Читать книгу Invisible Girl - Erica Orloff - Страница 15

Bobby had a headache. It was concentrated on the right side of his head, near the temple, then snaked up around the top of his skull and down the base of his neck. His temple throbbed. He never used to have headaches. Not even when he was a drunk and woke up each day shrouded in the fog of a hangover. But ever since he’d met Maggie, he’d started getting headaches. Often.

When Maggie’s uncle had delivered the news that her father was dead—murdered, according to Con—she had crumpled to the floor in slow motion. She didn’t cry. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out, and she rocked back and forth for a while.

Bobby had knelt down next to her, pulling her to his chest, and then she’d whispered, “My father’s dead.”

He’d stroked her hair, not really knowing what to say. He knew her father was a Vietnam vet and that he owned the bar. He knew even less than that about her brother, until he’d shown up the previous night, his face smashed in.

Now Bobby was following Maggie’s directions and taking her and Danny to Con’s house, which Maggie said was down in Jersey somewhere, out in the backwoods, down a dirt road. A dirt road that was booby-trapped.

“I’ll tell you how to get around the traps,” she said, patting his leg as he drove, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. His headache, which was a dull throb, started to pulse with more intensity.

Bobby glanced in the rearview mirror. Danny was leaning against the window, mouth open, sound asleep after a tall shot of Jack Daniel’s and three Tylenols with codeine. Danny hadn’t blinked when Maggie had told him about their father, but looked resigned, as if he’d half expected it. Danny was pale, and Bobby guessed he should have had a transfusion or something. What the fuck did he know? He wasn’t a goddamn doctor, but a cop—who was now driving his girlfriend to some booby-trapped old farm down in Jersey.

“What does your uncle need booby traps for?”

“To keep poachers away,” she said calmly.

His head throbbed more. She could lie so easily that if he didn’t know better, he’d swear she was a sociopath. She’d been lying since the moment he’d met her. She’d tried to give him a line of shit that she’d been in AA a while, had some sobriety under her belt, but he was certain she hadn’t been telling the truth. He’d seen her hands shake those first few mornings he’d slept over. He’d seen her in the bar where she worked, the look of longing in her face for a drink, almost a hungry look. The longing in her eyes had disappeared eventually, but he knew she wasn’t as strong in her sobriety as he was.

He stared straight ahead at the road. It was a windy fall day, gusts of air occasionally swirling amber and gold leaves onto the highway. He thought back on his first encounter with Maggie. In all the years since he’d quit drinking, he hadn’t had a vice. He didn’t smoke. He didn’t gamble. He didn’t sleep around. Then he’d met Maggie and, inexplicably, she’d become his one obsession. Because whenever he was with her, he had this ache that started in his chest—that sometimes wormed its way upward and turned into a headache later—but an ache to make love to her, and to keep her safe. He wasn’t sure how he knew she wasn’t safe, but he just did. Cop instinct, he figured.