Page 78 of Heidi Lucy Loses Her Mind
“Breathe,” Soren’s low voice says from over my shoulder. “You’re fine. Just breathe.”
I inhale automatically, letting the air out again a couple seconds later. It doesn’t do much for my nerves, so I try again, pulling the fresh spring breeze deeper into my lungs this time. I hold it there as I walk, keeping it close until my vision begins to fade and bright black stars start to flash around me. Then I release it in one loud burst of breath.
Eric and Gemma both turn around and give me questioning looks from up ahead, but I jerk my chin, trying to tell them not to worry about me. They glance at each other, shrug, and then face forward again.
By the time we reach the front of the building, emerging into the town square, the policemen waiting for us—or for me, I guess—have grown impatient. They don’t say anything as we approach, but the tall one is tapping his foot rhythmically, his arms folded, while the short one looks surly. They don’t look any more friendly than they did when they came to the shop the other day.
“Hi,” I say after one awkward moment where all of us stare at each other. “Uh, I’m so sorry to keep you waiting. We closed for the day to go to the hot springs.” I step forward, and then two men step aside wordlessly, allowing me access to the door. I unlock it with shaking hands. “Please, come in.”
“We need to search the premises,” the short officer says. He holds out a folded piece of paper, and I take it automatically.
“Of course,” I say, my voice faint. I pull the door open and gesture inside. “Whatever you need.”
The officers look at each other, and some of their gruffness seems to fade when they look back to me. With simultaneous nods, they go through the doorway and then disappear into the shop.
Maybe my cooperation is helping to smooth things over a bit. I certainly don’t have anything to hide.
Right? Is there anything in there I want to keep hidden? I don’t have any weapons, do I?
Knives! I have knives in my kitchen.
“What if I get in trouble for having knives in my kitchen?” I hiss at Soren as I turn to him, shielding my eyes from the sun.
He frowns at me. “Everyone has knives in their kitchen.”
I pause as his words register. “That’s true,” I say, blinking at him.
“Plus she was poisoned,” he points out. “They won’t care about knives.”
“Yeah,” Eric says. “You’d be better off worrying about having rat poison.”
“Shut up,” Gemma says, elbowing Eric in the ribs. “Do you honestly think that’s a helpful thing to say?” Then she looks at me. “We don’t have rat poison,” she says, her voice soothing. “We’ve never had rats. Or any rodents, for that matter. We might have some insect repellent somewhere. That’s it. So just be calm, okay?”
I stop myself from asking if insect repellent is toxic to humans, because I can tell I’m spiraling, and I don’t need to feed the beast. I look instead at Soren, then at Gemma, and finally at my brother.
And it’s Eric who speaks, his voice grim: “All we can do now is wait.”
* * *
I’m not actually verygood at waiting.
I do go inside to hover around the officers for a while, but something about watching them is upsetting on a visceral level. It’s not personal, I know, but the way they move dispassionately through my shop is hard to see. They dig through cupboards and boxes and shelves with a stoicism that hurts, their unfeeling hands pushing aside the possessions I lovingly scrimped and saved to buy. When they finish their search an hour and a half later, they don’t put my belongings back in their proper places. They just head toward the front door with curt nods and tell me they’ll be in touch.
They scuff my checkered floor with their shiny black shoes on the way out, and I want to cry all over again.
I don’t. I don’t have time to cry. I listen to Jojo squawk something aboutsupple skinas I feed him a scoop of his food, and nearby Gemma calls Mel and then puts a record on. Mel shows up in no time flat, sweaty and out of breath. Then the five of us put the shop back together, none of us speaking, our faces tight.
My mind spins as I work. The police didn’t find anything, of course, because there’s nothing for them to find. I didn’t do anything to Carmina.
But someone did.
And—my hand drifts to the healing wound on my head—I think someone did something to me, too.
The words of the frantic voicemail I left on Soren’s phone ring through my memory once more, and I shake my head. What secret did I learn? Retracing my steps so far has been less than helpful; all I’ve discovered is that I got my hair trimmed, and that I seemed like I was in a good mood.
I rub my chest absently as I experience a now-familiar twinge of vague panic—another reminder that something in my locked memories is trapped and wants out. Then I inhale deeply and force the breath back out in a slow, steady stream as I restack the boxes in the store room.
Once the five of us get the shop back to the way it was before the officers came, Gemma, Eric, and Mel all go home. Soren watches them leave, his eyes pensive, and then he turns to me.
