“I’m fine. My vitals are stable. They were planning to discharge me tomorrow if nothing changed, anyway,” Ama answered.
“I still don’t understand the rush to leave just to come stay here.” She pulled the car into the parking lot of a motel near the state route exit for Tarson. Ama could feel Lindsey’s gaze shift from the squat L-shaped building to Ama’s chest, no doubt eyeing where the bullet had gone in.
“Let me take you home,” Lindsey said softly, the car idling, her hand clutching the gear shift.
“No. I need to stay in Tarson.”
“Why?” Lindsey pressed.
If she was being honest with herself, Ama knew part of why she wanted to stay in Tarson was because Michael wouldn’t expect it. He’d peg her for someone who would throw herself back into her life and her work, determined to prove he hadn’t affected her. The last thing he’d think she’d do would be to stay in a run-down motel within walking distance of Tarson Woods. She also knew she couldn’t draw Michael to her from her penthouse apartment overlooking Piedmont Avenue. That wasn’t how he operated. She knew she needed something so big, so tempting, his curiosity would override his rule about the organic crossing of paths.
“Ama?” Lindsey prompted, and Ama’s focus returned to the present. “What’s going on?” she asked. Lindsey knew how Ama liked her sandwiches, her coffee, her drinks, her men. She knew instinctively when to cancel unnecessary appointments and kick Ama out of the office for an hour or two. And she would know if Ama was lying, so Ama had to tell at least a fragment of the truth.
Lindsey turned off the engine and stared full faced at Ama, waiting.
“I want to give back,” Ama said, which was partially true. “You said it yourself: my image needs damage control. Getting shot doesn’t make me nearly as sympathetic as you might think.”
Ama’s thoughts returned to the V.A.A.C. page, to the things people had said about her. A lot of those things held partial truths, too.
“You don’t owe anyone anything,” Lindsey said firmly.
“No, I do. And I need your help to do it. If you wanted to draw a big crowd for a good cause, how would you do it?”
“Like a fundraiser?” Lindsey suggested.
“A fundraiser would be perfect,” Ama said, her thoughts taking off at a sprint. “A silent auction, with live music, catered food, a dance floor…”
“What are you raising funds for, exactly?” Lindsey asked.
“Maybe for the Tarson Police Department, as a way to say thank-you. Maybe they can buy some new equipment or safety gear or something,” she heard herself answer, but her mind wasn’t on the police station. She could already see the auction bursting to life, people talking, swarming the open bar, placing bids, talking plenty of shit about Ama, no doubt. The most important piece was silent and empty: a baby grand piano spotlighted alone on a stage. Michael wouldn’t be able to resist, would he? Then again, if uniforms were everywhere, he may not chance it. She bit down on her lip, suddenly flooded with doubt.
“If you really want to make yourself sympathetic and have a bigger impact, you have to think smaller,” Lindsey said, and a curious expression came over her face. “Younger.”
“The school. That’s perfect,” Ama answered on an exhale. “We’ll hold a fundraiser for the high school, for the music department.”
“Okay,” Lindsey said slowly. “Why music?”
“The holiday,” Ama answered quickly. “Music makes people festive, makes them generous.”
“That’s a good point. How soon are you thinking? And where? It’s going to be hard to pull something off this close to Christmas. Would you rather have it in Atlanta?”
“No, it has to be here, and it has to be soon, very soon,” Ama said, her tone harder than she intended. She paused and tried again. “If anyone can make the right people say yes, it’s you. I think holding it here will make the effort seem more genuine. And maybe people will be willing to give more money if I’m still bandaged and limping.” She forced herself to smile.
“That’s not a bad thought,” Lindsey mused. “Does this town even have a venue nice enough to set the kind of tone that opens wallets?”
“It has exactly one: the courthouse.”
The old, Southern-style building was rung with giant porches and nestled between two groves of magnolia trees. In the back, a carpet of tidy grass rolled for half an acre before butting up to the edge of Tarson Woods. Ama hadn’t seen it or set foot near it in seventeen years. When she’d lived here, it had been the crown jewel of the city. If there was anything small-town people believed in, it was justice. With any luck, both those things still rang true.
“I have an idea. Give me the morning to get settled in and make some plans. Can you meet me here this afternoon? Maybe bring some of my clothes and some lunch for us? I’m going to need someone to help me pull this off, and the only person I trust to help me is you,” Ama admitted.
“I…” Lindsey trailed off, visibly flustered. “I’ll be here,” she said.
“Good.” Ama reached over and squeezed her hand, and she realized in all the years they’d known each other, that may have been the first time she’d touched Lindsey on purpose.
There was no way she’d be able to pull together a large-scale event on her own, bullet wound or not. This was Lindsey’s territory. She’d planned weddings start to finish for a handful of paralegals in their office. The firm called on her any time a venue had double-booked something they needed, and she’d always walked away from such conversations victorious.
After the opening arguments in the most recent case, Lindsey had warned Ama that she didn’t think they had the right jury to win for the driver in the vehicular homicide, and she had been right. Ama understood how to work the legal system and how to work criminals, and she alone understood how to work Michael. Figuring out how to draw him out, how to leave bread crumbs tempting enough for him to find and follow, would be a big enough undertaking. Thankfully, Lindsey understood how to work everyone else.
Ama could admit to herself that manipulating Lindsey wasn’t new, but this feeling—this niggle of worry that Lindsey would be hurt should she find out—was a first.
MICHAEL Chapter 50 | 3:00 PM, December 1, 2005 | Tarson, Georgia
THE JOCKS FROM CHORUS DON’T recognize me here in the gas station: sunglasses, unkempt hair, and two days’ worth of stubble on my face. I’ve captured two quick glances from Jake, the ringleader, as if maybe he knows me, but he’s not sure from where.
They’re dressed for a run. Want creeps though me, and a flat note echoes in my head. This is the second place I’ve seen them, our paths crossing in front of the refrigerated beverages section. That’s the way Fate can be; sometimes laughably simple.
“Let’s go somewhere different,” Jake says, and I watch him tuck a Snickers bar into his palm before sliding it into the pocket of his sweatshirt. “I’m sick of the regular route.”
“What about the Timberline trail?” a smaller boy answers. He’s wiry, one coiled muscle from the base of his throat to his ankles. I imagine he lets Jake win, even though he could probably beat him at any distance.