Page 27 of Bad Intentions

“How are you feeling?” I ask as I take a seat on the edge of her bed.

Grandma blinks slowly. It’s scary to think that something can trigger her so badly, that something might kill her any day. She’s always been strong. Maybe harsh occasionally, but wise. She’s the wisest person I know.

“I need to rest,” Grandma says, trying to force a smile. “The thing knocked the air out of me. Don’t know what happened.”

“It’s okay,” I comfort her. “Do you want me to stay home today?”

“Oh, no⁠—”

“I will, Grams. To make sure⁠—”

“I’ll be fine,” she insists a little harsher.

“You’ll be fine, Grams, I know, but I’m watching you. I’m staying home and taking care⁠—”

“I said I’m fine!” she snaps unusually harshly, her lips curled in contempt.

It takes me by surprise. It’s hard to get my grandma to overreact. I mean, she used to run a bar. Back in the day, that was even a tougher thing than nowadays, especially in places like Burnville. Especially being a woman.

“I don’t need babysitting,” she says, closing her eyes.

I wait, sitting in silence, startled, until she composes herself.

“I’m fine, sweetie,” Grandma adds, softer this time, in her usual tone, and looks at me. Her smile is far from genuine, more like that of a child who wants to convince her parents she didn’t do anything wrong—it doesn’t reach her eyes.

She’ll only get irritated if I stay around and constantly check on her.

“Fine.” I give up. “I’m going to work. If you need anything, call me.”

She doesn’t respond. This conversation is over. There are hundreds of little cues in her behavior I’ve learned since childhood. Grandma doesn’t talk much. Her body language does it for her. And right now, it clearly tells me to leave her alone.

I put on my parka and leave the house, then hop in the car, back it onto the driveway, and wait for the passing cars.

Something on the news definitely triggered Grandma. The police never called me, but the media already has the name of the kidnapper, so I need to do some research. At least the police didn’t leak my name to the reporters. Though knowing this town, someone at the diner probably already knows I’m the one who found the woman in the basement.

That’s the irony of small towns—they are either not good at keeping secrets or too good at it, depending on the secret.

There are two main types.

The first type is a dirty secret. This one lives hand in hand with rumors. And everyone knows that rumors lead to scandals.

The second type of secret is a dangerous one. The one from twenty-five years ago is just that. What happened at my grandma’s bar. My mom. Her best friend. What led to my grandma “going away.” What she “got away with,” as per rumors. There is still plenty of gossip. But what really happened is a secret my grandmother never talks about to anyone.

This is the secret the stranger was baiting me with. Though with everything that happened, I’m petrified to think what his intentions are.

A car goes by, splashing mine with a torrent of muddy water. I curse under my breath and wait for the windshield wipers to do their job.

I meant to bring an umbrella with me. It’s only thirty feet from my parking spot to the diner’s side door, but I wanted to keep an umbrella at work just in case someone like Jenkins decides to walk home. He doesn’t have an umbrella, the stubborn fool that he is.

I back up toward the carport, about to get out, when I see a shadow in the kitchen window. Through the window, I see Grandma.

Disappointment stirs inside me. Why is she up when she’s supposed to rest?

Then I see that she’s leaning with her hand on the kitchen chair. As I squint to see her better, I notice that there’s no trace of tiredness on her face. It’s etched with anger as she talks to someone on the phone.

17

KAREN