Justice. Faye Kellerman

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СКАЧАТЬ what he didn’t say.”

      He turned quiet. I stared at my lap.

      “You still go to Mass?” he asked.

      “Sometimes.”

      “I go sometimes, too. Old habits are hard to break.”

      I smiled and nodded. He was determined to talk. That being the case, I steered the conversation from myself. “You live by yourself, don’t you?”

      “Yep.”

      “So where are your parents?” I asked.

      “They’re dead.”

      “Both of them?”

      “Yes, both of them.”

      I felt my face go hot. “That was stupid.”

      “No such thing as a stupid reaction.” He tapped on the steering wheel. “My mom died of breast cancer when I was thirteen. My father was murdered when I was almost ten. A gangland thing. I was hiding in the closet when the hit went down, witnessed the whole thing—”

      “Oh, my God!” I gasped. “That’s dreadful!”

      “Yeah, I was pretty scared.”

      The car went silent.

      “Only the upshot of the mess was I hated the son of a bitch.” He scratched his head. “So after the shock wore off, I was kind of happy. My dad was a two-fisted drunk. He’d get soused and pummel anything—or anyone—in his way. That’s why I’d been hiding in the closet. Lucky for me. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have made it into double digits.”

      I didn’t answer. I couldn’t think of anything to say.

      “I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” he said. “Must be your confessional aura. How far is this school, Terry?”

      “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry. We passed it.” I looked over my shoulder. “Turn left at the next light.”

      Chris inched the Trans Am forward. “Distracted by our stimulating conversation?”

      “I think the operative word is morbid.”

      Out of nervousness, I started to laugh. So did he. He turned on the radio, switching to a classical station. Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony—good commuter music.

      “So what’s your middle name?” he asked. “Mary or Frances?”

      “Anne.”

      “Ah, Teresa Anne. A respectable Catholic name.”

      “And you?” I asked.

      “Sean. Christopher Sean Whitman. A respectable Irish Catholic name. Is that the school up ahead?”

      “Yeah. You’ll have to pull over. I have to fetch her.”

      He parked curbside and I got out. In all fairness to my stepmom, Jean treated her biological daughter with as much apathy as she displayed toward me. Poor Melissa. I worked my way through the school yard until I spotted her. Usually when I arrived, I was tired, anxious to get home. But with Chris driving, I had the luxury of observing her at play.

      My sister was attacking a tetherball, dirty blond pigtails flying in the wind. She had an intense look of concentration, little fists socking the leather bag, turning her knuckles red. Her opponent was a second-grade boy and she was clearly outmatched. But she put up a valiant struggle. After her defeat, she shuffled to the back of the line. I called out her name. She looked up and came running to me.

      “You’re early!” she shrieked

      “I bummed a ride home. Come on.”

      “Will we be in time for Gornish and Narishkite?”

      Melissa’s favorite cartoon show. It was off-limits by my stepmom and not without logic. The characters were a fat crow and an over-plumaged macaw. They had nothing better to do than peck out each other’s body parts.

      I checked my watch. “If we hurry.”

      “Yippee!” She jumped up and down. I picked up her backpack—an amber thing emblazoned with Simba from The Lion King—and slipped it over my shoulder.

      She took my hand, half skipping as we walked, tugging on my shoulder. But I didn’t mind. Her hand was soft and warm. She smelled sweaty, but it wasn’t an unpleasant odor.

      “I can’t believe I get to see Gornish and Narishkite. You won’t tell Mom?”

      “I won’t tell Mom.”

      “Who’s taking us home? Heidi?”

      “Someone else,” I said. “This way.”

      I led her over to the car, opened the door, and got her settled into the backseat. “This is Chris,” I said. “He was kind enough to offer us a ride home. Say thank you.”

      “Thank you.”

      “You’re welcome,” Chris answered.

      “Is he going to pick us up tomorrow, too?”

      “Don’t press it, Melissa.” I closed the door. “Besides, you have gym class tomorrow. Put on your seat belt.”

      “I can’t do it. It’s too hard.”

      I turned around, hanging over my seat as I looped the belt around Melissa’s waist, securing the metal into the latch. As I straightened up, I accidentally brushed against Chris and felt him immediately stiffen. I sat back and scrunched myself in my seat.

      “Excuse me,” I said.

      “What for?”

      “I accidentally … never mind.” I looked out the window. “You need tutoring, Chris?”

      “Yeah.”

      “You could have just called.”

      “I’ve got a unique situation. I’ll explain when we get to your house.”

      I was quiet and so was he. Mozart, however, was working himself up into a lather. Chris parked the car in front of my two-story claptrap. It wasn’t a bad house, just in need of repair. The siding needed paint, the stucco was chipped, and the roof was old and leaky. We’d gone from two buckets last winter to five the last time it rained. The roof upgrade was supposed to be my father’s weekend project. Instead, he opted for hooch and sports on TV. My father was a passive lush—the kind who’d drink himself into a coma, gradually slipping away until Jean’s nagging became elevator music.

      Chris helped Melissa out of her seat belt. Liberated, she sped to the front door, then raced upstairs as soon as I undid the lock.

      “Uh, excuse me, young lady,” I called out to her. “The dishwasher is still full.”

      “I’ll СКАЧАТЬ