice didn’t sound right, as if she were listening to herself underwater. She heard Carol come to a stop with a gasp.

“We just want the cash and nobody gets hurt.” Emily recognized Dean’s voice.

“Angelo and Emily,” said Carol. Her voice was cool and level. “Step back toward me and let them pass. Let’s go have a seat in the dining room until they’re done.”

She could have been talking about the cable guy or a visit from the plumber. The three of them moved backward down the hall. Brad kept step with them, as Dean hung back.

“The money is in a cloth envelope on the desk, through that door to the right,” said Carol. “There’s quite a bit of cash. We’ll just have a seat and wait for you to leave.”

If you didn’t know her, if you didn’t hear the slight tremor in her voice, you’d never know she was afraid
, thought Emily.

The three of them walked into the dining room and had a seat at one of the four-tops. Emily could hear Dean and Brad move heavily down the hall and enter the office. The pie case was humming. Carol tapped her fingers on the wood, her breathing quick and shallow. Neither of them said a word at first. Emily felt Angelo’s eyes settle on her.

“You let them in,” he said. He sounded hurt, sad, but not angry.

“That’s your boyfriend, isn’t it?” said Carol. “I recognized his voice.”

“No,” Emily lied. “No.”

She’d had only one thing to do to make this okay, and she hadn’t done it. Now they were all totally screwed. She couldn’t bring herself to meet Carol’s eyes, just kept her gaze on the table between her outstretched fingers.

“I trusted you,” said Carol.

Emily had heard this sentence before, said in the same sad, bemused way. It never failed to flood her with shame. She thought of all the meals Carol had served her, all the pats on the back and the words of encouragement. Even tonight, though she must have been tired and in no mood for drama, Carol had opened the door and let her in. Emily’s despair and regret were a well within her.

Angelo got up quietly and moved behind the counter. “They can’t do this.”

“Stop, Angelo,” Carol said. “Just sit down. The money doesn’t matter.”

But he already had the gun in his hand, a look of grim determination on his face.

“Goddammit,” said Carol. Her voice was a frantic hiss. “That stupid gun. Put it away.”

“You’re going to let them rob you?” said Angelo. He was angry
now, indignant. “Just let them come here and take the money
you
earned?”

Emily could see how young he was then. She hadn’t noticed before, even though she saw him every time she worked. He was younger than Emily, who wasn’t quite twenty-three. He was only a kid.

“Yes,” Carol said. “If money’s all they want, let them have it. It’s not worth our lives. Or theirs. Sit down.”

Or theirs? Carol was concerned about Brad and Dean’s lives as well. Emily found herself staring at Carol, trying to understand how someone in her position could be thinking about that.

Angelo came back to the table, but he had the gun in his pants.

“Give it to me,” Carol said. She reached her hand across the table.

“If they walk out, I’ll let them go. I swear it,” he said. He put his hand on hers, and they locked eyes. “But I’m not going to let them hurt us.”

“Angelo.” Carol smiled at him as if he were the sweetest, saddest thing she’d ever seen.

“I promise,” he said.

Carol drew her hand back, wrapped her arms around herself, and gave a slow, sorry shake of her head. “Oh my God.”

“Let’s go,” said Dean from the doorway. Emily thought that was incredibly stupid. Because weren’t they supposed to pretend that she didn’t have anything to do with this? What were they supposed to do now? Go on the run?

Then she realized with a horrible, sinking dread that no one had thought this through at all—not Brad, not Dean, certainly not Emily. Brad and Dean were junkies; they needed money. They hadn’t planned a thing, hadn’t anticipated a single consequence. They’d used her: her car, her knowledge of the restaurant, her relationship with Carol. And Emily was the fool who’d gone along for the ride. She was totally and completely screwed. She thought about those
tumblers of ice water falling to the floor, shattering into a thousand shards. That was her heart in this moment. That was her life.

Angelo had his eyes on Emily. “You don’t have to go with them,” he said.

“Shut the fuck up,” said Dean. “Let’s go.”

“If you go with them, Emily, that’s the end of you,” said Carol. “That’s your whole future in flames. There’s still a way out.”

Emily looked at the other woman and could see the sadness in her eyes, the fear. Carol’s hands were shaking. She was probably thinking about her children, who were grown, in college but home all the time. And yet she was also thinking about Emily, a girl who had betrayed her trust and her friendship.

“Shut up,” said Dean. He sounded panicky, his voice going a bit high. “Let’s go.”

“Leave her,” said Brad, coming up behind him. “We have to get out of here.”

She knew they couldn’t leave her; if they did, she would have to tell the police everything. If she stayed, Brad would have to kill her, Angelo, and Carol. Brad had the gun in one hand and the envelope in his other.

Emily stood, and Angelo did as well. She mouthed to him,
Don’t
. She was thinking,
Don’t be stupid. Let me go
. But she saw something on his face, something like pity. A communication passed between them. Angelo wasn’t stupid; she was. Brad and Dean were just trying to get Emily out of the room before Brad started shooting.

As Angelo started to turn around, he pulled the weapon from his waist. His face was a dark mask of determination, his mouth a thin, pressed line. She could see the sweat on his forehead, the fear in his black eyes, the gold cross hanging around his neck.
No, don’t. Please
.

The rest of it was a blur, the sharp details of the moment fading into a carnival ride of light and sound. She didn’t know who shot first, but the sound of gunfire—deafeningly, brutally loud—
rocketed through her. Her hands flew to her ears, and she dropped to a crouch, wishing she could squeeze herself into a ball so tight and so small that she would cease to exist. It went on, the gunfire, the yelling. It went on forever.

When it was quiet again, her head was filled with a high-pitched ringing. She opened her eyes to see the white of Angelo’s uniform blooming a dark, angry red. Carol, her face blank, stunned, crashed across the table, falling heavily to the floor, knocking down chairs.
This is not happening
, thought Emily, even as Carol came to lie still on the floor.
This is not happening
.

Brad and Dean disappeared around the corner; she heard their pounding footfalls. Angelo followed them, though he was injured, into the hallway. Emily crawled to Carol, tugged on her hand.
Get up, get up
, she heard herself pleading. Her ears were still ringing.
Please, Carol, I’m so sorry
.

There was blood on Emily’s shirt, on her hands, on the floor and wall.
So much blood
. How was it possible? How did this happen? The smell was somehow sweet and metallic.
Oh, God. Oh, please, let this not be real
. She heard three more shots ring out, and then there was silence.

Emily crushed her eyes closed. She wished she’d go blind. She wished that river of blood were flowing from her and that the scene around her, the world itself, would fade to black.

“Come on, Em.”

Dean had come back and was pulling at her. She was holding on to Carol, who was still and heavy. At least it was quiet; at least that horrible, nightmarish screaming had stopped. Who had been screaming like that? Emily realized it had been her.

Dean lifted her from the ground, and she pounded and kicked and screamed at him as he carried her over his shoulder from the restaurant. It was a horror show. Carol lay where she’d fallen. Angelo slumped against the wall, his palms turned toward the ceiling.

“Oh, no, no, no,” she heard herself saying, dragging her hands
on the wall, leaving three long trails of blood on the paint. “No,
please
, no.”

“Shut her up.”

In the fog of her awareness, she knew it was Brad. She hated him. Why wasn’t
he
dead? Why wasn’t
he
lying in a bloody heap on the floor? Why did people like him always win?

“Hush now, Em,” said Dean. “It’s okay.”

What a ridiculous thing to say. She found herself laughing. Things would never be okay again. That much should be obvious even to a pill junkie. Then her laughter turned to sobbing.

“I’m serious,” said Brad. He was so calm. “Shut her up or I will.”

She felt all of her sound and tears dry up. They were at the car now. The air had turned cool while they were inside. A wind washed over her and felt good. A cold front was moving in; all the humidity had dissipated, and it felt like rain.

“Don’t cry, please. Please be quiet.” Dean put her down gently and took her face in his hands. There he was, the man she’d loved and thought would take care of her. But it was too late for him. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

He pushed the seat back for her, and she fell inside. Her face, her hair, her arms were bloody. She used her jacket to wipe herself off. She remembered when she’d carelessly tossed the garment in the back, in case she got cold at the Blue Hen, which she often did. It seemed like another universe in which she’d worried about little things like catching a chill.

The two men climbed into the car, and Brad unzipped the envelope. Dean rested his head against the steering wheel. She’d seen tears in his eyes inside. She heard him take and release a long breath. He hadn’t meant for things to go like this. If it hadn’t been for Angelo, it might have been okay. Sweet, stupid Angelo. If only it had been just her and Carol there. Brad and Dean would have come and gone quietly. No one would have known that the money had been stolen until they were gone. That was how it was supposed to be.

Emily let herself believe that was what had happened. She imagined that she had let Dean and Brad in and returned to her conversation with Carol. And a while later, she’d left Carol there as if nothing had happened. She’d left the back door open, so Carol didn’t suspect her. They’d given Brad his money, and he’d driven away, never to be heard from again. Dean was making promises. He was going to get a job. Things were going back to the way they were in the beginning. Why hadn’t things happened that way?

“There’s five grand in here, man,” said Brad. “Five grand.”

Emily couldn’t tell if he was happy or not. Dean had told him ten thousand; she’d told him a couple hundred. So it was right in the middle. Five thousand was nothing. Even she, who had nothing, knew that. You couldn’t buy a house, a car—you couldn’t even live well for a few months. But, she supposed, to an addict, it was like winning the lotto. You could stay high for a while with that.

“Just take it,” said Emily. “Take it and leave us alone.”

Brad spun around to say something to her, his face an ugly scowl.

“Shit,” said Dean, interrupting whatever Brad was about to say or do. “Do you hear that?”

She did. It was the faintest wail of sirens. She felt a potent rush of fear and relief. Maybe Carol or Angelo was alive and had called the police.

“There must have been some kind of alarm,” said Brad. He looked accusingly at her, as if she’d had some part in the planning and execution of this nightmare. Emily didn’t know whether there was an alarm. If there was, the employees hadn’t been notified. The sound of the sirens was definitely growing louder, heading in their direction.

“What are you waiting for, asshole?” Brad said. His voice was quiet but white-hot with menace. “Drive.”

Dean did as he was told. Thinking about the words Carol had spoken to her, Emily turned around to watch the Blue Hen disappear.