go home?”
He opened his mouth to say it, but it wasn’t so easygetting the words out. They clogged his chest, swelled in his throat and tasted bitter against the back of his tongue. “I don’t have a home.”
That lip of hers trembled again and she twisted her mouth in her effort to control it. When she spoke again, her voice was hoarse. “When can you stop hiding?”
“When he’s dead,” Jack told her.
“What about if he’s convicted?” she persisted.
Was she joking? Could anyone really be that naive? Was her middle name Pollyanna or something? “When he’s
dead.”
The information finally seemed to penetrate her stubborn brain, thank God. Nodding, she wiped her eyes. He, meanwhile, tried to pretend he didn’t see her crying, tried not to know that those precious tears were for him.
“I’m scared,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“You’re not?”
He shrugged. “I’m used to it.”
“Can you ever get used to this?”
Opening his mouth, he tried to activate his voice. It took a long time. “No.”
Another nod. They stared at each other for a couple beats, neither speaking, and then she did a snort-laugh thing that had no humor in it.
“Want to hear something sad, Jack?”
“Sure. Because I haven’t had enough sadness in my day yet.”
This time her laughter was the genuine article. Quick but genuine, then gone like a streaking comet. “When I was throwing my stuff in the bag, I kept thinking I should call to let them know I’m okay—”
“Who?”
“That’s the sad part.” She looked exhausted and empty suddenly, as tragic as the sole survivor of a nuclear holocaust. “There’s no one to call other than the office, and I’m on vacation anyway. If I’m gone, they’ll replace me by the end of the week. They won’t find a better lawyer than me, but I’m thinking they’ll round up someone who doesn’t piss everyone off like I do.”
“You’re irreplaceable.”
She stared at him and he gave himself a swift mental kick in the ass.
Because he hadn’t meant to say it and definitely hadn’t meant to say it like
that,
with all the enthusiasm and fervor of the president-elect taking the oath of office.
Stammering, he changed the subject. “W-what happened to your parents?”
“I don’t have parents.”
“Everyone has parents.”
“Forgive me.” Her lip curled in an ugly smile, an abomination. “I never knew the man who donated the sperm on my behalf, but he was one of my mother’s”—she swallowed hard—“clients.”
No. Oh, no.
“She was a prostitute. Before she died of AIDS.”
She hitched her chin up, waiting for his reaction, daring him to feel sorry for her, and he suppressed that urge only with great difficulty. Instead, because he knew she needed it, he shrugged and finally fished a pair of boxers out of his bag.
“Forgive me if I don’t pull out my violin. We’ve all got our hard-luck tales, don’t we? Maybe we should run a contest, see who wins.”
She glared, looking as though she could happily smash his face with the butt-ugly lamp on the night-stand. After a minute, she continued.
“While my mother was, uh,
busy,
her younger sister watched me. But then she got into drugs and I got into trouble at school. One of my teachers called protective services. They put me in the system—”
“The system?”
“Foster care.”
“Oh.”
“I was ten.”
“Oh,” he said again because there was nothing else to say.
“I went to Washington State on an academic scholarship. And then to the University of Washington for law school.”
What else? He’d expected nothing less. This was not a woman who could be held back and he was damn proud of her for it. “Good for you.”
“Do you have family, Jack?”
Family. Looking to the plaster-chipped ceiling for some kind of divine intervention, he wondered if this night could possibly get any worse and if he could have just a few more reminders of the things he’d lost and the things he’d
He opened his mouth to say it, but it wasn’t so easygetting the words out. They clogged his chest, swelled in his throat and tasted bitter against the back of his tongue. “I don’t have a home.”
That lip of hers trembled again and she twisted her mouth in her effort to control it. When she spoke again, her voice was hoarse. “When can you stop hiding?”
“When he’s dead,” Jack told her.
“What about if he’s convicted?” she persisted.
Was she joking? Could anyone really be that naive? Was her middle name Pollyanna or something? “When he’s
dead.”
The information finally seemed to penetrate her stubborn brain, thank God. Nodding, she wiped her eyes. He, meanwhile, tried to pretend he didn’t see her crying, tried not to know that those precious tears were for him.
“I’m scared,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“You’re not?”
He shrugged. “I’m used to it.”
“Can you ever get used to this?”
Opening his mouth, he tried to activate his voice. It took a long time. “No.”
Another nod. They stared at each other for a couple beats, neither speaking, and then she did a snort-laugh thing that had no humor in it.
“Want to hear something sad, Jack?”
“Sure. Because I haven’t had enough sadness in my day yet.”
This time her laughter was the genuine article. Quick but genuine, then gone like a streaking comet. “When I was throwing my stuff in the bag, I kept thinking I should call to let them know I’m okay—”
“Who?”
“That’s the sad part.” She looked exhausted and empty suddenly, as tragic as the sole survivor of a nuclear holocaust. “There’s no one to call other than the office, and I’m on vacation anyway. If I’m gone, they’ll replace me by the end of the week. They won’t find a better lawyer than me, but I’m thinking they’ll round up someone who doesn’t piss everyone off like I do.”
“You’re irreplaceable.”
She stared at him and he gave himself a swift mental kick in the ass.
Because he hadn’t meant to say it and definitely hadn’t meant to say it like
that,
with all the enthusiasm and fervor of the president-elect taking the oath of office.
Stammering, he changed the subject. “W-what happened to your parents?”
“I don’t have parents.”
“Everyone has parents.”
“Forgive me.” Her lip curled in an ugly smile, an abomination. “I never knew the man who donated the sperm on my behalf, but he was one of my mother’s”—she swallowed hard—“clients.”
No. Oh, no.
“She was a prostitute. Before she died of AIDS.”
She hitched her chin up, waiting for his reaction, daring him to feel sorry for her, and he suppressed that urge only with great difficulty. Instead, because he knew she needed it, he shrugged and finally fished a pair of boxers out of his bag.
“Forgive me if I don’t pull out my violin. We’ve all got our hard-luck tales, don’t we? Maybe we should run a contest, see who wins.”
She glared, looking as though she could happily smash his face with the butt-ugly lamp on the night-stand. After a minute, she continued.
“While my mother was, uh,
busy,
her younger sister watched me. But then she got into drugs and I got into trouble at school. One of my teachers called protective services. They put me in the system—”
“The system?”
“Foster care.”
“Oh.”
“I was ten.”
“Oh,” he said again because there was nothing else to say.
“I went to Washington State on an academic scholarship. And then to the University of Washington for law school.”
What else? He’d expected nothing less. This was not a woman who could be held back and he was damn proud of her for it. “Good for you.”
“Do you have family, Jack?”
Family. Looking to the plaster-chipped ceiling for some kind of divine intervention, he wondered if this night could possibly get any worse and if he could have just a few more reminders of the things he’d lost and the things he’d
Similar Books
