Nola froze. She knew that voice.
“Wh-When did you—？ Why’re you—？ What’re you doing here?” Roddy asked.
Run, she told herself. Only a fool wouldn’t run—though before she realized what she was doing, she was turning, following the sound.
“You look scared,” Roddy said, his hands in the air. A show of trust. At his waist, his gun was still holstered. Same with his police baton. He was trying to prove he wasn’t a threat. But as he turned his hands slightly, Nola spotted his knuckles, purple and swollen. No doubt, her brother was always a threat.
“Nola . . . I— Your hair looks different. Straighter.”
He looked old, shorter than she expected, his face pointier, his ears bigger, everything the wrong size, like going back to your childhood room and having to redo the math to make the proportions make sense. The only things that hadn’t changed were his black eyes, mirrors to her own, though they were sunk deeper in his head than she remembered. Weary.
Do I look that tired, too? she wondered, and then she was hit with a forgotten memory of when they were kids, in the LaPointes’ house, a group of them sliding down the stairs as Roddy stepped on her fingers, digging in with his heel, pinning her in place and trying to make her cry. Instead, with her free hand, she dug her nails into his ankle, drawing tiny semicircles of blood.
There was blood here as well—though he’d clearly tried to scrub it clean from the chest of his uniform. On his sleeve, she spotted service stripes. Five years, which is usually when you see a cop’s gear start to look worn. Instead, Roddy’s uniform looked sharp. Pressed pants. Center-line crease still crisp, no worn spots at the pockets or where the gun and holster rub. To top it off, his badge was shined. He’d even polished and oiled his leather belt. Rare for a cop. Working hard to make detective, or did someone teach him right? She couldn’t tell, which unnerved her even more.
Don’t let him sucker you. Get out of here, she told herself, pivoting her foot in the gravel.
“Nola, please . . . don’t run.”
Just the sight of him stopped her. It stopped him, too. He had a stillness about him, a wounded stiffness in his voice. Something moved between them, brother and sister. A cobweb brushed away.
“You know why I’m here,” Roddy said.
Nola turned, refusing to answer.
“I wouldn’t bother you,” he added, “but this . . . it’s about her . . .”
Nola still wouldn’t face him. From her spot at the corner of the building, she had a clear view of the side lot, of her car, a gray Dodge. Twenty feet away. Not far at all.
“I know this is hard,” Roddy added.
The gravel shifted, like quicksand. She stayed locked on her car.
“I don’t blame you, Nola. With everything going on, I know you don’t want to trust me, but . . . but . . . but . . . I’m not who I was before.”
“Neither am I,” she shot back, stabbing him with a glare.
That’s it. That’s all she was giving him.
Fuck you, Roddy.
“Nola, don’t!”
She began to run. Tearing open the door to her car and sliding inside, she started the engine and hit the gas. As the tires spun, kicking gravel in a pinwheel, she pulled away, Roddy chasing behind her, smacking the trunk of her car and running to his own car at the front of the building.
She didn’t have much of a head start. Roddy was still police. Once he flipped the lights on his cruiser, she’d have no choice but to—
“What in the f—！” Roddy shouted.
Reaching the front lot, Roddy screeched to a halt, finally getting a look at his police cruiser. And its two flat tires.