Page 72 of Concerted Chaos

twenty-three

Iaccidentallystepon Powell when I get out of bed. He reacts by grunting and rolling over. We’ve been back home for a week, and he’s spent every night camped on an air mattress on my floor, with a baseball bat at his side. I’ve told him it isn’t necessary, that I can cope with my nightmares on my own and I don’t need his protection, but he won’t listen to me. I think he’s doing it more for his own peace of mind than mine. I also sort of wish he could get himself a girlfriend so he could have someone to sleep with in his own damn room.

I leave him lying there, while I go to the kitchen to make myself breakfast—and by make myself breakfast, I mean get a frozen smoothie packet out of the freezer and toss it in the blender with some yogurt. I’m still on a liquid diet, though I should be able to move on to soft solids soon. It no longer hurts as much to open my mouth and the stitches inside my cheek are dissolving. My face isn’t as swollen, but the skin on the entire left side has become a rather lovely shade of yellowish green. Well, Powell not-so-kindly described it as “vomit colored” but I think it’s pretty. Maybe I’m becoming an optimist.

The doorbell rings, and I can’t help it, I jump. I’m not used to visitors popping by lately. We’ve still got a security lockdown in place, although the threat has ostensibly passed. We’re not even being harassed by the media, since we’ve kept most of the real story private. As far as anyone who wasn’t involved in the case is concerned, Mike is the hero. I don’t know what they threatened Whitney with, but her attorney hasn’t made any statements to contradict that. Maybe she’s decided cooperating is in her best interest, now that she’s facing the death penalty. Federal prosecutors don’t look kindly on people who bomb helicopters. Eventually the full truth will come out, but by then we should be prepared to handle it.

The bell rings again, and the app on my phone shows a familiar face. Tanner. My heart sinks. I’m not ready for a conversation with him yet, not like this, when I’m still bruised and battered. I want to wait and see him when I’m healed, when he won’t look at me with pity. We could maybe sit down together at a bar—next to each other because it’s easier to apologize if I don’t have to look directly at his face while I do it. I could have a drink first, to prepare myself, and ply him with enough alcohol that he becomes bright-eyed and forgiving.

I watch through the camera as he aggressively paces back and forth on the porch, talking to himself and moving his hands as though rehearsing whatever he plans to say. Okay, he’s chosen the time, not me. I have to go through with this. I gather my courage, but when my fingers touch the deadbolt, I change my mind.

“What do you want?” I ask through the intercom instead. He jumps, just like I did a minute ago.

“I want to talk to you.” He’s using a demanding tone, which decreases the likelihood of me opening the door. I’ve had enough of welcoming visitors only to be assaulted.

“Fine. Talk.”

“Open the door.”

“Why? So you can attack me?” That’s certainly the vibe he’s giving off, with his vigorous gesticulations and stomping around.

He tilts his head to look directly at the security camera. “I’m not here to attack you. Yell at you maybe, but not attack you.”

“I’m not letting you in to yell at me.”

“Cassidy, open the door, please. Can we talk? No yelling, I promise.”

“Do you have any peanuts?” Powell’s voice cuts in on the intercom. I need to delete this app from his phone. I don’t need my brother forcing me into repairing a friendship before I’m emotionally strong enough.

“I know those aren’t allowed in your house,” Tanner replies. He holds up his empty hands. “I didn’t bring anything, not even a camera.”

“Doesn’t matter, you can’t come in,” I say, but then Powell comes wandering up behind me. He’s still in sweatpants and an old T-shirt. For all his money, you’d think he could invest in some decent sleepwear, but he likes his faded holey old Last Barons shirts. It takes a special kind of vanity to wear your own picture on your pajamas.

“Just let the man in. He didn’t do anything wrong, remember?”

I block him with my body. “Whatever he wants to say, he can say over the intercom.”

“Don’t you think you owe this to him? You can’t avoid him forever.” He stretches past me to undo the lock.

“Seriously, Powell? You deal with him then.” I walk away as Powell lets our unwelcome guest in. I don’t need him to see me like this. Apologies have never been my strong suit. I haven’t had enough time to prepare myself for an awful heart-to-heart conversation, where I say I’m sorry for accusing him of murder. That’s supposed to come later, on my terms.

The two of them are talking in the hall, but I can’t make out all the words. They must be discussing Whitney though, because Powell says, “She sure had an explosive interest in us.” No surprise, Tanner—like everyone else he’s made that joke to in the past week—does not laugh. My brother needs to find better sycophants. He should ask Xander where to hire an appropriately fawning entourage.

Now Powell is warning Tanner that I’m not very talkative right now, though he doesn’t explain it’s because I can barely open my mouth. Tanner’s reply is unintelligible, but the rise in inflection at the end suggests it was a question. “She’s not coping well,” Powell replies, probably intentionally loud enough for me to hear. That’s a lie. I’m doing just fine. I’m always fine. I’m resilient, whether my brother believes me or not.

Tanner enters the kitchen, and I keep my back to him.

“What do you want?” I ask quietly.

“Why are you mad at me?” he responds. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be mad at you. You accused me of trying to blow up a concert. It’s your fault I got arrested. Do you have any idea what that’s like? The FBI confiscated my camera, and they trashed my van. I spent two days in lockup, wondering if I was going to prison for life, for a crime I didn’t commit, and it was your word that put me there.” He sounds livid, and I would be too in his situation, but the evidence against him was pretty damning.

“The last bomb was in one of your lenses,” I remind him, without turning around. I’ve got my head in my hands and I’m willing him to go away or for Powell to kick him out. But no, Powell’s gone off elsewhere in the house, leaving me alone with Tanner. So much for being the protective big brother.

“That wasn’t even the same brand. I shoot with a Hasselblad! A Hasselblad, Cassidy! Do you think I’d use a knock off lens with a Hasselblad?” So his big issue is that I failed to identify the logo on the bomb case? I want to laugh but laughing is bad for my recently sewn cheek.

“Sorry I didn’t read the fine print on a bomb.” Sarcasm also hurts my cheek, but it’s worth it.

“It’s not just about the lens. I thought we were friends! And you thought I blew up a helicopter? And the car that I was in? And that I tried to kill you backstage? That hurts.”

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