Page 25 of Bad Intentions

“Grams, I don’t eat breakfast.”

“Well, maybe you should start. Breakfast is⁠—”

“The most important meal of the day,” I finish her sentence and smile. “I know. But it’s not my thing.”

Her lips tighten as she looks at her cup and takes another sip.

I disappointed her again, I know. An A-student, a talented singer and composer, a girl who, until months ago, had a bright future. She hadn’t wanted me to come back. “Nothing to do here,” she’d said. “The world is much bigger than you think.”

I left the world behind, in Pittsburgh, friends, jobs, venues, parties. My grandma raised me. Least I could do is take care of her while she’s still around. The doctors say she doesn’t have long. I say, I got it. Though the general mood lately is that of a funeral.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Grandma says with a chuckle.

Even her chuckle seems sad lately, though she does enjoy her coffee, black and so strong that when I finish my cup, I feel as wired as if I’ve chugged several energy drinks.

I study her face. Her cheeks are sunken, or maybe I’m imagining it. Knowing that she has cancer spreading through her body, I overthink stuff, look for and notice signs that maybe are not quite there.

I’m better off not telling her about what happened last night yet. That might stir up bad memories.

“And we are back with breaking news,” the anchor on TV says. “A woman has been found in a house in Burnville, Pennsylvania. The police say she is a victim of a kidnapping, though her identity has not yet been revealed.”

My eyes widen at the TV screen.

“The house where the victim was found was being rented by a man police identified as James Derek Sickler, from California. Sickler is wanted by the Ohio police for multiple scams and by California police for extortion.”

When they show the picture of the man, my heart leaps. I don’t know if that’s him for sure. It was so dark the night he was hit that I didn’t see his face. But he looks like an older version of the man in the picture with my mom, the one he texted me. If that’s him, he’s handsome, in his forties, maybe fifties. And the picture is not a mug shot—it’s a photo of him smiling. He doesn’t look like a man wanted for a kidnapping. He looks like a charmer.

“Any information about the man in question or his whereabouts can be submitted to the Pennsylvania State Police via the hotline number below.”

The anchor goes on when a sudden clacking sound snaps my head in Grandma’s direction. The ladle is on the counter, the pancake batter splashed everywhere. Grandma whispers something inaudible as she stares at the TV screen.

I jump up. “I got it, Grams.”

I fetch a rag from the sink and start wiping the batter off the counter, glancing at Grandma. Only now do I notice that her hands are shaking badly.

“Grams?” I look at her with worry. “Grams? What’s wrong?”

She closes her eyes and presses both her hands to her chest.

“Grams! You okay? Should I call a doctor?”

She shakes her head, her eyes still closed, brows knit together. “No,” she whispers. “No, no, no, just… I need a moment⁠—”

As if in slow motion, I see her body tilting, and I catch her in my arms just in time. “Grams?”

Her hands clutch my shoulders as she leans into me.

“Grams, let’s take a seat. Come.” I help her to a kitchen chair, sit her down, then lower myself on my haunches next to her. “You okay? I can drive you to the doctor or the emergency room.”

She smiles weakly at me, blinking slowly. “Just got a little dizzy is all, hon.”

She sets her hand on my shoulder. Her hands have gotten thinner. Grams has never been a skinny person. She’s always had curves. But now she’s losing weight.

“I need to lie down,” she says.

The stove makes a hissing sound, and smoke starts filling up the kitchen.

“The pancakes!” I shout and run to the stove.