Repeat - Kylie Scott Page 0,26
he has fluffy slippers on. They’re quite fetching.
“Did you see anything?” he asks, eyeing my baseball bat a little warily.
I just shake my head.
“Me neither. Thought I heard an engine start up down the street, but . . .” He mutters on under his breath. “Jesus, they did a hell of a job, and they were fast too. Is this yours?”
I nod. Though it looks more wreck than actual vehicle now. A piece of postapocalyptic art, maybe. Just as well I wasn’t relying on it to get anywhere anytime soon. Shadows darken the indents in the door and hood. Lines of silver show where the paint’s been cracked or removed. The windshield is a shattered ruin. It’s almost pretty, the way the light traces the web of broken glass.
“Kids, probably,” he says. “Your sister’s a cop, right?”
“Yeah, she’s at work. I’ll go call her now.”
He nods, crosses his arms, and settles in to wait with me. Nice of him. “Sorry about your car.”
I just keep staring at the car in disbelief. Who could have done this? One thing is for certain. My vehicle is well and truly fucked. “Yeah, me too.”
* * *
Once daybreak and business hours arrive, I make a detailed (not that I have any actual details) report for the police, then start in on the insurance side of things. Frances talked me through what to say and what to expect at the police station. The insurance company keeps me on the phone answering questions for roughly three and a half years. At the end of the interrogation, I’m told an assessor will be out in a day or two to decide if it’s even worth fixing. Given the vehicle’s age and the damage, it’s apparently unlikely. The inside is full of glass. But my new friend from across the road, Martin, and I managed to get a tarp tied over it to protect the interior from inclement weather.
“There’ve been some small acts of vandalism at the school, and a car parked on the street a few blocks over got rammed a month or two back by joyriders,” says Frances. “Unlikely either of those events have anything to do with this, though.”
“So I either have shit luck or I’m being targeted. Those are the two options here.”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions. This could very well be about my job. Someone who had a bad experience with the police and decided to take it out on a vehicle parked out front of an officer’s house.” She sighs. “It happens, unfortunately.”
“Maybe. Who knows?”
“I am sorry this happened, Clem.”
“Me too,” I say. “But I mean . . . let’s face facts. It was most likely just a random malicious attack by some local troubled youths out to relieve their boredom at odd hours of the morning. Or people who really hate hatchbacks, I don’t know. Maybe they had bad sex in one once. Pulled a hamstring or something trying to get a leg over.”
“This isn’t funny.”
I sigh. “No, it’s not. Making jokes is apparently my new coping mechanism.”
My sister ravages her thumbnail cuticle for a while, a glass of orange juice sitting forgotten in front of her. She’s probably wondering what would have happened if they’d taken the crowbar to one of the house windows. What might have occurred if Martin across the street hadn’t likely scared them off by getting out there so quickly.
“Frances, it’s not your fault I was here on my own. You were at work. You’re allowed to work. Indeed, money-wise, you kind of have to.” I yawn, beyond tired. “I do not need to be constantly watched. So please stop being anxious. You’re making me anxious, and this is just a whole new circle of hell I’m not up to dealing with on limited sleep.”
My sister takes a deep breath and sets her hands in her lap. “I take it you’re still determined to work in the bookshop?”
“Yes. I told Iris I wouldn’t be in today given all this. But tomorrow . . .”
“Okay. I’ll give you a lift in the morning.”
“Okay?” I repeat, a little startled.
She just shrugs.
“I’m just used to you fighting me on things. Not that supporting my choices isn’t nice.”
“You’re a grown adult. There’s only so much I can do with my work hours the way they are at present.” She sits back, crossing her legs. “Life goes on, et cetera and so on. Right?”
“Yes, right.”
“Still aiming to go in five days a week?”
“Seems best. Iris says she can only pay me