Sweet

Walker heaved an overworked, underpaid sigh. “Look. These sorta squabbles happen all the time with young folks—boys with too much testosterone and pretty girls who like to be the focus of a little drama—until it gets out of hand.”

I clenched my fists in my lap. “We broke up months ago, and I do not welcome drama.”

He raised his unkempt brows and quirked his mouth knowingly as if to say, Sure you don’t—and yet here we are.

“Idiota,” Mama mumbled, her posture mirroring mine.

My phone alert sounded—a text from Sam. I typed in my lock code three times before I got it right; my fingers felt like prosthetics.

Sam:  Some weird guy showed up at Wynn’s and Boyce made me leave early. He called me Samantha and he never calls me that. They didn’t seem friendly and I didn’t recognize the guy. He looked like he needed a shower BAD. I couldn’t get a pic of him without being really obvious. I took this pic of his car and plates though.

My hands shook. “I have the car and plates. It’s from Tennessee—maybe a rental. He’s at my boyfriend’s business.”

Sheriff Walker rolled his eyes. “All right then, lemme have it.” He scribbled down the information and called it in, and I texted my thanks to Sam and then texted Boyce: You okay?

Sam answered me: No problem.

Boyce didn’t.

“Jesus H. Christ.” Sheriff Walker shot out of the velvet-upholstered parlor chair, his phone still pressed to his ear, and Mama and I stood with him. “Call Bobby over at San Patricio—we may need backup. I’ll meet you at Wynn’s.” His mouth twisted in contrition, he turned back to us. “Well young lady, your ex is wanted in Nashville—assault and battery at the least, possibly attempted murder. He’s armed and dangerous. Sounds like you were lucky today.”

I didn’t believe in luck, but in that moment, I wished I did. Mama crossed herself—which I’d never seen her do outside of church—and sat back down.

“Excuse me, I need a drink of water,” I said. I walked to the kitchen, picked up my keys, passed through the mudroom and into the garage. The garage door was still up and the sheriff’s car was parked in the drive behind Mama’s car, not mine.

No one ran outside when I backed down the drive and turned onto the road. Sorry, Mama, I thought, switching the stereo off so I could consider my course of action. If anyone could talk Mitchell down, it was me. If I had to lie and say I would take him back or go with him, I would.

My phone rang— Mama. I turned the sound off, but it continued to light up impotently during the last mile. I parked on the street outside Boyce’s place, behind the blue sedan with Tennessee plates. The doors to the garage were up and a car, hood raised, sat in one of the bays. I took a deep breath and listened for any sounds coming from inside the trailer—shouting, shots.

Nothing.

I was halfway across the yard when the front door of the small wood-framed house next door flew open. “Don’t go in there, young lady!” the old lady called, huddled in her doorway. Mrs. Echols, Boyce’s crabby neighbor. “C’mere now!” She waved a thin arm commandingly.

I wavered and she renewed her appeal, her arm circling like a windmill on speed. Her next words froze me in place.

“I heard a shot! The sheriff’s on his way—I called him. That boy of yours wouldn’t want you getting shot doing something stupid. Let the lawmen get shot at. That’s their job, and they’ve got their own firearms to answer with.”

Right on cue, the sheriff and a deputy arrived simultaneously from opposite directions and parked nose to nose. I expected them to cross the yard and burst through the door, but they crouched in the street behind one of the cars, discussing how to proceed.

Before I could process their lack of action, Randy pulled into his driveway, taking in the two law-enforcement personnel in the street, Mrs. Echols in her doorway, and me halfway between her door and Boyce’s. He crossed the street, forehead creased. “What’s going on, Pearl?”

I hadn’t realized I was crying. “My ex is in there with Boyce, and Mrs. Echols heard a shot, and Mitchell is armed and wanted in Nashville for attempted murder—”

Mrs. Echols gasped and Randy muttered a harsh, “Goddamn.” He shook his head at the two men on the other side of the squad cars, who didn’t look as if they planned to storm the trailer anytime soon. “All right then. Fuck it.” He pointed at me. “Stay. Here. I fucking mean it.”

We heard an ambulance’s siren in the distance. Randy took a deep breath, shook his arms as if he was shaking off excess nerves, and took off for the front door. The deputy noticed him just before he went inside. “Hey!” he called, poking his head up over the roof of the squad car.

Five seconds later, Randy threw the front door wide. “Officers! They’re both down!”

I ran for the front door with the sheriff and deputy, guns drawn, right behind me.

“Pearl, honey, you don’t want to—” Randy said.

I bolted around him.

Neither man appeared conscious. As my eyes adjusted to the dim interior, I saw that Mitchell—a gun on the floor beside him—looked as if he’d been run over by a truck. And then I saw the pool of blood around Boyce. Randy and I went to our knees beside him.

“Shirt,” I said, and he stripped off his tee. I wadded it and pressed it to the still-flowing wound in Boyce’s side. “Hold that—press hard.”

Randy complied and I searched for a pulse. It was weak, but there.