A flash of distant lightning brightened the horizon. Patch exited the restaurant and jogged across the parking lot holding a brown bag in one hand and two sodas in the other. He went around to the driver’s side and ducked inside the Jeep. He lifted his ball cap and scrubbed rain out of his hair. Dark waves flipped up everywhere. He handed me the brown bag. “One turkey sandwich, hold the mayo and pickles, and something to wash it down.”
“Did you attack Marcie Millar?” I asked quietly. “I want the truth—now.”
Patch lowered his 7UP from his mouth. His eyes sliced into mine. “What?”
“The flashlight in your glove compartment. Explain it.”
“You went through my glove compartment?” He didn’t sound annoyed, but he didn’t sound pleased, either.
“The flashlight has dried blood on it. The police came to my house earlier. They think I’m involved.
Marcie was attacked Wednesday night, right after I told you how much I can’t stand her.”
Patch gave a curt laugh, minus the humor. “You think I used the flashlight to beat up Marcie.”
He reached behind his seat and dragged out a large gun. I screamed.
He leaned over and sealed my mouth with his hand. “Paintball gun,” he said. His tone had chilled.
I divided looks between the gun and Patch, feeling a lot of white showing around my eyes.
“I played paintball earlier this week,” he said. “I thought we went over this.”
“Ththat doesn’t explain the blood on the flashlight.”
“Not blood,” he said, “paint. We were playing Capture the Flag.”
My eyes shifted back to the glove compartment storing the flashlight. The flashlight was … the flag. A mix of relief, idiocy, and guilt at accusing Patch swam through me. “Oh,” I said lamely. “I’m—sorry.”
But it seemed a little too late for sorry.
Patch stared straight ahead through the windshield, his breathing deep. I wondered if he was using the silence to let go of a little steam. I had just accused him of assault, after all. I felt terrible about it, but my mind was too rattled to come up with the right apology.
“From your description of Marcie, it sounds like she’s probably racked up a few enemies,” he said.
“I’m pretty sure Vee and I top the list,” I said, trying to lighten the mood, but not entirely joking, either.
Patch pulled up to the farmhouse and killed the engine. His ball cap was low over his eyes, but now his mouth held the suggestion of a smile. His lips looked soft and smooth, and I was having a hard time averting my eyes. Most of all, I was grateful he seemed to have forgiven me.
“We’re going to have to work on your pool game, Angel,” Patch said.
“Speaking of pool.” I cleared my throat. “I’d like to know when and how you’re going to collect on that
… thing I owe you.”
“Not tonight.” His eyes watched mine closely, judging my response. I was caught between an easing of my mind and disappointment. But mostly disappointment.
“I have something for you,” Patch said. He reached under his seat and pulled out a white paper bag with red chili peppers printed across it. A togo bag from the Borderline. He set it between us.
“What’s this for?” I asked, peeking inside the bag, having absolutely no idea as to what might be inside.
“Open it.”
I pulled a brown cardboard box out of the togo bag and lifted the lid. Inside was a snow globe with a miniature Delphic Seaport Amusement Park captured inside. Brass wires were bent roughly into a circle for the Ferris wheel and twisting loops for the roller coaster; flat sheets of tarnished metal formed the Magic Carpet ride.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, a little astonished that Patch had thought of me, let alone gone to the trouble of buying me a present. “Thank you. I mean it. I love it.”
He touched the curved glass. “There’s the Archangel, before it was remodeled.” Behind the Ferris wheel a thin wire ribboned to form the hills and valleys of the Archangel. An angel with broken wings stood at the highest point, bowing his head, gazing down without eyes. “What really happened the night we rode it together?” I asked.
“You don’t want to know.”
“If you tell me you’ll have to kill me?” I half joked.
“We’re not alone,” Patch answered, looking through the windshield.
I glanced up and caught my mom standing in the open doorway. To my horror, she stepped out and walked toward the Jeep.
“Let me do all the talking,” I said, stuffing the snow globe back in the box. “Don’t say a word—not one word!”
Patch hopped out and came around for my door. We met my mom halfway up the driveway.
“I didn’t know you were going out,” she told me, smiling, but not in a relaxed way. It was a smile that said, We’ll talk later.
“It was sort of last minute,” I explained.
“I came home right after yoga,” she said. The rest was implied. Lucky for me, not so lucky for you. I’d been counting on her going out for smoothies with her friends after class. Nine times out of ten, she did. She turned her attention to Patch. “It’s nice to finally meet you. Apparently my daughter’s a big fan.”
I opened my mouth to give an extremely concise introduction and send Patch on his way, but Mom beat me to it. “I’m Nora’s mom. Blythe Grey.”
“This is Patch,” I said, racking my brain for something to say that would bring the pleasantries to an abrupt halt. But the only things I could think of were screaming Fire! or faking a seizure. Somehow, both seemed more humiliating than braving a conversation between Patch and my mom.