Straightened

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 2

It was at that moment Sandy burst through the door, carrying a thrashing boy in her arms. Woong was stronger than his skin-and-bones frame suggested, and Kennedy was afraid Sandy would drop him.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed, oblivious to everything but her son’s flailing limbs. She dodged to avoid a head butt. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” She didn’t look at the guests or appear to notice the palpable tension. “Carl, can you get him to his room? I swear, this boy ...” She didn’t finish the thought but let out a very unfeminine oomph as Woong’s sneaker kicked her in the thigh.

Carl stood, and Sandy plopped the boy into his arms. Straightening her hair, she glanced at the dining room table and smiled. “Oh, hello Wayne. Nice of you and Noah to stop by.”

She walked past them toward the hall. Kennedy doubted she’d have noticed if they’d both been bleeding out their eye sockets.

“If you two will excuse me ...” Sandy disappeared around the corner, the rustle of her skirt drowned out by Woong’s shrieks as Carl hefted him down the hall.

Both Wayne and his son took that moment to look up and realize Kennedy was standing in the middle of the kitchen, silent and unmoving. It took a second or two before recognition lit up Wayne’s face. “Hello, Miss Stern.” He grinned his winsome smile that had secured him several state elections and extended his hand. Based on the way his dazzling teeth flashed at her, Kennedy figured he hadn’t realized she’d been in the kitchen a few seconds earlier.

She glanced at Noah Abernathy, a teen boy she only knew by sight. Nice-fitting designer jeans, brand new by all appearances. A button-up collared shirt, starched and pressed, that looked about as comfortable as a Shakespearian tights. His dirty-blonde hair was impeccably cut, with a hint of gel in the top.

“Son, say hi to Kennedy Stern.” Wayne spoke through a tight smile that reminded her of a plastic Ken doll. He put his hand on Noah’s shoulder, making his son flinch. “You remember her from last fall, don’t you?”

“Hey.” He didn’t quite meet her gaze, but he looked up long enough for Kennedy to read the discomfort in his eyes. “Glad to hear you haven’t gotten kidnapped lately.” His slight smile vanished so quickly she wondered if she’d imagined it.

She didn’t reply. A few months ago, a remark like that might have started her whole respiratory system hyperventilating from panic, but she was different now. Older. More mature. Her parents couldn’t find an English-speaking therapist in Yanji, so her dad ordered her at least two dozen self-help books about anxiety and post-traumatic stress disorder, forcing her to sit down with him twice a week to summarize what she’d read.

Maybe it had helped, but she doubted it. Being away from people who wanted her dead or injured — that’s what really helped. And having a sorrow settled in the core of her heart that outweighed any pain her panic would have caused. What’s a little anxiety disorder when your best friend ...

No. She wouldn’t dwell on him right now. If her self-directed summer therapy had taught her anything, it was how to take control of her own thoughts. It was a Biblical model as well, her dad was always eager to inform her. Take every thought captive. So far, she had gotten quite adept at cutting off painful memories before they had the chance to resurface and take over her emotions. Like starving a virus. If you don’t feed it, it can’t grow.

Wayne hadn’t stopped gazing at her. “So, how are your classes going? You’re a senior now, right?” He talked as if he had a perpetual microphone taped to his cheek. If he hadn’t gone into politics, his face and dramatic inflections could have cast him perfectly as a news anchor or soap opera star.

“I’m a sophomore,” she told him, certain he must have known. When she and his daughter Jodie were kidnapped last fall, the media had a field day broadcasting the abduction of two local teens. It served as better clickbait than homeschooled thirteen-year-old and college freshman.

Kennedy tried to remember the last time she saw Jodie. Maybe once at St. Margaret’s Church. It was so hard to know what to say to her when they got together. Sometimes she wondered if Jodie had PTSD, too, if her parents had to drive her in their Lexus to a shrink to practice cognitive behavioral therapy or mindfulness-based stress reduction techniques after everything she’d gone through.

Carl made his way back to the dining room table, and Kennedy was about to slip down the hall to the guest room when Sandy bustled in. “How about cookies, everyone? Woong and I made a fresh batch this morning.”

With a flurry of her floral skirt and long braid, Sandy pulled some of this and that out from the cupboards until she had spread four plates and napkins around the table and set a platter of baked goods, a bowl of fruit, and pitcher of lemonade on the Lazy Susan in the middle of the table.

“Help yourself.” She spun some brownies toward Noah first. “Take as many as you want.”

Carl was staring at her in bewilderment, and Kennedy couldn’t blame him. Didn’t Sandy know? Hadn’t she heard?

As if by some enchantment cast by Sandy’s complete oblivion, Noah and his father both filled their plates in awkward silence. Sandy poured the drinks and passed the cups around, then slipped a brownie and two cookies onto a plate for Kennedy. “Don’t you want to sit down, sweetie?”

Kennedy was about to excuse herself to take the nap she’d been pining for since Seattle, but Noah slipped his head up. His eyes met hers. Imploring eyes.

Fearful eyes.

Kennedy sat down. “Sure. I suppose a snack would be fine.”

“Oh, dear.” Sandy slapped her forehead. “I’m so sorry, honey. You probably haven’t had a decent meal since China. Your mother would be so disappointed in me. What was I thinking? What time is it over there right now? Supper? You poor thing. Must be starving. Those airlines used to serve full meals. You remember that, don’t you, babe?” she asked her husband, who still sat wide-eyed in front of an empty plate. “Here, darling.” She patted Kennedy’s head several times as if she were a kitten. “Let me see what I can heat up for you. Wayne, Noah, have you two had lunch yet? Woong’s in time-out, so I have a free minute to ...”

“Actually, we’d better go.” Wayne slid his chair back noisily. He wore the same smile, which made a single vein pop out of his tanned neck. “Noah, what do you tell Mrs. Lindgren for the cookies?”

The younger Abernathy slouched over his plate. “I’m not quite finished yet.”

Wayne slipped his hand onto his son’s shoulder. “I said we need to leave.”

Noah winced and then shot that same imploring gaze at Kennedy.

Carl opened his mouth, but whatever he was about to say was cut off by Sandy, who was tying a rose-patterned apron over her skirt and blouse. “Noah is welcome to stay here for a spell, Wayne. We’ll feed him lunch, and I’ll call Vivian when he’s ready to come home. Actually, Woong and I need to do some back-to-school shopping this afternoon. I can just drop him off at your place.”

Noah’s brooding eyes lit up for a moment. Hopeful?

Wayne’s frown looked just as practiced as his smile. “Actually, Vivian has some work she needs him to do around the yard. I’ve got to take him home, and then I’m off to ...”

“I think I’d like to stay.” Noah’s voice was soft, but from his father’s reaction, you would have thought he was standing on the Lindgrens’ Lazy Susan shouting profanities. Wayne’s eyes flashed. Kennedy spared a glance at Sandy. Did she see the open hostility, or was she too busy hunting around the kitchen for lunch?

Carl cleared his throat. “Actually, sweetie pie, the Abernathys and I were kind of in the middle of something when you all came home. I think maybe the three of us should head to the den and finish our conversation a little more privately.”

“That’s a great idea.” Sandy pulled down a bag of pretzels from the cupboard. “I’ll call you back out when lunch is ready.”

Nobody answered as Wayne and his son rose from the table and followed Carl down the hall. Noah shuffled his feet, looking exactly like Claudio from Much Ado About Nothing as he’s being led to the scaffold to face his executioner.