Blood on My Hands

immediately became subdued. “Well, yeah, except Rick’s unit’s been called up. They’re being sent overseas to do support work for the troops. He leaves next month.” He was quiet for a moment and I wanted to kick myself, until I thought of something that really scared me.
    “Slade, do … you think they may call up your unit, too?”
    “Right now I’d say the chances are about sixty-forty,” he answered glumly.
    I felt my body clench. “If you go, how long?”
    “At least a year. But a lot of guys are being stop-lossed and wind up doing two tours.”
    That would be two years. I couldn’t imagine him being away for so long. I’d be almost twenty by the time he came home. It felt like an impossibly long time. And what if he was injured or killed?
    We talked a little longer, then said good-bye. I went back to bed but couldn’t fall asleep. I was convinced that commercial fishing was just a whim. But what if he was sent overseas? Then what?

Chapter 22
    Monday 5:30 P.M.
    IT’S DINNERTIME AND I’m in a convenience store with a craving for Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream. The place is nearly empty, but the bright lights are unnerving. There’s no place to hide in here. Cameras are mounted on the walls, and up in the corner is one of those big convex mirrors so the man behind the counter can watch. I feel like some kind of nocturnal creature that’s been thrust suddenly into the sunlight.
    I glance at the counter, where the clerk is watching a small TV. I’m starving and can’t wait to eat, but also afraid to go up to the checkout, where yet another stranger will have an opportunity to look at my face. But I can’t dawdle, as that will also attract his attention. I pick out a frosty container and head for the front.
    As I get close to the cash register, I become aware of the sound of the television. A female voice reporting: “In a news conference today, Soundview Police Chief Samuel Jenkins said the police still want to speak to Callie Carson in connection with the murder two nights ago of seventeen-year-old Katherine Remington-Day. While declining to say whether Ms. Carson is a suspect in the case, the police chief warned local citizens not to help her hide.”
    The scene shifts to a podium with several microphones, where Chief Jenkins stands. He’s a heavyset man, almost bald on top except for some long thick strands of black hair combed straight back and held in place with gel. “We believe that Ms. Carson is still in the area. She needs food and a place to stay, so it stands to reason that someone may be sheltering her. If that’s true, people need to be aware that they may be charged with rendering criminal assistance if Ms. Carson is implicated in this crime.”
    The scene shifts back to the TV studio and the blonde anchorwoman. In one corner of the screen is a big grainy gray blowup of my face from the yearbook. “Ms. Carson is about five feet tall and weighs around a hundred pounds. If you think you’ve seen her, the police have provided a phone number—”
    Seeing that photo, and hearing again that I’m wanted, gives me a physical jolt. Even though hardly a second passes when I don’t worry about who might be looking at me, that photo on TV kicks it all up a notch.
    I’m so fixated on the TV that I don’t realize that the man at the cash register has stopped watching. He’s looking at me curiously, as if it’s just struck him that I’m roughly the same height and weight as this person the police are looking for. I freeze, caught between opposing impulses to drop the ice cream and run and to pay as fast as I can and then run. Both are bad ideas. Instead, I place the container on the counter, begin searching in my pockets for money, and say, “Isn’t that weird? I mean, five feet tall and a hundred pounds? That’s the same as me. Well, I hope they find her, you know?”
    The man blinks, then nods, takes my money, and makes change. “You want a bag for that?”
    “Yeah, sure, and maybe a couple of napkins and a plastic spoon?”
    “You got it.”
    A moment later I’m out on the sidewalk, walking away quickly but hopefully not so fast that it’s noticeable. Down the block is a small park, where I settle onto a bench set close to some trees and start spooning delicious ice cream into my mouth and wondering which is more unbelievable—that I said what I said to the man behind the counter or that it seemed to work.
    I have to admit that I’m pretty