“I’d like to talk to Owen,” Daniel said, “but I can see he’s still groggy. I’d like to speak to the deputy outside for a few minutes. Is it all right if Emma stays in here with you?”
“Of course,” Lucille said, “you’re very welcome here, my dear. Right, George?” She elbowed her husband.
“Good to see you again,” George grumbled.
Emma plastered on a smile, still clasping her hands together in front of herself. She didn’t know where to stand, what to say, or how to act. Did she address Mr. Thomas by his first name, too?
Speaking to the Thomases was the least of her worries. After Daniel’s revelations, she wanted to talk with Owen alone. She wanted to hear what he had to say. And why he hadn’t reached out to her before now. But she didn’t know how to say anything in front of his parents to get time alone. If her life was in danger because of what Owen had learned, she’d like to know everything.
A cell phone rang. George unclipped an old flip phone from his belt holster. He answered gruffly.
Emma fought a smile of genuine amusement. Where could he even find a flip phone?
“Uh-huh. Uh-huh, oh,” George said, shooting a worried look at Lucille. “We’ll be on our way then.” He closed his phone and re-secured it in the clip on his belt. “There’s some sort of issue with the power happening at the camp. The generator isn’t kicking in. All of the fridges and freezers are going to be off-line if we can’t get back and sort it out.”
Lucille darted her gaze between her husband and her son, her eyes almost wild with worry.
“I can stay here until you get back,” Emma said, stepping forward and hoping to ease the burden on Lucille’s face. “I’ll keep Owen company.”
“Are you sure?” Lucille asked, rubbing her hands together. “You wouldn’t mind? We shouldn’t be long. This happens all the time, but we’re the only people who can ever seem to fix it.”
George grunted.
“Of course not. I’m happy to be here.” Privacy might encourage Owen to stop feigning sleep and speak with her.
“Thank you, dear. We won’t be long,” Lucille said. She and George left the room.
The door shut behind them.
Emma walked around the bed toward the window, glancing through the break in the curtains. A few clouds gathered in the distance, threatening another storm. Often, clouds completely disappeared into the sky, and despite a break from the hot sun, no weather event happened to ruin the day. Much ado about nothing.
“Hey,” came a hoarse whisper. “Are they really gone?”
Emma spun and glanced first at the door, before turning her attention to the figure on the bed, his eyelids still heavy over his eyes. “Yes, they’re gone.”
“I’m glad you came back. I wasn’t sure you’d ever come home. I thought a reunion was my best chance to see you so we could talk.”
Emma was touched and uneasy by the attention. She’d focus on clarity for lack of time. She held up a hand. “If you want a trip down memory lane, you’ll be disappointed. I don’t remember much.”
“Are you well?”
She hated having to explain herself. The mental redaction happened in response to a massive traumatic trigger. While it was voluntary—at the surface level—the truth was so much more. Her inner self had sought protection. She worried the girls in the bunk would judge her like she’d chosen to forget and let go of the pain. She’d give everything to get back all the good she lost along the way, too.
His genuine concern shone through the question. He was recovering from surgery in a hospital and was worried about her. She didn’t mind telling him the truth. “I don’t have cognitive issues, and I wasn’t hit on the head like a cartoon. My therapist thinks it’s a coping technique. I’ve blocked out a lot of memories from that time.”
He nodded, and a soft, sad smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. His somber expression was enhanced by his surroundings.
“I struggle with nightmares, too,” she continued. “In the beginning, after the accident, I barely slept through the night at college. In the years since it’s more sporadic, and I can get some solid hours of REM. I’m worried I might trigger them again, but I decided to return. I’ve come to…”
“Face your fears?”
She scrunched her nose. “I’m not afraid. I want to reclaim what I’ve lost. I don’t know if it’ll work or if I’ll create false memories.” She shuddered. She was getting off-track. “Don’t worry about me. What’s going on? Were you chasing me last night?”
“I wanted to talk to you. Alone, and preferably out of earshot of the camp.”
“Before or after you were shot?” She shouldn’t ask questions in rapid-fire, but she had to know.
“Both. I thought I was being invisible. I didn’t want to draw attention to any conversations between us. I didn’t want harm to follow you. I can’t be sure if the gunshot was aimed at you or me.”
