Justice. Faye Kellerman
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“You’ll call Cindy?”
“Yes.”
“And phone Jan, too,” Rina said. “Just to let her know you’re going.”
Decker looked pained. “Is that really necessary?”
“Peter, she’s Cindy’s mother. She’s worried sick about her.”
“I know, I know. She’s very angry I haven’t insisted that Cindy come home. As if she’s insisted. She just wants me to be the bad guy. Well, screw that! If she wants a—”
“Peter—”
“All right, all right. I’ll call Jan. I’ll even be civil.”
“A big stretch for you, dear?”
“A very big stretch for me, darlin’.”
2
The red Trans Am was following me. I’d known something was up from the look Chris had given me in orchestra. We’d been in the same class for over a year, and today’s stare had been a first. Only one reason why boys like him were interested in girls like me. Guess this one didn’t want to approach me in public.
The car slowed and honked. I stopped walking. Since parked vehicles were occupying the far right lane, the Trans Am was blocking traffic. The Jeep on Chris’s heel blasted its horn. He turned around, threw the impatient driver a dirty look, then sped up and pulled the car curbside a half block up. I jogged over. He rolled down the passenger window, told me to hop in.
“I’m not going straight home,” I said. “I’ve got to pick up my little sister.”
“Last I checked the car’s not a two-seater.” He waved me forward. “Come on.”
I opened the door and got inside, dumping my backpack on the floor. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Where are we going?”
“Just go straight.” My eyes were fixed on the front windshield.
Cars were bumper to bumper. Since the ’94 earthquake and the recent flooding by overzealous rain clouds, the West Valley had become a snarl at rush hour. Chris waited for a nonexistent opening. Headbanger music was screaming from his car stereo. It suddenly seemed to annoy him. He punched it off.
A Jetta stopped and waved Chris in.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he said to himself. To me, he said, “How far are we going?”
“’Bout two miles up.”
“And you walk that every day?”
“It’s good exercise.”
“What do you do when it rains?”
“I take an umbrella. Sometimes, if it’s convenient, my stepmom will let me have the car.”
Chris paused. “You live with your dad and stepmom?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s your mom?”
I hesitated. The question was way too personal, but I answered anyway. “She died when I was born.”
Chris waited a beat, then raised his brow. “Your dad’s a good Catholic, huh?”
I looked at him, stunned. His face revealed nothing.
“The unbaptized before the baptized.” He pulled a crucifix from under his T-shirt. “Takes one to know one.”
I didn’t answer. In this city of religious nothingness, it was rare to find an overt Catholic boy, let alone one who looked like Christ.
He said, “What about you? Are you a good Catholic girl?”
“Good enough to feel guilty about my mother’s death.”
“The nuns must have had a field day with you.”
“Mostly my father.”
“What’d he say?”
“It’s 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