“People are staring,” I murmur.
“Let them stare.”
“Is this a service you provide?” I say, intending to tease, but my voice is too broken for that.
But she’s kind, so she takes the bait and runs with it. Her eyes are on the knot as she threads the fabric. “Absolutely. Tying ties, buttoning jackets . . . you should see me pin on a flower.”
I almost smile, but then her hands make the final loop. Satin slides against cotton, and then the knot hits my neck. Quick and sudden and tight. I can’t breathe.
I jerk the fabric out of her hand without thinking. My movement is too sudden. She stumbles back, catching herself against the wall.
I gasp, pulling at the knot of fabric. It’s barely tight, but I can’t stop myself.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s fine,” I choke out. This is insane. I need to get it together. The knot finally gives an inch. Air can’t seem to make it into my lungs. “It’s not even tight.”
I suck in a breath and sound like an asthmatic. I run a hand down my face. This is not getting it together.
“You all right, Char?”
It’s another cop in dress uniform, talking to Charlotte but looking at me like I’m a purse snatcher or something. No, looking at me like I’m a murderer.
This guy’s young, not much older than I am. His hair is military short, almost blond, and his eyes are just looking for trouble. I swear to god he’s holding his hand near his gun, and I’m tempted to fake him out, just to see if he’d pull it. Knowing my luck, he’d shoot me.
Right this instant, I’d welcome it.
“I’m fine, Danny,” Charlotte says. “This is Thomas. Stan’s new—”
“I know who he is.” Of course he does. Everyone in uniform probably does. I’m sure some of them still think I did it. But Danny takes the edge off by putting a hand out. “I’m sorry about your mother.”
I shake his hand. “Thanks.”
His grip is solid, almost too tight. He doesn’t let go, and I can tell he’d hold fast if I tried to pull free. “You want to tell me why you put your hands on my little sister?”
Oh. Now I get it.
Charlotte is looking worriedly between the two of us. “It’s fine, Danny—he didn’t touch me.”
“I saw him shove you.” His grip tightens. “You’d better watch yourself.”
His tone grates against my nerves and reminds me why I don’t like cops.
“He didn’t shove me,” Charlotte says.
“Watch myself?” I say to him. “It’s my mother’s funeral.”
He gives a little laugh, and he lets go of my hand, somehow making it feel like a shove. “Yeah, you look really broken up about it, taking the time to rough up a girl.”
My hands are in fists again, anger weaving its way through the less aggressive emotions. This narrow stretch of shade has turned too hot, almost stifling. I can smell my own sweat. I hate this suit.
Danny’s watching me, his eyes almost predatory. I’ve gotten in my share of scrapes, and I can read the signs. Dangerous potential rides the air. He wants to hit me.
My mother’s voice is like a whisper in my head. Behave yourself, Tommy.
I force my hands to loosen. Danny’s right, in a way. I did shove her. I shouldn’t have put my hands on her. Someone spends five minutes being kind, and I act like a caged animal. It takes a lot of effort to back down. “Sorry,” I say, turning away from them. “I didn’t mean to cause a problem.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t want to find my sister dead in her bed. Get me?”
Something snaps inside of me. Anger splits into fury. My fist swings.
I’m strong, and years of being the new kid taught me how to throw a punch. It’s stupid, and reckless, and my mother’s voice is screaming in the back of my skull.
Tommy! He is a police officer!
It sucks that he’s a cop, too, because he knows how to deflect a punch. He catches my arm and slams me into the wall of the church. My hand is pinned behind my back and I inhale brick dust. The tie drags on the bricks, too, pulling tight against my neck.
I am such an idiot.
He’s enjoying this. We’re the center of attention now. He’s probably hoping I’ll fight him so he can continue playing the badass.
I don’t want to fight him. This is her funeral. Her funeral. My throat is tight and my eyes are hot. Reason catches up with action and I’m swimming in a special blend of humiliation and shame.
I will not start crying right now. I will not.
Charlotte is smacking her brother, it sounds like. “Danny! Danny, stop it! What is wrong with you?”
Hot breath finds my neck, followed by a little shove. The bricks scrape at my skin. I expect him to hold me here, to suffer the judgmental stares of the crowd that I can hear gathering.
Or maybe he’ll tell Stan to keep me in line, or something equally demeaning.
Instead, he speaks low, just to me. “Did you get off on it? Think about it in the shower this morning? All hot and bothered for killing your mother?”
Rage flares, hot and painful, blinding me with fury. I jerk back, trying to break his hold, knowing it’s futile.
But suddenly I’m free. My head is buzzing, and he’s on the ground, yelling. Clutching his head. Charlotte is standing back, glancing between me and him, her breath quick.
Did I hit him? What just happened?
Before I can get it together, a hand falls on my shoulder, pushing me back against the wall. I feel metal against my wrist.
I freeze. Another one of these jerkoffs is cuffing me and talking about assault on a police officer.
Now Danny’s on his feet, talking about resisting arrest. He grabs my arm and drags me away from the wall. The crowd grows.
We’re heading for a police car.
I’m going to miss the funeral.
