Читать книгу The Prized Girl - Amy K. Green - Страница 17

I HAD SOLVED zero murders since I stormed off Mark’s porch. I watched three episodes of Law & Order: SVU, but they were useless. The reality I had to face was, if Mark wasn’t involved in Jenny’s murder, did I really care who did it?

Yes. I could care about this. Even if it was rooted in some sick obsession with proving Linda and my father and the whole damn town wrong. The crusade could be noble regardless.

I didn’t even know where to start. It seemed going outside would be productive. I decided to drive to the gas station in town and fill my tank. Having a full gas tank, instead of coasting around on fumes like usual, would make me feel adult and responsible.

It takes a long time to fill a whole tank, even in a crappy little car. I stood there holding the pump, watching cars drive by, feeling too exposed. I don’t know where I found the ego to think people would want to stop and bother me, but the mind can do crazy things.

After a parade of old cars similar to my own passed by, I saw one hit the blinker. I knew this car. A silver Mercedes that belonged to my father. Even in this tiny town, the odds of being there at the same time as him were so low that the coincidence felt exceptionally cruel.

I could have stopped the pump and left with half a tank, failing at my very first mission, but I didn’t. Instead, I ran through the entire conversation in my mind. A back-and-forth of three to four generic questions would be enough for both of us to pretend our relationship wasn’t complete garbage. The tank would certainly be full by then, a signal that we were fated to end the conversation there, and it would be over. I swallowed and relaxed my shoulders. Easy breezy.

His car slowed at the entrance and we made eye contact. I want to say I think we made eye contact, but I know we did. Then he killed the blinker and accelerated. He kept driving in some world where he had convinced himself I hadn’t noticed. It felt hypocritical to fault him for something I had considered doing only two seconds earlier, but he was the parent. It stung. I won’t say it hurt—I was too numb to him for that—but there was still a sting to it. A feeling of worthlessness crept up from not very deep, if I’m being honest. Rationally, I didn’t blame him. Our interactions sucked; talking with him wasn’t my preferred hobby either, but just … what a dick.

The gas pump clicked. There. That would have been it, the extent of the conversation. I returned the pump to its home and screwed the gas cap back on.

“Virginia?”

I heard my name coming from behind like a mallet to the back of the head. I turned to see the detective. Holden? Colton? Something I couldn’t remember.

“Hi,” I said, racing around the car to get to the driver’s side door.

“How are—?”

The door sealed out the sound of his voice. I think the timing was gray enough where maybe I hadn’t heard him attempt to extend the interaction. Didn’t matter much. I turned the key and put the car in drive.

I pulled out into the street, admiring my full tank and seamless escape. My escape from social interaction. Though the detective was probably the exact person I should be talking to. Distracted by my father being King of the Assholes, I forgot the whole reason I’d left the house in the first place was to try to figure out more about Jenny.

I turned my car around in a convenient driveway and headed back into town toward the police station, convinced that if I saw that silver Mercedes on the way, I was going to ram it off the road with some sort of ’80s action catchphrase like “Ignore this, bitch.”