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Her answer surprises me. The traps…that’s what I would do too. “Where did you learn to do that? To set traps?”
“I read it in a book.”
“Okay, if you’re sure you don’t need me to secure the place, I’ll go now.”
“I’m sure. But…but thanks for checking on me, Troy.” She doesn’t smile, but she also doesn’t toss me out on my ass, so I count that as a win.
While she might not smile, I do. “You’re welcome. Have a good night, Jess.” I walk away, but it’s not until I get to my truck that I hear her front door click shut.
As soon as I step into my house, I call Zara.
“How’s Jess doing?” she asks. The banging of pots echoes through the line, which means she’s still at Treats.
I hang my keys on the hook by the garage door in the laundry room. “She’s doing better now. I think she’s more embarrassed than anything.”
“Any idea what caused her to react like that? I get it, the pan dropping on the floor set her off, but why?”
I walk to the kitchen. Butterscotch follows me. “She wouldn’t say.”
“She might not have said anything, but your gut reaction is telling you something. Am I right?”
“You’re right. My gut’s telling me something happened to her, and that’s why she’s hypervigilant and jumpy. It’s like she’s constantly looking over her shoulder, expecting to see whoever hurt her in the past.”
“You think she has a stalker? Maybe that’s why she moved to Maple Ridge. She’s trying to get away from him.”
“It’s possible.” I open my fridge and pull out a beer. “She said a friend of hers was stalked in college, and that’s what made Jess super cautious. But I’m wondering if she was the victim, and not her friend. It’s also possible the stalking was more recent.”
“But what could’ve happened to make her react that way when the pan fell on the floor?”
“It could be anything. I’ve seen guys react to a car backfiring, but in their minds it was a gunshot. The mind likes to play tricks on us.”
Unless Jess tells me what happened in the past, I won’t know for sure what caused her to react that way. I can only speculate.
I put my phone on the counter and open the beer bottle.
“So, let me guess,” Zara says softly, “you’re phoning to ask if she still has a job? Or are you calling to ask me to give her another chance?”
“It’s your call, Zar. It’s your business. I’m just your friend. I can’t tell you what to do.”
Silence stretches through the phone line, heavy with uncertainty and hope. My hope.“I don’t know. What if next time she hurts someone or hurts herself? She was holding a knife, Troy.” Zara’s voice is low, keeping the conversation between us, even though she’s probably in the staff room by now.
“I know.” My words are steady and unwavering.
“And what if next time you aren’t here to help out?”
“I know.” That’s the big risk. One I can’t ask Zara to take. She’s the one who must make the decision.
Zara groans, the sound barely heard from my end, and I imagine her on the couch, staring at the ceiling as if the answer is there. “Does she even want to come back after what happened?”
“I never asked. She assumed that she was fired.”
Zara is silent for another beat. “She’s not fired. If she wants to try again, I’m fine with that. But she should really see a therapist.”
“I know, and I’m working on that.” I lean back against the granite kitchen counter and take a quick draw of the beer.
“What do you mean?”
“I took her to the Vet Center to talk to some of the guys there. About their experiences with PTSD. They all agreed that therapy helped them.” There’s a but in my tone, a lingering doubt that their comments made a difference. “Whatever happened in the past, it’s something she doesn’t want to talk about. And that might make it tougher for her to open up to a therapist. If they don’t know specifically what happened to her, it’ll be harder to help her.”
