She settles me on the couch, wrapping me in the warmth of the Afghan. I can’t stop shaking.
She hands me a mug of tea and orders me to drink so I can get warm from the inside. I do as she asks because the heat is delicious on my hands, which’ve been cold for way too long.
She disappears into the bathroom, returning with a small bottle of what looks like an over-the-counter painkiller.
“For the fever,” she says. “It’s coming.”
I take the two pills she gives me. I sip the tea, holding the cup with both hands. “Are you sure it’s okay that I’m here?”
Georgia sits across from me, her elbows on her knees. “You didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
I may be numb, but I know how small towns work. I understand how Silverton does.
Cain will make her life impossible if he finds out she’s helping me. “I can’t stay. I need to find a job.”
I have no money. If I did, I’d leave. Get on a Greyhound bus, maybe the same one I now know I should’ve stayed on and gone to Los Angeles.
“Girl, you can stay with me.”
I smile. I have no idea how I manage that great feat.
“He’ll fire you.” And she needs this job.
Her mouth tightens. “No, he won’t.”
She’s lying. She knows it. I know it.
I shake my head. “Cain won’t forgive this. And you can’t lose this job. You’re the only thing between your mama and a room with a locked door.”
Her mother has Alzheimer’s and is in a home—she needs that because she needs professional care.
“I know.” Georgia looks defeated.
I lick my lips. I want a shower, but I’m so sluggish. I’m bone-deep exhausted.
“That asshole landlord of mine stole my money,” I whisper, “Or I’d leave Silverton.”
Georgia closes her eyes. “Maybe for the best. I can give you?—”
I shake my head, and she falls silent. She knows I won’t take anything from her. She knows who I am.
No charity for Faith Baker, I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime.
“I can’t leave even if I have the money.” I feel crushed as I remember the words of the deputy who walked me out of jail. “Not until the police clear me.”
Georgia studies me with trepidation and then, as if reaching a conclusion she doesn’t like, says, “I know a place.”
“What place?” I set the teacup down.
“Have you eaten anything?”
I shake my head.
She helps me to her kitchen and sits me on a chair. I’m finding my body and mind again.
She makes me eggs and toast, just like they do at Ripley’s, with cream. She sets the food in front of me with another cup of tea, and orange juice. She keeps checking my forehead. I’m getting warm. I’m getting a fever. I know that. It’s coming.
“Maybe I should’ve made you chicken soup,” she mutters as she sits next to me at her small kitchen table.
