Let Me Know (5 page)

Chapter Five

Amber

Leaning against the black granite kitchen counter, I flip the page in the cookbook. I’ve been flipping pages for the past ten minutes and still haven’t figured out what to make. For Marcus. For tonight.

“Jingle Bells” chimes through the house and a weak smile flickers on my face. Michael and I used to argue which Christmas carol to pick when we reprogrammed the doorbell from the usual boring ding dong. “Jingle Bells” was Michael’s favorite.

I push away from the counter. My socks slide over the black and white tiles as I walk from the kitchen into the foyer. I open the door and Emma enters the home she hasn’t seen in almost a year. She used to believe the place came straight out of a fairy tale, with its Tudor-style design. A complete opposite to the modern furniture and artwork inside.

She smiles even though I can tell the memories of when she and Trent used to hang out here taunt her. Something I’ve had to deal with every day since I’ve come home. And even before I left for college.

“I’m heading to the sports center,” she says. “You wanna come? I thought we could toss some hoops.”

“Sure. Let me get changed.” No way am I missing out on this.

Emma follows me upstairs to my room. “Marcus is coming today, right?”

“Yep. He phoned not long ago and said he had a few things to do before he leaves.” I glance out my bedroom window. White flakes swirl through the air, caught up in the wind. It’s light now, but the weather girl promised it’ll become heavier in a few hours. “I hope he gets here before the storm.”

I slide open my dresser drawer. “I’m making him dinner. Or at least I’m trying to.” I remove my long-sleeved T-shirt and basketball shorts. The shorts that at one time I wouldn’t wear because of my scarred leg. The scars are still there, but they don’t bother me like they once did. “I don’t know what to make. All I know is I want it to be something special.”

Emma giggles and flops onto my striped black-and-fuchsia bedding. “You can’t cook.”

I throw her a disgruntled glare. “Sure I can.”

She laughs harder. “Do you remember how you tried to make a grilled-cheese sandwich and almost burned down the house? And what about when you tried to make Jell-O and it wouldn’t set.”

“How was I supposed to know that kiwi prevents Jell-O from setting?”

“It’s on the box. Face it, of the three of us, only Trent knew how to...” Her voice fades away. Then she brightens but there’s a false glow to it. We’re both trying. We’re both struggling. We’re both grasping for anything to dull the pain.

“I can help,” she says. “I bet we can come up with something to keep you from looking incompetent.”

I huff. “Thanks for your vote of confidence.”

She giggles again then sighs, the wistful note clear and heavy. “You’re lucky Marcus is coming. Liam wanted to spend Christmas with me, but being with his family is big for him. They’ve always been close.”

“Your family’s close too.” While growing up, Michael and I practically lived with Emma and Trent’s family, especially during the summers. Often we went camping with them since camping was something Mom wasn’t interested in doing. Work always came first.

“They haven’t been the same since Trent’s death.” Emma traces her finger along the wide stripes on my comforter. “It’s been hard on them with me gone.”

I sit next to her. “Are they going to therapy?”

“I dunno. It’s not something we discuss.”

“Maybe you should. Before things get worse. My mom’s seeing someone.” At Emma’s confused expression, I clarify. “A therapist. She started drinking again because of what happened. She eventually realized she was screwing her life up, and went back to AA. She said the therapist is helping her cope with everything.” And is helping her deal with her own heavy dose of self-blame. I blamed myself for a long time for Trent’s and Michael’s deaths. She blamed herself for that and for not being able to protect me when Paul stalked me. She also had to deal with tons of guilt for turning her back on me because of a misunderstanding between us after I was found alive. A misunderstanding that drove a king-sized wedge between us, all because she thought I hated her for not protecting me and the ones we loved and lost. But I hadn’t hated her. I’d been spending all my time at Grandma’s house, taking care of Smoky, who’d also suffered at Paul’s hands while we were held captive.

“I just don’t know how to bring it up with them,” Emma says. “‘Hey Mom and Dad, since you’re all messed up, maybe you should consider therapy.’”

I snort. “Maybe not with those words, but it wouldn’t hurt bringing it up. You were seeing a counselor, and it helped, right?”

She nods.

“Then tell them that. Do they even know you were going?”

“It’s never come up.”

“Then it’s time to bring it up.” I push myself off the bed and hold out my hand to her. “Help me find a recipe. I need to buy groceries after the gym.”

It doesn’t take us long to locate one that sounds delicious and not too hard to make. I check that Mom has everything I need, then Emma drives us to the sports center. Despite my craving to push myself hard, to punish myself for what happened last spring, I manage to rein it in—like I promised Marcus and my therapist.

We warm up on the treadmill before hitting the mats to stretch.

“I wish you were on the team,” she says as we hold a pose, stretching our hamstrings.

“I wish I was too.” Unfortunately some things weren’t meant to be. I can tell she wants to say something, but there’s nothing she can that would make me feel better. To make us both feel better.

We head to the basketball courts. Several guys who look as if they could play varsity run up and down one court, playing hard. Sweat soaks through their clothing and drips down their faces. One guy passes the ball to a player who is barely open. The boy next to him reaches out, attempting to block the pass. He fails. The other player catches the ball and sets up for the shot. The ball swooshes through the net.

On the next court, a couple of elementary school kids swing the oversized balls up from between their legs, aiming roughly for the hoop towering above them.

Emma and I exchange looks, and without saying a word, jog to the teens as they charge down the court. The guy with the ball dodges left while passing the ball to a player on his right. The player catches it and performs a layup. The ball swishes through the net. He and his teammates high-five each other. The others groan.

“Can we join you?” Emma calls from the sideline.

They look us over. “Not interested,” a tall, dark-haired boy says, wiping sweat from his forehead.

A blond boy jostles him. “Speak for yourself, Dunningham. These two ladies look my speed.” From the way he says it, it’s obvious he’s not referring to the game.

“What speed?” Dunningham says. “You’re a virgin. You have no speed.”

Blond Boy’s face turns the shade of Santa’s hat and he hurls the ball toward Dunningham. It bounces off his shoulder.

“What the fuck was that for?” he grunts.

Emma sashays along the sideline and scoops up an abandoned ball. “Now, boys. Play nice. My friend and I want to play. We’ll go easy on you. I promise.” She spins the ball on her fingertip.

Something flickers on a few of their faces. It’s suddenly dawned on them that Emma and I are tall for girls. Five-foot, eleven-inches tall.

“Okay, you’re in,” a red-haired boy, who’s all limbs, says. He points at me. “You’re with us. Your friend’s with Dunningham’s team.”

Blond Guy jerks his eyebrows up and down his forehead, already over the proclamation of his virginal status.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Emma warns, walking past him. “I have a boyfriend, and he’s four inches taller than you and about fifty pounds heavier.” Not that he has to worry about Liam, who lives in a town about a hundred miles from here.

It doesn’t take the boys long to figure out just how good Emma and I are on the court. They challenge us, push us hard, expect us to play at their level. And we do, and so much more.

We play for forty minutes before the guys announce they have to leave. On the way home, Emma and I pick up the few items I need for dinner.

As I hammer the chicken breasts with the heavy wooden mallet, pretending it’s the defense lawyer for the upcoming trial, the phone rings. I rest the mallet on the chicken and grab my cell phone off the kitchen table. I don’t recognize the number.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Hello. I’m Roger Tucker with
The Chicago Post.
May I speak with Amber Scott, please?”

Everything inside me clenches. How the hell did he find my number? It’s unlisted and I’m selective about who I give it to. “I’m not interested. If you have any questions, you need to inquire with the D.A.’s office.” I don’t wait for a response. I hang up.

“What was that about?” Emma asks, a knife in one hand and a large tomato in the other.

“It was nothing. Just some dumb reporter wanting to ask questions.” Who acted no different than a stalker by tracking down my phone number.

An unexpected chill clutches me. I knock the sensation away. He’s doing his job. He’s not Paul.

Emma studies the cookbook. “Now you have to dip the flattened breasts in the egg mixture, then coat them with the herbed bread crumbs.” In the background, Carly Perry sings kiss me babe, love me babe, but never leave me babe. “Then you sauté them in the fry pan.”

I dunk a cold chicken breast into the bowl with the egg. The song ends and the radio jockeys start talking. I’m not paying much attention to their banter—not until one of them says mall shooting.

My head snaps up. Emma’s frowning.

“What did they say?” I ask, hoping I misheard him.

“There’s been a mall shooting.”

“Where?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I missed that part.”

There must be a million malls in the US, but it doesn’t stop me from quickly washing my hands and turning the television on in the family room. Emma joins me. Neither of us can be bothered to sit. We stand here, stunned.

Mom was watching the TV last. It’s on the twenty-four hour news station. A reporter is interviewing a mother bouncing a baby in her arms. Her voice is cracked and choked with tears.

“We were in the luggage store and heard several gunshots from down the mall. Then there was screaming.” The mother starts sobbing and the baby grows restless and cries, too.

“Then what happened?” the reporter presses, ignoring the woman’s obvious distress.

“T-then the salesperson hustled everyone into the storage room and we stayed there till we knew it was safe to come out.”

“How did you know when it was safe?”

“Someone called the police on his cell phone and they told us to stay put until security came to get us.” The mother switches the baby into her other arm. Large snowflakes blow against them. Neither the little girl nor her mom look like they want to be there, but the woman is an insect caught in a spiderweb—unable to tell the reporter where to go, and walk off.

I want to scream at him to leave her alone. She doesn’t need the added stress of him questioning her, not when she’s still in shock. But I can scream all I want. He can’t hear me, and it doesn’t look like he would care even if he could. He’s got a story to report, a paycheck to collect.

“How long were you in hiding?” he asks.

“An hour.”

“That’s a long time. How did you feel knowing there was a shooter in the mall?”

“Scared. I thought we were dead.”

“Thank you.” The reporter turns to the camera. “I’m reporting from Haysboro Mall, Chicago, where a shooter went on a rampage three hours ago. So far, eight people are confirmed dead, including the shooter, who shot himself before police arrived. Several other people are listed in critical condition. Reports are still coming in as to how many are injured.”

My entire body turns colder than if I had stood in the coming storm, the wind howling around me inside me and out. Storms.
Nothing good ever happens in a storm
. The words play in repeat mode in my head.

“Marcus was going there.” My voice is a strained whisper. I want to phone him, to hear his voice, but my body refuses to move, barely able to even breathe.

“Are you sure?” Emma asks.

I nod. “He called this morning and said he had to go to the mall before heading out.”

“But are you sure he went to that mall? He could have gone to a different one.”

“That’s the mall he said he was going to.” My chest tightens as I say the words, as if by doing that it prevents them from being true.

“Phone him, Amber. There’s no point freaking out till you know for sure.”

With a shaky breath, I call him on my phone.

“This is Marcus. You know the drill.” Voice mail.

“I just heard about the mall shooting,” I say. “Give me a call when you get this. Okay?” I press End. “He’s not answering.” I call Chase. He doesn’t answer either.

“Chase. It’s Amber. Have you heard from Marcus lately? He said he was going to Haysboro Mall before leaving for Crossfields and I just heard about the mall shooting and he’s not answering my calls and I don’t know what to do.” I take a deep breath and hang up.

“The latest reports indicate his ex-girlfriend works at the mall,” the male reporter says. “She’s believed to be among the dead. We’ll update you once we know more. Back to you, Janice.”

Janice, the anchor, updates viewers on the current situation and how tragic it is that this happened three days before Christmas. But the way she says it, with a slight smile to her tone, you’d think someone won the lottery.

Emma and I watch the news in openmouthed horror. The house could burn down around us and we wouldn’t notice.

“We have an update,” Janice announces. “Police confirmed that the suspect, Keith Knight, used to be a mall employee and worked as a security guard. Patrick, are you there?”

The TV flashes to the reporter from earlier. Snow and wind assault him, trying to push him off his feet as the storm hits Chicago hard. I glance out the window. It’s not much better outside.

“Yes, I’m here,” he replies. “The police confirmed a few minutes ago that Keith Knight was indeed a mall employee and that his ex-girlfriend is not among the dead. She has a restraining order filed against him but she works at a different mall.” He doesn’t look nonplussed that he’s been releasing half-truths just for the sake of having something to talk about and fill air time, knowing that the country is hanging on to his every word.