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“Oh my God,” she whispered, hugging me tight. “It’s okay. Whatever happened, everything is going to be okay.” She let me go and eyed Isaac suspiciously. “My dad’s away on business, but my mom is here,” she whispered. “If she sees you…”
Isaac had retreated into silence, his usual stony mask on his face again.
“Give us a minute?” I asked.
Angie glanced back over her shoulder, into the house. “A fast minute.”
I pulled Isaac aside on Angie’s back porch and started to take off his jacket.
“Keep it,” he said.
“I can’t,” I said. The tears were coming again.
“Willow,” he said. “Don’t.”
“You said that before,” I said. “Don’t what? I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel right now.”
“And I’m not trying to tell you. I just want you to know that with me…it’s okay. It’s okay that you told me.” He gritted his teeth. “I want to kill the fucker, I’m not going to lie. I want to track his ass down and…” He inhaled throu
gh his nose. “But I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to do, okay? I promise.”
The tears spilled over and I heaved a steadying breath. “Thank you,” I whispered.
Angie’s patience ran out. She took me into her embrace and her voice was soft when she spoke to Isaac. “I’ll take care of her.”
He hesitated, as if he didn’t want to leave me for a second. “Thanks.” He turned to me. “Text me later.”
“I will.”
We watched him walk back to his truck into the cool morning, his hands stuffed into his pockets, shoulders hunched.
The second his truck was gone, Angie pulled me to face her. “Tell me the truth,” she said, brushing the tangle of hair back for my face. I’d never heard her voice so hard or serious. “Is he the reason you look like this?”
I shook my head. “No. He’s the reason I don’t look worse.”
She nodded. “Come on, let’s get you upstairs.”
She hustled me up to her room on the second floor. From down the hall, behind her parents’ master bedroom, the sound of running water could be heard. A dog, a beautiful Irish Setter with a flowing auburn coat, bounded up the stairs after us.
“Barkley, no,” Angie said but he nosed his way in the room anyway.
“Mom’s getting ready for work,” she said as she closed the door behind us. I realized with a pang of regret I didn’t know what her parents did for a living. I’d never asked.
Angie’s room assaulted my aching head. It was exactly as I had pictured it: full of pop culture kitsch. Posters of obscure alternative bands I’d never heard of. One of Emma Watson as Hermione. Three separate bookshelves were stuffed with novels, comic books and row after row of Manga. Clothes lay discarded on the floor—all of Angie’s lettered T-shirts.
She sat me down on the black bedspread of her bed. Barkley sat and watched his human pace in front of us.
“I don’t know what to do here. I need a story to tell my mother, okay? You weren’t feeling well after rehearsal? So you ended up here? And…?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
Angie knelt between my feet and took my hands and hers. “What happened, Willow? Forget everything else. What happened? Tell me everything.”
I told her everything.
Unlike last night’s combustive rage, the story came out between soft hiccupping sobs. Telling Isaac was a grenade thrown through the ice and numbness, shattering it in a messy explosion. Telling Angie was simply letting the words fall out of the hole left behind.
Angie sat next to me on the bed and cried with me. “You have to call the police,” she said. “You have to press charges.”
