In Close (Bulletproof #3)(76)
Author: Brenda Novak

She’d just grabbed the heavy rubber floor mat out of his truck and was beating back the flames at his bedroom window so she could climb through it when he jumped out, nearly tackling her as he landed.

“What the heck!” He coughed as he retrieved the computer tower he’d dropped. “What are you doing? Get in the truck!”

Bursting into a full-blown sob, she grabbed him. “I thought you weren’t coming out!”

He gave her a squeeze, then he shoved her into the passenger seat, dumped his equipment in the bed of the truck and ran around to get behind the wheel.

The fire was beginning to spread into the forest.

“It’s noon! Where’ve you been?”

It always frightened Jeremy when Hank glared up at him. Hank was small but he could talk and move very fast.

“I’ve been calling and calling your house,” his boss went on. “I almost took off my apron and drove over there.”

Jeremy couldn’t look Hank in the eye. He hated disappointing him, tried to make sure that never happened, but this morning…everything had taken longer than he’d planned. Blood was the ickiest liquid in the world. He’d cleaned and dug and buried, but those tasks weren’t even the worst of it. The worst of what had happened was the way Jeremy felt inside. Instead of being relieved that his father was gone, he felt…sick, lonely, lost. And knowing Claire might be dead, too, only made it worse. He wanted to ask if she’d been found, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to make it through the day if she hadn’t, so he kept his mouth shut. One thing at a time. Hank told him that whenever he got upset.

He pretended Hank had just said it now, but really he’d snapped his fingers. “Are you listening to me?”

Jeremy needed to respond, but he was having trouble forming sentences. They were all mixed up in his head. “Of course. I…I overslept, that’s all. I’m sorry.” With that, he tried to skirt past Hank, but Hank caught his arm.

“You were supposed to be here an hour ago, Jeremy, and you’re never late. Are you sure everything’s okay?” He lowered his voice. “You didn’t get into another fight with your dad, did you?”

“Oh, no. He’s fine. He’s doing better. We didn’t fight.” Jeremy didn’t like lying to Hank any more than he liked disappointing him. Because it was suddenly even harder to look at him, he stared down at his hands—and, to his horror, saw blood beneath his nails and around his cuticles. He’d been so worried about the wall and the couch, he’d somehow missed what was on his own fingers.

Shoving his hands into his pockets so Hank wouldn’t see, he prayed that his boss would let him go. He had to visit the restroom and wash up, but Hank wasn’t done with him yet.

“Let me take a look at you.” He stared up into Jeremy’s face, studying it closely.

All Jeremy could think about was his hands until Hank, at last, stepped back, seemingly satisfied. “You’re a little pale but…I don’t see any bruises.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted. Again, he almost asked about Claire but shied away. He didn’t want to hear “no,” didn’t want to accept what “no” would mean.

“If you’re really fine, I’m pissed off that you’re late. Start flipping burgers. We’re busy today.”

Wincing at the “pissed off” part, even though Hank hadn’t said it as if he was serious, Jeremy apologized again.

“Forget it. I can’t stay mad at you. That’d be like holding a grudge against my Saint Bernard.”

Jeremy stopped him. “What’d you say?”

“Nothing. Get going before you cost me business.”

“But I’m not Sigmund.”

Hank had already turned away. “What?”

“Your dog.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I said I’m not a dog.” The connection upset him. Why did this keep coming up?

“Of course you’re not. That’s not what I meant.”

Then what did he mean? And what had his father meant? “Do you know Lennie?”

Hank’s bushy eyebrows came together. “Who?”

“Lennie.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Me, neither,” he said.

“Whatever, Jeremy.” Smiling, he reached up to squeeze Jeremy’s shoulder. “Work, remember?”

First, Jeremy went into the restroom. He wanted to wash his hands, but froze when he saw the image of himself in the mirror. He looked exactly like his father; he was just a bigger version. Everyone said it, but he could see it now, too.

His father was gone, and there was blood on his hands.

Someone pounded on the door, startling him. “Hey, come on! I gotta get in there!”

It was Millie, the girl who worked the register. Jeremy had once begged Hank to let him try being up front, taking orders, and had made a mess of everything. He hadn’t asked since. He didn’t want to fail. When Hank wasn’t around, Millie teased him. Barely sixteen, she’d only started at Hank’s Burger Joint the first of June while Jeremy had been working there for years, but she thought she was so smart.

“You big dummy!” she’d mutter, and roll her eyes whenever he made a mistake.

“Jeremy? Is that you in there?”

Her voice brought him back to the present. “Who else could it be?” he replied. Only four people worked at the burger joint. Hank, his wife, Reva, who did the “books,” whatever that meant, and filled in when it got busy, him and Millie. If Hank and Reva were working, he had to be the one in the restroom, right? He felt like telling her she was a dummy, but that was mean, and he wasn’t mean like her.

“Coming!” He turned on the faucet so he could wash the blood away. But even with Millie right outside the door, he hunched over the sink and watched the water until it disappeared down the drain, taking the last of his father with it.

When he opened the door, Millie had her arms folded and was tapping her toe. “Took you long enough. What were you doin’ in there, anyway? Jackin’ off?”

“I would never do that at work.”

“You’re serious.” Her eyes widened and she barked a laugh, but Hank got her moving again.

“Millie! We need you out here.”

“Tell that to your friendly giant,” she grumbled. “I couldn’t get him out of the flippin’ bathroom.”