Free Nothing Bad Is Going to Happen by Kathleen Hale Page B

“Sorry.”
    â€œJust one sec.” I reach for Davey’s hand—it feels the same, all callused and huge compared to mine—and my skin reacts the way it usually does: like it’s got a million nerve endings connected to every part of my body. His fingers are cold but not, like, dead cold.
    â€œCome on,” Libby says, tugging on the sleeve of my hoodie. “I told that doctor to get me one of his business cards so we could be boyfriend-girlfriend and he’ll be looking for me soon.”
    â€œI’m not leaving yet,” I tell her.
    â€œOkay, listen,” she says, putting her hands on her hips. “I was going to wait until we were in the car to tell you this but—” She looks around.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œDavey’s blood-alcohol level was zero,” she whispers.“Which means you were right all along. Somebody planted those cans there—which means whoever’s saying you made up the burglar person can go screw themselves.” She glances at the ceiling. “Sorry, Gah, but it’s true.”
    I want to scream with joy and relief—Davey wasn’t drinking; I’m not crazy.
    â€œNow come on!” she says, glancing at the door.
    There’s a hubbub in the hallway and I tell myself it’s probably better to follow her lead and get out of here. If the hospital calls the cops then I’ll have to face Sheriff Staake again. And I don’t know if I can handle another run-in with him.
    â€œOkay,” I say, letting her push me toward the door. I glance over my shoulder to take one last look at Davey before the curtain falls back into place. “Libby, how come you’re being so nice?”
    â€œHuh?” Libby scrunches up her nose, looking taken aback. “What do you mean?”
    â€œIt’s just, I don’t know. . . . Remember in middle school, you used to call me Kippy Little Tits?”
    â€œYeah, well, remember what my nickname was? Donkey Tits.”
    â€œBut I didn’t call you that.”
    She pushes open the door to the waiting room andleads me through the noisy crowd. The parents of the kids who got into the car accident are talking over one another in raucous prayer.
    Libby shoves me in what I’m sure she thinks is a friendly way, but her cheerleading muscles make it sort of rough. “None of us were at our best in middle school, right?”
    â€œI guess so.”
    I follow her to her truck in a daze, zipping up my snowsuit and pulling down my balaclava to avoid the freeze. Whatever Libby’s reasons are—guilt or Gah, and what’s the difference really—it’s nice to have a wingman. I need the help, but the trick will be to keep my composure and not get attached to her. I have the tendency for overexcitement, and a history of mixing business with pleasure. During my investigation into Ruth’s murder, Davey was my wingman, and we all know how that turned out.
    My phone buzzes again. Word about Davey has clearly spread, and multiple people have posted suicide hotline numbers on my Facebook wall. I quickly delete the posts.
    â€œShould we call the police?” I ask. “About the blood-alcohol thingy?”
    â€œYou tell me,” she says. “You’re the one who had to deal with Sheriff Drunk last night. Do you really think he’ll help?” It’s a rhetorical question.
    My phone rings in my pocket and I answer it reflexively.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œThis is a call from the Green Bay Correctional Facility,” an automated voice says, loudly enough for Libby to hear and get wide-eyed.
    â€œThat’s Ralph, right?” she says. “Ask him what the heck he meant by sending you a present—go ahead, Kippy, talk to him. I’m right here.”
    â€œKippy?” Ralph says.
    â€œHi,” I stutter.
    â€œAsk him,” Libby mouths.
    â€œRalph, what did you mean in your message last night? I never got a package from