Page 77 of Love By a Landslide

Chapter thirty-eight

Tuesday evening: Frankie

He was twenty-seven hours and forty-two minutes late.

For someone who regularly spouts off adages likeIf you’re on time, you’re lateorPunctuality is the soul of business,he sure had some nerve in making her wait. Andworry! How dare he? She was the younger sister, goddammit! The older sibling is supposed to be the habitually stressed one in the family, not the baby. Her life was supposed to be carefree and shrouded in brotherly overprotection. It’s his job to look out for her, stay up late wondering where she was or if she’s lying in a ditch somewhere. Not the other way around.

But with Jonathan sitting on that camping chair, huddled in too-small sweats and that gaping cut on his chin, Frankie couldn’t regulate the ebb and flow of burning anger and bone-chilling panic. For the moment, she’d turned off the facial expressions that would have surely played out in a manic display and instead deployed her trusty RBF (or the resting bitch face that her best friend in seventh grade, GiGi, had diagnosed her with).

Jon looked so fragile, with the medic knelt down, tending to his slashed jaw and the sheriff peppering him with questions. Normally larger than life, her gregarious, brave, dad-joke-loving big brother curled in on himself, barely making sense.

Shouldn’t he have gone with them in the ambulance?

She got that EMTs have the final say on who does and doesn’tget to ride in their vehicle, but Rodriguez rarely passed up a chance to pull rank and flex. She’s just a power-hungry jerk who loves to be in control of the entire universe and . . .

Ooh . . . there went the burning anger again.

Deep breaths, Frankie. You’re not helping.

“Was it just the two of you?” Sheriff Howards asked, voice deepened to up the ante on his influence and authority.

“Yes. It was supposed to be three, but the other guy canceled.”

“What’s his name?”

“Brodan something. I can’t remember his last name. It’d be in the paperwork back at the office.”

“Why did he cancel?”

Jonathan blinked up at his inquisitor. “They broke up a month ago.”

“Huh. Why didn’t you use the SOS button on your GPS?”

“I crushed it,” Jonathan said quietly.

“On purpose?”

“Seriously, Clint?” Frankie’s agitation found a new target.

The sheriff looked over at her and gave a resigned sigh. “Howdid it get crushed?”

“I landed on it. Just after we got clear of the landslide.” Jonathan flinched as the medic finished taping clean gauze in place.

“I see,” Clint mumbled, scribbling into that tiny notepad of his with the equally tiny red pencil. “And how did Miss . . .”

“O’Malley. Lucy,” Jonathan filled in.

“Right. How did Miss O’Malley end up in the river?”

Jonathan dropped his head into his scraped-up palms, breaths coming rapidly. “The railing broke, and she fell in. I panicked and froze, and she was trying to tell me everything was all right, and when she turned, she slipped.” He sobbed silently, atrickle of tears running down one dirty forearm.

Little sisters shouldn’t have to be the protective ones, and yet Frankie became possessed with the urge to shield and defend. She stepped in between Jonathan and the affronting questioner. “Can we do this tomorrow, Clint? Jon’s been through fucking hell, and he could probably use a shower and some rest. I promise to bring him by the department first thing in the morning.” She looked down at her normally so-solid brother. He glanced up at her from that little chair. Deep shadows darkened the skin just below his eyes. He looked destroyed. Utterly and completely. “Er. Make that first thing in the afternoon. K?”

Sheriff Clint closed his little notepad and replaced the pencil in the spiral at the top. “Ok, fine. I expect to see you both after lunch.” He leaned around Frankie. “We’re glad we found you, Mr. Miller. Get some sleep; skies will be brighter in the morning.” Then, before turning to leave, he tipped his raindrop-shrouded hat. “Ma’am, I look forward to tomorrow.”

She watched in relief as the sheriff strode away with a confident swagger. Frankie was likely to pop him in the nose if he had stuck around, asking more questions in that skeptical, accusatory tone. Couldn’t he see her brother was a wreck?

She laid a hand on Jon’s shoulder. Startled, he looked up at her. “I need to chat with Miguel then I’ll take you home.” He didn’t respond, only returned his face to rest in his hands.

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