Her assertiveness struck the wrong note in me. I was starting to feel like a pinball, bouncing between people who wanted something, and they all seemed to feel a great deal of ease about telling me what to do. Blake. The cops.

I took a step closer to her, putting us toe-to-toe. Anger superseded my guilt.

And I noticed she wore sneakers. Clean and almost new.

“Look.” I jabbed the air between us with my index finger. She flinched when I started speaking, acting as though I’d tried to strike her. “You’ll get your money when I have it. I have other problems right now. Personal problems. So you need to back off.”

“I can tell—”

“Tell who?” I asked. “Sure, tell the cops what you think you know about the accident. Expose me as a liar. But then what? The golden goose gets neutered. Where would you be getting your eggs from then? Hell, where else would your parents get that little bit of help I’ve been giving them?”

“You’re too afraid to stop. You’re too afraid—”

“You should be afraid—”

“Ma’am? Ma’am?”

The voice cut through our conversation.

Argument.

We both turned and looked. The gas station employee—the guy with the ponytail, the tattoos, and the phone—stood nearby, studying us. He was younger than he’d looked from afar, closer to twenty than to thirty. And his face showed concern. His eyes were dialed in on Dawn, and he expectantly waited for her to say something to him.

When she didn’t, he said, “Are you okay, ma’am?”

“Okay?”

“Is this man harassing you?” the guy asked. “He made a threatening gesture to you. Like this.” The guy imitated my finger jab, except he made it appear as though he was Norman Bates and my finger was a knife. “I’ve got my phone right here. And you can step inside if that makes you feel safer.”

“Harassing her?” I said. “Me? You don’t even know what’s going on.”

“Now, sir, don’t direct your hostility toward me. That wouldn’t be right either.” He lifted his phone and tapped it. “I’m calling the police.”

“No, wait.” I held my hands out in a placating manner. “Just wait.”

The man stopped tapping his phone. His finger hovered in midair. He turned his head toward Dawn, awaiting her approval. If she told him to keep dialing, he would. And I’d have the police called down on me.

But Dawn shook her head. And she looked imperious doing it.

“It’s okay,” she said. “You don’t have to call. He just lost control of himself for a moment. He’ll apologize. Won’t he?”