Part II: Danica
Chapter 1
Isat in abject horror on my floor for the longest time, just processing.
Had I been drugged and taken hostage in my own home by my most hated enemy as revenge for … something I’d done in the past?
Had I been in one of those dissociative fugues from psychological thriller novels where I did a whole bunch of irrational and unthinkable things against my moral code while I was awake and then forgot about them?
Nothing made sense. Jeremy Hotston had been in my house, looking at me like that. Like I’d mortally wounded him.
And like that. Like handsome. Why was my body chemistry reacting to his physicality that way?
I lifted the front of my sweater to my nose and sniffed. A man’s cologne lingered there.
Something terrible had obviously happened.
And I needed three extra-strength Tylenol tablets, pronto.
“Mom?” I dialed her number while I filled my water glass. The kitchen was a holy terror of a mess. Dishes everywhere, cooking spatters on the stovetop, a small splash of olive oil at the base of the oil vessel.
Since when did my kitchen have all these pots and pans and ingredients?
“Sweetheart, you missed our family video chat. We were talking about Angelica’s surgery.”
Angelica! Her hip surgery to lengthen some tendons and shorten others. In the planning works for months and months, it was supposed to help her walk better. “How is she doing? Is she healing up?”
“Honey, the operation was postponed until tomorrow. You know that. Are you still planning to come to Reedsville and see her in the hospital? You can’t drive yet, and you said someone was bringing you. Someone you wanted us to meet.”
My mind spun, and I tilted my head sideways to see whether the world had rolled over on its axis.
“Danica? Sweetie? Are you all right? You’re being very quiet.”
“This is going to come out of nowhere, Mom, but do you remember Jeremy Hotston?”
“Who could forget that lunkhead?” Some muttering ensued. “No matter why you’ve been bringing him up again lately, I swear, if I ever run into him in a dark alley, his minutes are numbered. Do you recall how he destroyed your sister’s wedding—and our newly laid turf in the back yard—with his motorcycle? Which he obviously had no idea how to ride. Even his sister screamed in his face for that.”
Yeah, Penelope had been particularly shrill with him. It’d made all the rest of us in the wedding party step back and let her handle him. She’d escorted him off the property, in lieu of my dad calling the police.
“I’ll never forget how that carved ice swan looked, floating upside down in the swimming pool.” I shook my head. Jeremy Hotston was a total buffoon.
My home had a strict no buffoons allowed policy. So what had he been doing there?
“Why do you ask about Jeremy? Please tell me he’s not been on television as one of America’s Most Wanted. I always knew he’d come to a bad end. No impulse control, that one.”
“I think he just had ADHD, Mom.” Now, there I went, defending him. Again. Like I’d done for him to my family so many times in the past—at least until that final prank. The one that made him dead to me. “I saw him today, that’s all. It’d been a long time. And no, he wasn’t wearing an orange jumpsuit or anything.” But he would be if he tried to set foot in my house uninvited again. That lunkhead! Mom’s term was so apropos.
“Well, don’t let his negativity distract you from your good news. You’re not going to give me even the tiniest hint of who you were bringing to meet us? Pretty please?”
“Mom, you know I love giving a good surprise.” I gracefully exited the conversation, tamping down my concern. What had Mom meant, I was bringing someone? As if. Unless it was more of her wishful thinking that I’d throw myself at Garrett Boltinghouse.
Not happening.
Instead, I went into the kitchen to recover it from whatever hurricane had wreaked havoc.
First, I loaded the dishwasher with anything dishwasher-able. Then, I came to the pan on the stove. Curdled bits of browned meat lined the edges. I picked one free and tasted it. Mmm. That was good. I picked out a bit more. Then, looking around, I found a dinner plate with half a chicken breast remaining, golden brown and still juicy. Oh, wow. This was incredible. Probably the best thing that had ever happened in this kitchen.
In no time, it was gone, as were the greens beside it, so buttery and garlicky and good. What else was in this kitchen? I opened the fridge. Whoa. Who’d stocked this thing? Every food group was in there! I cracked open plastic storage containers of leftovers and sampled each of them. Oh, my lands. These were amazing. What the heck was going on here? In my dissociative fugue state, had I suddenly learned to cook?