Reaching Hearts - Faleena Hopkins Page 0,2
guess you’re right. It was my dad who taught me basic self-defense. He drilled it into me when I was a teenage. But I’ve been taking Krav Maga classes over on Bush Street ever since I got back to the city, to work off some steam. Some people like yoga. I’m more the throwing punches or bottles type, ” I smile.
His eyebrows rise slightly. Policemen don’t wear emotions on their sleeves. They’d make excellent poker players, I guess.
“Krav Maga is some serious stuff. We train with them, too,” he tells me.
“Really? You know why I chose it?” I look around, including everyone in my explanation. “Because of Angelina Jolie in Tomb Raider. She trained in Krav. Such a badass. Wanted to be like her.”
Taryn laughs. “You just said that so seriously.”
“Well, she was seriously badass. Am I wrong?”
“You’re not wrong.”
I turn back to the policeman. “Did you see it?”
He shakes his head, his mind on something else. “No, but I’m going to enroll my daughter. If someone as little as you can disarm a man from his gun, that’s a skill she needs to have. Look inside your purse.”
My eyebrows go up.
Chapter Two
Annie
Me: Blinking with incomprehension.
The change of subject was jarring and it takes a moment for me to understand. Looking down at my bag, I stretch it open to discover a large stack of bills inside. “What’s this?”
His eyes darken and his voice is somber as he explains, “It’s the money you threw at him. We picked it up from the floor.”
“Oh,” I whisper, looking back at the crisp, neatly stacked currency, the perfect rubber band.
“We took the liberty of exchanging the bills for new ones. The ones we recovered were…not pretty.”
Flashing before me is Brendan’s chest wound held shut only by my red fingers, the bloodstained money splayed on the ground around us. It’s so clear it’s as if it’s happening now. The urge to see him alive and well and talk to him when he regains consciousness, is so strong that I feel sick.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “That was very kind of you. What’s your name, sir?”
His lips form an uncomfortable line as he looks at me. He can see I’m fighting the vision. He’s seen people like me before. “Sergeant Lewis.” He reaches out and shakes my hand. “You need some sleep, Ms. O’Brien.”
Nodding, I whisper, “I know. I um…have to clean up first. Anyway, I can’t get my brain to stop racing so this will help. I need to do this.”
He nods somberly. “Have a good day.”
Everyone says goodbye and just as he’s about to walk out of view, he turns. “You’re new to the area, right?”
I nod. “Just opened up six months ago.”
His heads shakes. “Damn shame this happened.”
I shrug and one corner of my mouth turns up as I say with comic sarcasm, “I wanted to open with a bang?”
“Keep that sense of humor.” He points at me, gives one last wave to the room, and leaves.
I can’t stop staring at the money. The night’s images are on shuffle, just like Taryn’s playlist, but so much louder—horrible and wonderful moments skewed out of order, each as intense as the last.
“That was really nice of them to change the money out,” Taryn says, quietly, pulling her soft, hazelnut brown hair into a ponytail so she can work.
Laura mutters while removing her bracelets and placing them on the bar, “I guess it must have been pretty bad for them to do that.”
I nod and say, without feeling, “Yeah.”
Manny wrings excess water from a bar towel until it's almost dry. “Makes me want to like cops. Almost.”
“If 911 didn’t exist, Brendan would be dead.”
Taryn reaches over and picks up her pint glass. “Let’s toast to cops.”
We all raise our glasses up and touch them together. Death Cab For Cutie’s Follow You Into The Dark plays in the background and while I love them on a normal day, no thank you. “Can we change this?”
“Something more cheerful,” Manny mumbles.
“Sorry. Got it.” Taryn slides off her barstool and jogs over and puts on Florence and The Machine’s Shake It Off. She calls over with a wink, “Better?”
Mutual agreement all around. Laura touches my back. “You sit for a little while.”
I look at her and she repeats it. I hadn’t heard her. She guides me to a bar stool and I let her, like I’m one of her children. She puts the pint glass in my hands and I cling to it. I feel so numb. The images have