Page 24 of Bad Intentions

“I’ll call you with an update,” the chief says and holds the door for me as I exit the room. “Say hello to your grandmother.”

As I walk down the corridor, through the glass panel of the next room, I see Mallory Blain, the woman I found in the basement. She has a blanket over her shoulders, but I can tell she’s a short, skinny person. Her hair is dirty blond. She sits hunched over the table, with a female police officer across the table from her, and looks so small that my heart clenches for her. Why did the man pick her?

I keep walking, past two more rooms with officers at their desks, then into the general hall.

Another officer leans against the wall, talking on the phone as I pass by.

“We called the state police to take over,” he says. “We are not big enough for this… Yes… Refused the medical exam, correct. No matter how we pushed for it.” I slow down so I can eavesdrop. “No, right… No, nothing we can do. That’s her choice. Yes… Yes, she insists on going home. She seems spooked.”

I stop several feet from him and pretend like I’m looking for something in my pocket so I can listen in.

“We can place an officer to patrol her house, in case the suspect shows up again… Right… Yes, nothing much except for DNA. Okay, well, we’ll run it through the database for possible matches, so⁠—”

He flicks his eyes at me, his chin raised in a dismissive gesture, and I look down and walk away.

I want to talk to Mallory Blain. But more than anything, at this point, I need to tell Grandma what happened. I can’t tiptoe around her forever. Better she finds this out from me than someone else.

15

JOSIE

I stay awake throughout most of the night, thinking about what happened and if I handled the situation right. Then it’s morning, the noise of the passing cars out on the street more frequent. It’s still dark, or maybe the clouds smother the first light.

I barely slept, but it might be a good thing, since I didn’t dream. No nightmares about being trapped in this town. Just the reality—I am.

TV sounds come from the kitchen. I search for my phone on the nightstand, then remember that it’s at the police station.

Grandma is already up—I can hear her.

Last night, when I got home from the precinct, she was already asleep, and I didn’t want to wake her up and worry her with the news. But I definitely need to tell her about what happened yesterday. Soon, she’ll find out from the newspaper.

I use the bathroom and, as I brush my teeth, study myself in the mirror. Any more crazy things happening in my life, and I will soon look worse than Grandma. Dark circles under my eyes, puffy cheeks like I’ve been crying—I need more sleep, for sure.

I put on my almost-daily outfit of a knitted sweater, jeans, and tractor boots. I became careless about my clothes since moving to Burnville, but makeup isn’t something I’m willing to give up. Or doing my hair. Considering I work in the food industry, I can’t wear it loose. So I brush my bangs to one side, then pull the rest of my chestnut hair into a high ponytail, and check myself in the mirror again. I look worse than when I left Pittsburgh, and I thought that was my all-time low.

I make my way to the kitchen.

The news is playing on the small TV set up in the corner. The smell of fried dough lingers in the air as Grandma makes pancakes on the stove.

“Morning,” I say as I pour myself coffee, add sugar and half-and-half to mellow the strong brew, and take a seat at the table.

“Morning, hon. Up early?” Grandma asks.

“You should be talking. How are you feeling?”

“As always,” she says. That’s her usual answer, though I think she would’ve pretended like everything is fine even if she were barely standing.

She looks fine. For now. However, I notice that her hands are getting a little weaker every day. Her gait is not quite as certain. I researched it online. Those are the signs of the decline—exhausted body and foggy brain. It’s only a gradual downward spiral from here. I watch Grandma like a hawk, secretly hoping that one day, the doctors will call and say that they’ve mixed up the files and nothing is wrong with her, and she is fine, and she has way more time than the stupid year or however many months they are giving her.

When she’s gone, I’ll have no one. No parents. No siblings.

The sizzling sound of oil in the frying pan pulls me out of grim thoughts as Grandma puts a new batch of batter in the pan. I don’t know who she makes pancakes for every day. She says Grandpa used to love them, could eat a dozen in one sitting. Maybe she makes them to comfort herself. I feel bad for refusing them every morning.

Grandma picks up her coffee and takes a sip. “Going to work early?”

“Yeah,” I say. “A little busy these days.”

“At least have some pancakes.”