Page 102 of Dizzy

And then what? They make me talk to the cops? They stash me away somewhere?

On TV, the witnesses always get taken to safe houses, and then the bad guys inevitably find them, and there’s a whole shoot-out. The hero rushes in at the last minute to save the day.

Waitin’ for a hero is a sucker move.

The emptiness in my chest yawns, aching.

I don’t have any moves. No money, no ride, no friends. There’s no sense in trying to figure it all out.

I’m logy from the Irish Cream and lasagna and bone weary. I have a bed tonight. I can escape tomorrow.

I hear Dawn finish in the kitchen, and Brick settles on hockey in the living room. The wind howls outside. The smell of woodstove seeps through the window and the heavy brown curtains.

Can I afford to close my eyes and fall asleep? This sounds and smells so much like our house used to when Gram was alive, but I’m not safe.

I should put my shoes back on.

If something happens and I need to run, I need them on.

But I don’t want to put my dirty shoes in Dawn’s clean sheets, though. I compromise and untie the laces, setting them well within reach. Then I lie back down and stare at the phone.

It’s a landline.

If I called Dizzy’s home phone, he wouldn’t know it was me. I don’t know the number, but he’s got a landline, too. I can dial 4–1–1. I think that still works.

I could hear his voice one last time.

Cold seeps into my limbs. I burrow under the blankets, but they’re too thin to keep the chill away.

I want Dizzy. I’m not angry anymore. I’m scared, and I’m lonely, and I want him. Everything feels better when he’s there. Even when he’s working in that garage, I feel safe. As if life is okay, and everything is going to be fine because he exists in the world.

A thought slams into me from nowhere, so ugly, so fucked up, it has to be true.

Was he holding me for them?

Was it all about keepin’ tabs on me while Steel Bones decided exactly how they were gonna dispose of me?

Of course, I’d let my guard down with the guy who’s got two kids. I’d let him do whatever he wanted to me. I’d be so grateful for food in my belly and a roof over my head.

I’m sick to my stomach. This is such crap. That was the best damn lasagna I ever had, and now it’s churning in my belly.

I tuck my knees to my chest, suck down calming breaths. My face burns.

I did nasty things with him. I begged him for it.

Did he tell them? Was he laughing at me behind my back? Telling them what a freak I am? What I let him do?

The phone is sitting there.

In the other room, Brick has a coughing fit. “Gimme me a beer!” he finally wheezes, and Dawn shuffles down the hall.

Tears dribble down my cheeks.

I pick up the phone. It has square, yellowed plastic buttons. I call 4–1–1. My heart thuds in my chest. I ask for Dwayne Jones in Petty’s Mill.

Then, I dial *67. Dee taught me how to do that when she used to blow up her ex’s phone in middle school.

It rings. Blood pounds in my ears.

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