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Part 1-22: Cop
I wasn’t sure if Willy cherished books before he met Eden, but I did know that when I touched The Secret to Living, it felt wrong. Also, the author’s name couldn’t be a coincidence. That book was a piece of Eden or a piece of Willy or both, I was sure of it.
Glenscot’s Cafe was not really on the way back to the park, so Fergus was quite liberal with the gas pedal. I responded to Deluxe’s texts, catching her up and relaying Persi’s info.
She caught me up as well. She and Dack were not able to find a way to sneak into the kiosk, so they went to the other wifi source: the ice cream hut in the wooded area. The shop had closed for Sunday and they were able to get in and plug Deluxe into the router. She was sure she could control it under normal circumstances, but amplifying it or wresting it away from Eden was going to be an ‘ongoing trial basis,’ by her estimation.
We came to a screeching halt near the cafe and I raced out. The door clanged and rattled as I shoved it open, and I ignored the offended glances of the regular senior crew, bee-lining to the bookshelf.
The book was gone.
I checked several times, needing to be sure, feeling the seconds drain away. A stress headache was taking root around my temples as I made to exit.
“Come back for that strange tome there, miss?”
“Harold! Hi! Yes!” I said, turning on my heel.
He polished his glasses with a little rag and said, “‘fraid a young man came by not half an hour ago and scooped it up. In and out, just like you it seems!”
My phone buzzed in my pocket as I thanked Harold and tried to take my leave as politely as possible, blaming some sort of meeting. Willy had been here. He was up and on the move. My phone began the steady buzz of a call as I got onto the sidewalk, and I was grabbing it out of my pocket when I saw the police car. It was parked right behind Fergus, and an officer got out.
I froze and looked at my phone. Deluxe was calling, and she’d sent me two texts. I silenced the call and opened the messages.
‘Fergus thinks he’s getting picked up for speeding,’ read the first one.
‘Stay in cafe, leave from the back maybe,’ was the second.
Well, too late for that. I looked up. Fergus stared straight ahead, until the officer tapped on his window. Had they gotten a good look at Fergus’ passenger? How illegal was it to leave the scene of being pulled over as a passenger? I assumed illegal enough to attract attention.
I stared back at my phone—the only way I could think of seeming inconspicuous. I was too nervous to spin around and walk the other way, part of me knew that would seem odd to the officer and I’d hear ‘hey! Stop!’ Then I’d need to run and then I’d get caught because they always catch the runners and I’d not jogged in three months.
The headache swelled, and I walked forward, face still buried in my phone. I tapped out a response to Deluxe: ‘Yup okay. Left cafe tho. Tryin’ to be chill. Typing words here to seem like I’m chill. Also book not in cafe. Willy has it. Willy on his way. Think I need book.’
Of course, autocorrect turned most of this into a garbled mess. I wasn’t paying attention to anything except my feet moving forward, and the way each thud of my heart sent a spike of pain into my brain.
“Dropped her off so she could meet a friend,” I heard Fergus say, as I walked past the car.
“Why are you parked?” asked the officer.
“I was texting.”
My heart rate kicked up another few notches as muscle memory forced my thumb to send the nonsensical text to Deluxe. I kept walking, kept my head down, kept blasting characters out to my poor roommate. No one yelled at me, then the refuge of a side street appeared. I curved down, counted to twenty and stopped.
Taxi. I needed a taxi. This town was too small for any ridesharing apps, so I fumbled through my phone, searching for a number to call. I rang it, then hung up when I realized I had no idea what street I was on. After a few panicky seconds I figured it out then called back, ordered a cab, and began to answer Deluxe’s confused replies when a wave of nausea rolled through me. I promptly bent over and threw up in a planter. This did not help my headache.
The cab arrived ten minutes later to find me miserable, pained, cramped, smelling of bile and eggs, sitting with my back against the concrete planter and hating everything.
But it turned out he had mints and aspirin and water in his vehicle.
When he dropped me off at the ballpark fifteen minutes later, I was so grateful for these small wins (and so rushed to leave) that I pulled out whatever cash I had out of my clip and dropped it in his hands. I think it was something like $30.
He tried to protest, but I was too busy power walking into the park. The game was on, the stands were packed with parents, children—I even saw some dogs up there. It was 1:30pm.
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