Rachel was taken aback by the question. She’d been so curious about Myra’s life that it hadn’t occurred to her someone would want to know about hers.
“I . . . I’m not sure what there is to say.”
“Really? That’s it? Come on, shin-kicker. Kids?”
“Two kids,” Rachel said. “Eight and three.”
“Smart?”
“Sharp as a knife. My son, he’s the older one, he memorizes things on the spot. Reads like there’s no tomorrow. Loves fantasy books. If it has a dragon or wizard in it, he’ll read it. And my daughter, story time could last for weeks. She just sits there, rapt. Even makes up her stories. I picture her writing books of her own one day.”
Myra smiled. “That’s lovely. Do you have . . . someone in your life? Someone whose shins you kick instead of mine?”
Rachel looked at the ground. Guilt and fear and shame and anger welled up inside of her. “I did,” she said. “And he was taken from me.”
“He was sick?”
“Not exactly.”
“Left you?”
“No.”
“Oh,” Myra said. “Oh, I’m sorry, Rachel.”
“I don’t remember you ever calling me Rachel.”
“Rachel, shin-kicker, Blondie. It’s all protection. Armor. It’s important that a lot of the students in class wear that armor so they feel protected. When you’re wounded, like we all were, you need time to heal. But once you’re strong enough, you don’t need it anymore. You haven’t needed it for a long time, Rachel.”
“My name’s not Rachel. But you know that.”
“And mine’s not Myra. But you know that too.”
They continued down the street in silence. Rachel wanted to ask the question so badly it was tearing a hole in her throat. But she’d already crossed a boundary, told Myra about her life. And as far as she knew, she was the only one in class Myra had confided in. It made Rachel feel special, important. Hearing Myra tell Rachel she was strong—the compliment gave her wings. It made her think that after all the horrors, everything that had come so close to breaking her and her children, she was finally mending. And perhaps even coming out stronger than ever.
“You can tell me,” Myra said. “Your name. If you think you’re ready.”
“I’m not sure if I should.”
“Suit yourself. I’m Evie.”
Rachel looked at Myra—Evie—and felt her breath catch in her throat.
Evie.
Such a nice, pretty, simple name. The kind of name Rachel could have named her own daughter. The kind of name that might belong to a girl she could see her son bringing home before prom.
Evie.
“Well?” Evie said. “You are?”
Then, just as she was going to speak the word, without any warning, a man came up from behind Evie, looped his right arm around her throat, and held a penknife against her neck.
Rachel recoiled in horror. Evie froze and gritted her teeth but remained calm. He dug the tip of the knife into the soft flesh of Evie’s neck. Rachel looked around for help, but the streets were empty. There were no lampposts on this stretch of town. The night covered the crime.
The man had a goatee that looked like a messy black O and a jagged scar running down his right cheek that looked like a poorly stitched-up knife wound. He smelled like shoe polish, and his deep-blue windbreaker was two sizes too big. A bracelet made from brownish-yellow Tiger Eye beads looped around the wrist of the hand that held the knife. The beads clinked together gently. Rachel could not take her eyes off them. They looked oddly pretty, soothing and spiritual in a way their owner was not.
“See my pocket?” the man said. He nodded to the open pocket on the left side of his windbreaker. He looked at Rachel. “Money, jewelry, and cell phones. You, put them in there.”
Rachel nodded and unzipped her gym bag. Her hand shook as she removed her wallet. She cursed her luck; she’d just gone to the ATM before class, and a wad of twenties jutted out. The man’s eyes widened when he saw it. His lucky day.
“Please, sir,” Evie said. She began to sob. She raised her hands as if in surrender. “I have a family. I don’t have any money. Please, let me go.”
Rachel was shocked; she’d never heard Evie so much as whimper or complain, let alone cry. It was like she’d morphed into a completely different person.
“Shut up,” he said. “You, Blondie, get her money and put it in my pocket. Waste my time, and I’ll give this cunt a new mouth below her old one.”
“Please, Mister,” Evie bawled. Her hands continued to rise. “I have a sick daughter. She has epilepsy. My husband has a bad heart. Please.”
There was less than a second between Rachel thinking That isn’t true and Evie grabbing the man’s knife hand and pulling it against her chest, holding it in place. The whole time she’d been babbling, she’d been slowly raising her hands until she could get into the right position.
The man bucked and struggled, trying to free his knife hand, but Rachel could tell that Evie was stronger, angrier, and more in control.
Finally, when the man gave her an inch of room, Evie slid her head underneath his armpit and, still holding the wrist of his knife hand, wrenched herself free and pulled his arm behind his body. The Tiger Eye beads rattled against each other. Then, without hesitation, Evie wrenched his arm in a counterclockwise direction until Rachel heard a gruesome snap.
The man howled and dropped the knife. Then Evie kneed him in the groin, and he fell to the ground, sobbing, clutching his broken arm.
Evie picked up the knife and kicked the man onto his back. His head smacked off the pavement. Tears streamed down his face. Rachel watched, frozen, unsure of what to do. And suddenly terrified of Evie.
Evie straddled the man, pinning his shoulders to the ground with her knees. She placed the blade against the man’s throat.
“This is what it feels like,” she said, her voice calm. Even. “How do you like it?”
“Please,” the man sobbed. “Please, just let me go.”
“Not a chance,” Evie said. There was a spark of insanity and determination in her eyes that frightened Rachel.
“Evie . . . ,” Rachel said. “What are you doing?”
“Making sure he never does this again.”
“We can call the police,” Rachel said, plaintively.
“If you think we’re the first ones he’s done this to, you’re insane,” Evie said. “And if you think we’ll be the last, you’re naive.”
Evie moved the knife to the man’s groin. Point facing downward. His eyes widened. Tears and mucus poured down his face. Rachel looked at his maimed arm. The sound of the Tiger Eye beads rattling on his wrist echoed in her ears.
“There has to be another way,” Rachel said.
“One day you’ll be faced with a choice like this,” Evie said. “And you’ll sleep well at night knowing you prevented something terrible from happening to someone who couldn’t defend themselves.”
“Please,” the man said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I need a doctor. I need help.”
“You’ll need two different types of doctors now,” Evie said. She switched her grip on the knife and raised the blade until it was hovering a foot from the man’s crotch.