“None of that is your business.”
“Maybe I’ve made it my business. Maybe I think you’re unstable and the best thing would be for you to back away from Immie and get some help for your mental problems.”
“Tell me this. Why are we out here?” asked Jule. She stood on the steps above Brooke.
Below them was the ravine.
The sun was nearly down.
“Why are we out here, I asked,” Jule said. She said it lightly, swinging her backpack off her shoulder and opening it as if to get out her water bottle.
“We’re going to talk it out, like you said. I want you to stop dicking around with Immie’s life, living off her trust fund, making her ignore her friends, and whatever else you’re doing.”
“I asked you why we’re out here,” said Jule, bent over her backpack.
Brooke shrugged. “Here exactly? In this park? You drove us here.”
“Right.”
Jule hefted the bag that held the lion statue from the Asian Art Museum. She swung once, hard, coming down on Brooke’s forehead with a horrid crack.
The statue didn’t break.
Brooke’s head snapped back. She stumbled on the wooden walkway.
Jule moved forward and hit her again. This time from the side. Blood spurted from Brooke’s head. It splattered across Jule’s face.
Brooke collapsed against the railing, her hands clutching the wooden bars.
Jule dropped the statue and went at Brooke low. She grabbed her around the knees. Brooke kicked out and hit Jule in the shoulder, scrabbling with her hands to regain her grip on the railing. She kicked hard, and Jule’s shoulder popped out, dislocating with a jolt of pain.
Fuck.
Jule’s vision went white for a minute. She lost hold of Brooke, and with her left arm hanging lame, locked her right arm and slammed it up under Brooke’s forearms, making Brooke let go of the railing. Then she bent over and went in low again. She got Brooke’s legs, which scrabbled on the ground, grabbed them, got her good shoulder underneath Brooke’s body, and lurched her up and over.
Everything was still.
Brooke’s silken blond hair plummeted.
There was a dull crack as her body hit the tops of the trees, and another as she landed at the bottom of the rocky ravine.
Jule leaned over the railing. The body was invisible beneath the green.
She looked around. Still no one on the path.
Her shoulder was dislocated. It hurt so much she couldn’t think straight.
She hadn’t bargained on an injury. If she couldn’t move her dislocated arm, she was going to fail, because Brooke was dead and her blood was everywhere and Jule had to change clothes. Now.
Jule forced herself to calm her breathing. Forced her eyes to focus.
Holding her left wrist with her right hand, she lifted the left arm up in a J-movement, pulling away from the body. Once, twice—God, it hurt—but on the third try, the left shoulder popped back in.
The pain disappeared.
Jule had seen a guy do that once, in a martial arts gym. She had asked him about it.
All right, then. She looked down at her sweater. It was splattered with blood. She pulled it off. The shirt underneath was wet, too. She yanked her shirt off and used a clean corner of it to wipe her hands and face. She pulled off her gloves. She took the baby wipes from the backpack and cleaned herself up—chest, arms, neck, hands—shivering in the winter air. She shoved the bloody clothes and wipes into the black garbage bag, tied it shut, and tucked everything into the backpack.
