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“Me too. Let me get her in the car,” I tell him, glad she doesn’t fight me when I put her into the back seat. She leans forward, face in her hands. I wonder if she isn’t going to be sick again.
“He was waiting,” Dex says, voice lowered. “He got here a few minutes after everyone went into the cafe. I noticed the van. It’s too out of place here.”
I look left but there’s no trace of the van. Not that I expected there to be.
“All right. Let’s get her home.”
He nods and I climb in beside Isabelle. I rub her back and she straightens, looks out the window.
“You’re safe, Isabelle,” I tell her, my voice thick. If I hadn’t grabbed her in time…no. I don’t let myself go down that road. “Isabelle?”
She turns to me, wipes her eyes but tears keep coming. “I didn’t see him.”
I nod, wrap an arm over her shoulders and pull her to my side. She doesn’t resist and I don’t tell her it doesn’t matter whether she saw him or not. Because he saw her.
“My heel got caught,” she says. She takes one sandal off. Sure enough, the heel is damaged where she must have caught it in the pavement. She turns to me. “Thank you for saving me.”
I study her. I realize she doesn’t know it wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t her stumbling or the driver going too fast and losing control of the vehicle. He didn’t lose control at all.
“You’re never going to let me out of the house again, are you? I see it on your face.”
“I just want you safe, Isabelle.”
“It was an accident. I am safe.”
“Let’s get home.”
“Please. I need… I can’t live locked up in that house. I need to see my friends. I need space. Freedom. You have to give me something.”
“You were almost killed just now. Do you think you can give me a minute to think?”
“I didn’t—”
I raise my eyebrows and it stops her. “You would have survived being run down by a van? Because if I hadn’t pulled you out of the way…” I stop. No need to say more.
She opens her mouth, closes it. “Please, Jericho. Please,” she asks. Begs. Her voice is earnest. No mockery, no hate. Just desperation.
And I can’t ignore it. Can’t deny her.
I take a deep breath and exhale as we near the house. The gates are still open so Dex pulls through.
“Please,” she says again, eyes filling with tears.
I take another deep breath, exhaling slowly. “You’ll have your violin lesson at the house this week.”
She looks up at me.
“That’s the best I can do. Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Good. Wednesday night, was it?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Wednesday night. I’ll need the names of everyone who will be at the house.”
“You want social security numbers too?”
I grin, glad to hear her quick remark. “If you have them, it’ll save me time.”
She shakes her head, but she’s satisfied for now even though she’s still wiping rogue tears. “Thank you.”
I nod in acknowledgement.
When we get inside, she gives me the names of the students who attend the lesson with her, as well as her teacher. When I tell her to go upstairs and take a nap, strangely, she doesn’t argue with me. She nods and goes up to her room to lay down.
It’s a testament to the toll the day’s outing had on her. Or a testament to what almost being killed will do to you. I wonder if subconsciously she realizes what happened wasn’t an accident.
That afternoon I get people searching for the van that almost ran down my wife. I’m tempted to confront the Bishops, but I don’t. I’m just glad Angelique didn’t witness what happened. Zeke had turned the corner just before.
Which brings me back to Zeke.
He’d dropped everyone off then left right away and it’s late when he gets home. I wonder if he’s trying to avoid me.
“Brother.” I call out from the shadows of the living room. I lit a fire and am having some whiskey as I watch the flames, listen to the pop of damp wood.
Zeke turns, tucks his phone into his pocket.
“Didn’t get to talk much during the afternoon’s outing,” I say. “Whiskey?”
It takes him a moment to nod, walk to the fire and take the chair beside mine. He pours himself a tumbler of whiskey from the bottle on the table between our chairs.
“Isabelle’s okay?” he asks. Dex filled him in on what happened after he left.
I nod. “She thinks it was an accident.”
“But you’re sure it wasn’t.” It’s not a question.
“Dex saw the man drive up while we were in the café. He was waiting for her.”
“You’re sure she was the target?”
I grit my teeth. I know where this is coming from.
“Maybe it was you. Isn’t that more likely?” he asks.
I sip my whiskey and watch the fire. “Not this time.”
