Page 7 of If All Else Sails
Likehehas any reason to be frustrated.
Then again, he always looks caught in a state of frustration. Or constipation? Maybe for all these years, I’ve misread Wyatt’s expression as open disdain when really, he just has a wicked case of IBS.
If so, serves him right.
Officer Eyebrows scuttles over to open my door. You know it’s bad when hot summer air entering a car brings relief. I sag toward the doorway and don’t even fight Officer Eyebrows when he takes my elbow and helps maneuver me out of the cruiser. A lot more gently than when he put me in.
“So sorry about this,” he mumbles.
“Which part are you sorry about—leaving a human being in a hot car on a summer day? Or putting me in handcuffs when I haven’t done anything? Maybe both?”
I shake off his hand and close my eyes, leaning against the car.
I don’t think I really understood the extent ofhowhot it was—or the impact of those minutes in the back seat—until this moment. My stomach roils, and I hope I don’t throw up.
But if I do, I’m aiming for Officer Eyebrows’s shoes.
“I’ll remove the cuffs if you could just turn around.”
I crack open my eyes as the younger cop steps forward, looking slightly panicked. Moving makes me feel a little woozy, so I stay leaning against the car, turning to give him my back. My cheek presses against the warm metal as my stomach dips and clenches.
“All good,” he says as he slips off the cuffs.
Are we?I almost ask.Are wereallyall good?
I pull my arms forward, rubbing my wrists. I need water. And maybe an ice bath. Somehow I doubt Wyatt’s little murder cottage has this amenity.
“He decided not to press charges after all,” Officer Eyebrows says, and I shoot a glare Wyatt’s way.
He’s standing about twenty feet behind the second cop car, leaning on his crutches and still looking disgruntled. Not apologetic, the way a normal human would. But almost angry, like this whole thing is my fault.
“CanI?” I ask.
The officers stare at me blankly for a minute. “Can you what?” the younger one asks.
“Can I press charges?”
“Press charges for what?”
“I don’t know. Maybe for being left in the back of a hot car while you collected autographs?”
Busted.They exchange a glance. Then they laugh, as though they think I’m joking. I am not.
“What do you want us to do, honey?” Officer Eyebrows asks. “It was a misunderstanding, and now it’s all cleared up.”
It’s thehoneythat does it.
“Idowant to press charges,” I say, hopefully loudly enough for Wyatt to hear me. “For attempted negligent vehicular homicide. And false imprisonment.”
The string of words pulled straight from a patchwork collection ofLaw & Orderjargon sound halfway legitimate. Again, the cops exchange glances, the corners of their lips turned upward.
Apparently, I’ve got a future in stand-up comedy.
A fat bumblebee buzzes past my ear, and a laughing gull careens in slow circles overhead.
I am suddenly reminded of precisely how thirsty I am. And how dizzy. I slump back against the cruiser and wipe sweat from my face.
“Do you need to sit down?” the young guy says, and when I shake my head, black dots crowd my vision. “You don’t look so good.”
