The Prodigal's Return. Anna DeStefano
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Cain.” She tossed the remains of the plate into the trash, where the bits slid off the teetering pile of waste. “Don’t you think—”
“Think what?” He looked her in the eye and popped open the can.
“Why don’t I make you a cup of coffee?”
“Coffee’s not going to fix what ails me, girl.” He chugged half the beer in one swallow and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “And don’t think my brain’s so addled you can sweet-talk me into your version of turning lemons into lemonade. I know my wife is dead, damn it! I may be drunk, but I’m not an idiot. Not yet anyway.”
“I don’t think you’re an idiot.” She reached deep for the social worker inside her. For the honesty and detachment that made her so good at her job. She gave the filth around her a pointed stare. “What I think is that this place should be hosed down by a Health Department SWAT team.”
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