Page 5 of If All Else Sails
So. Many. People.
I think back to the woman I watched wandering my property earlier, the one I assumed was another reporter looking for a story. Long brown hair tucked through a baseball cap. Baggy, nondescript khaki shorts. A T-shirt and flip-flops. Sunglasses. She had her phone out, taking pictures of the dock and the back of my house.
I assumed she was an overeager reporter who’d figured out where I was hiding and showed up to hound me about my injury and plans to come back to Boston.
Thatwas Josie?
Which means...
“You’ll have to hang on,” I tell Jacob, heaving myself to my feet and grabbing my crutches.
“Dude,” he says, voice pitching higher as I secure the phone between my ear and my shoulder. “You didn’t let themarrest her, did you?”
“Detain,” I mutter, heading for the door. “They said they were just going todetainher.”
Butdetainsure looks a whole lot likearrest. I can barely make out Josie’s head in the back of one of the cop cars.
I hang up on Jacob’s string of expletives because I can’t operate crutches on stairs with the phone.
Moving as fast as I can in my current state, I fly outside, knocking the screen door right off its hinges. It lands in the yard. But I don’t care. My only focus is on flagging down the police cruisers carrying the last person on the planet I’d want arrested—or detained—because of me.
Chapter3
It’s the Honey
Josie
Despite my vehement protests of innocence, I am—for the first and hopefully last timeever—wearing a pair of handcuffs in the back of a police cruiser, sweating profusely.
To be clear, I’m not talking metaphoric sweat. Jail time is not a legitimate concern of mine.
I don’tthink.
No, I am sweating literally and to an embarrassing degree because Officer Eyebrows left the car engine off with only the front windows down while they were getting Wyatt’s autograph.
At least, that’s what itlookslike they’re doing. I’m only able to twist so far with my hands cuffed behind my back. My line of sight can just barely make out Wyatt with a permanent marker in hand and a permanent scowl on his face while the officers stand on the porch with goofy smiles.
It’s so very Wyatt. Just like this whole experience.
At first, when the two cops jumped out of their vehicles and ordered me to drop my weapon and put my hands up, I chalked their overzealous response up to boredom. I drove through the postage-stamp town of Kilmarnock, made up of about four blocks of adorable storefronts, boasting antiques, restaurants, and things branded with the wordrivah. A trespassing call is probably the most exciting event the cops have had in months.
I figured Wyatt would clear this up a little more quickly. We’ve known each other for years through Jacob. Disliked each other for just as long. But this is taking it a bit too far. A prank gone wrong sounds even less likely than a misunderstanding. Wyatt is not known for his sense of humor. And the handcuffs digging into my wrists don’t feel like a joke.
What I know for sure is that when my brother gets here, he’ll kill Wyatt, and I will kill my brother.
Killing isn’t really my style, though, so maybe instead I’ll find one of those zoos where you can pay to name a cockroach after your ex before it’s fed to a monitor lizard or something.
I’ll submit both Wyatt’s and Jacob’s names.
When Officer Eyebrows passes my door and climbs into the front seat, reality sinks in.
I’m so confused I barely register the relief of the air-conditioning blasting as he turns on the car. “Wait—you’re actually arresting me? He didn’t, I don’t know, decide to drop the bogus charges?”
“Sorry, hon,” Officer Eyebrows says, putting the cruiser in Drive.
“Iknowhim,” I say. “My brother is his agent.”
“I’m sure he is. Make sure you hold on back there. Might be a little bumpy.”
