Protector - Laurel Dewey [61]
“I told you. You don’t have to feel a damn thing.”
“No. I mean I don’t feel anything at all. I know my mommy and daddy are dead. I know ’cause you told me. But I can’t feel sad. I can’t cry.”
Jane was taken aback by Emily’s directness. She had hoped that by letting the kid off the hook and telling her not to worry that this whole thing would be painless and over in a matter of hours. Obviously, it was heading in a very different direction. “Hey, crying is overrated.”
“Martha says I’m in . . .” She tried to remember the word. “Shock? She says I’m sleeping real deep and part of me doesn’t want to wake up.”
“I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”
“But Martha says I—”
“You know,” Jane interrupted, feeling a surge of anger. “Forget Martha! Martha is not the end-all, be-all! She’s not even all there! She’s like the tin man in The Wizard of Oz, you know? If she only had a brain!”
“The scarecrow,” Emily said succinctly.
“Huh?”
“The scarecrow didn’t have a brain. The tin man needed a heart.”
“Whatever. The point is, I don’t want you to buy into her psychological crap.”
“How come you don’t like Martha?”
“She’s a pain in my ass. What? Are you two pals?”
“No. I don’t like her, but I don’t hate her.”
“Okay. Fine.” Jane felt her nerves tweak.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine!”
“How come your hands are shaking? Are you nervous?”
“Of course not!”
“Are you scared?”
“No!”
“Are you cold?”
“No!”
“Well, then why are you shaking?”
“Stop it,” Jane said directly and to the point. “I said I was fine and I’m fine.”
“Okay,” Emily replied, not completely buying Jane’s answer.
Jane nervously looked around the room. Her eyes rested briefly on the liquor cabinet against the far wall. Emily watched Jane intently. Jane turned back and saw the look on Emily’s face. “What?” Jane said, defensively.
“Nothing.” Emily looked down at Jane’s leather satchel that lay against the wall. “Is that yours?”
“Yes.” Jane moved into the living room and pulled out a cigarette pack from her shirt pocket. “Look, why don’t you come in here and sit down or something.”
Emily set down her Starlight Starbright projector and sauntered into the living room. “Does your hand still hurt?”
Jane searched throughout every pocket, trying to find matches. She looked at her left hand. She suddenly realized she hadn’t changed the bandage in two days. “Nah.” Digging into her trouser pocket, she came up with a box of matches from RooBar. She lit up and took in a meaningful puff on the cigarette.
There was thick silence as Jane positioned herself on the couch and Emily slid onto the facing chair. Emily looked at Jane with the same fascination she had in the interrogation room. It made Jane extremely uneasy. “What are you doing, Emily?”
The child struggled to reconcile what she saw with what she was thinking. But there was no way to explain it. “When did you start smoking?” Emily asked.
“When I was 14.”
“Why did you start?”
“Because whiskey tastes better with a cigarette.”
“Huh?”
“It was just something to take off the edge.”
“What edge?”
“An edge is like a feeling, you know? Feeling edgy. Irritable. Frustrated. Edgy.”
“Like you’re feeling now?”
“Yeah. Exactly like I’m feeling now.” Jane sucked in another dose of nicotine.
“So, I guess it doesn’t work.”
“What?”
“You said you smoke to take off your edge. But you’re still feeling your edge. So I think the smoke stopped working. Maybe if you stopped smoking—”
“Look,” Jane said, leaning forward, “rule number one: don’t hassle me about smoking. Understood?”
“Understood.”
Jane peered around the room once again, zoning in on the liquor cabinet.
“You keep looking over at Daddy’s liquor cabinet.”
“I am observing the room. Period. Don’t keep staring at me.” Jane took another drag on her cigarette. “Don’t you have some toys you can play with?”
“I’ve got my Starlight Starbright but it’s not dark enough yet to use it.”
“Is that all you have to play with?”
“It’s all I want to play with.”
“I see,” Jane said, leaning back into the couch. Emily mirrored Jane as she, too, fell back into her