The Jodi Picoult Collection Read online

  “Then think how clean my insides are.” She took the steaming mug from Addie.

  “I had a customer who used to drink hot water,” Addie mused. “She lived to be a hundred and six.”

  “Get out,” Jordan said.

  “Honestly.”

  “How did she die?” asked Selena.

  “Another waitress here served her coffee instead one day.” Addie winked. “I’ll be back to get your order in a minute.”

  Selena watched her go. “She seems nice enough.”

  “She comes from good people, as they’d say around these parts.” Jordan shook out his copy of the paper. “Certainly doesn’t deserve all the flak she’s getting now.”

  “Such as?”

  “Oh, the fire. And the backlash about the fellow who works in the kitchen.”

  Jordan raised the paper to read the headlines. With a fork, Selena tugged down the edge. “Hello,” she said. “Remember me? I’m your breakfast date.”

  “Give me a break.”

  “Don’t tempt me. What’s the story with the guy who works here?”

  Jordan pushed the newspaper across the table. Folded to the editorial page, there were no less than six letters addressing the “unsavory influences” that had recently moved into town. Selena scanned the brief missives, all in favor of riding Jack St. Bride out on a rail. “What did he do? Rob a bank?”

  “Rape a girl.”

  Selena looked up, whistling softly. “Well, you can’t blame a community for trying to protect itself. You ask me, that’s the whole point behind Megan’s Law.”

  “At the same time, it’s prejudicial to the person who has to report in. If an entire community identifies a guy by his past convictions, how will anybody ever get past that to accept his presence?”

  Selena peeked under the table. “What the hell are you doing?” Jordan asked.

  “Making sure you’ve gotten off your soapbox. You know damn well that perps of sex crimes are repeat offenders. How do you think you’d feel if he targeted, oh, fifteen-year-old boys?”

  “Repeat offenders,” Jordan said, snapping the newspaper open again, “are good for business.”

  Selena’s jaw dropped. “That is quite possibly the most inhuman thing I’ve ever heard fall out of your mouth, McAfee, and believe me, there’ve been plenty.”

  “Ah, but defense attorneys aren’t supposed to be human. It makes it easier to sink down to everyone’s very low expectations.”

  But Selena didn’t take the bait. She was thinking that Jordan was human, far too human, and she should know, because she was the one who had broken his heart.

  “Come on,” Gilly urged. “What’s he going to do? Attack us right on the counter?”

  Beside her, Meg squinted at the neon sign overhead. The R had never been quite as bright as the other letters. She could remember giggling about it years ago, because back then the most hilarious thing in the world was the thought of a restaurant called the Doo Diner. “My dad would kill me,” Meg said.

  “Your dad will never know. Come on, Meggie. Do you want to be the kind of person who hides in the back when everyone else is fighting the dragon, or do you want to be holding the sword?”

  “That depends. What’s my chance of being burned to a crisp?”

  “If he molests you, I will selflessly throw my body over yours as a substitute.”

  Meg shook her head. “I don’t even want him to know what I look like.”

  “For God’s sake, Meg, this isn’t even about him. I’m thirsty is all. He probably won’t come out from the back. We’ll see Crazy Addie and get our milk shakes and go.”

  Slowly, Meg backed away. “Sorry, Gill. My dad said I shouldn’t.”

  Gillian fisted her hands on her hips. “Well, so did mine!” Meg was already halfway down the street. “Fine. Be that way!” Smarting, Gilly pushed inside the diner. It was virtually empty, except for an old fart at the cash register who was hunched over a crossword puzzle. She sat down and rapped her nails impatiently on the table.

  Within moments, Crazy Addie came over. “What can I get for you?”

  Gilly glanced at her dismissively. She couldn’t even conceive of living a life so small that you’d grow up in this nothing town and work and die there. Clearly, the woman was a loser. Who looked at the bright ball of her future and thought, Oh, one day I want to be a waitress in a totally deadend job.

  “A black-and-white shake,” Gilly said, and then, from the corner of her eye, saw Jack come down the hallway from the bathrooms carrying a large trash bag.

  He didn’t notice her.

  “Actually, now that I think about it, I’m not hungry,” Gillian murmured, and walked out. The sunlight was blinding; she stumbled before slipping along the edge of the building, where a fence cordoned off the green Dumpster. Jack was moving around in there; she could hear metal clanging and the rustling of plastic as trash was hauled over its wide lip.

  Gilly sucked her lower lip between her teeth, to give it some color. She unbuttoned her jacket, then slid the zipper of her cropped sweatshirt low enough to show the rise of her breasts. Walking to the gate, she waited for Jack to notice her.

  He did, after a minute, and looked away.

  “Hey,” Gilly said, “what are you doing?”

  “Skiing the Alps. Can’t you tell?”

  Gillian watched his muscles flex as he lifted another bag of garbage high. She thought about him pinning her, grabbing her wrists in his hands. Hard. She wondered if the girl he had raped had liked it, even a little.

  “Food’s a lot better inside,” Jack said.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  God, his eyes were a color blue she’d never seen. Dark and smooth, like the inside of a fire. There should have been a word for it—Jackquoise, maybe, or—

  “Then why did you come here?”

  Gilly lowered her lashes. “To ski, of course.”

  He shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe she was standing here in front of him. It only made her more determined. “Bet you were the kind of kid who used to poke crabs on the beach to get them moving,” Jack mused, “even if it meant they might snap.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means stick to the bunny slope, Gillian,” Jack said flatly.

  Her eyes darkened, caught somewhere between tears and rage. Jack started to leave, but Gillian was blocking the exit. For an uncomfortable moment, they danced around each other, Jack unwilling to let his body brush up against hers, Gillian unwilling to let him go.

  “Gillian.”

  At the sound of another voice, they jumped apart. Wes Courtemanche rounded the corner, dressed in uniform. “Something tells me your father wouldn’t be delighted to find you standing back here.”

  “Something tells me you’re not my father,” Gillian said testily. But she stepped away so that Jack could get by.

  “Going home now, aren’t you?” Wes said to the girl.

  “I’m not afraid of you. I’m not afraid of anyone.” As if to prove it, Gillian turned on her heel, passing close to Jack. She blew a kiss as she sailed by, a gesture meant for his eyes only that might have been a promise, or might have a threat.

  7:40. Wes had twenty minutes left on duty before he could head home. Usually, this time of night, high school kids were hanging in small clots near the rear of the post office or idling in their cars in the parking lot, but these days Main Street looked like a ghost town, as if kids believed the closer they got to the Do-Or-Diner, the more likely they were to fall prey to the local criminal.

  The sound of footfalls behind Wes had him turning, his hand on his gun belt. A jogger approached, reflective markings on his stocking cap and sneakers winking in the glare of the streetlights.

  “Wes,” said Amos Duncan, slowing down in front of the policeman and drawing in great gulps of air. He set his hands on his knees, then straightened. “Nice night, isn’t it?”

  “For what?”

  “A run, of course.” Amos wipe