The Ninth Step by Barbara Taylor Sissel

know.
    “You’d do it.”
    “Back in the day, maybe, but there are so many kooks out there now. What if he’d been some kind of psycho?”
    “But he wasn’t. And anyway, a minute ago, you were sure Cotton was a kook for leaving flowers on the porch.”
    Kat leaned her back against the trunk of the tree. She picked at the coverlet, huffed a sigh. “You’re right. It’s good to be impulsive once in a while. I’m proud of you. Just tell me you took precautions.”
    Livie stared at Kat.
    “What?”
    “Nothing.” Livie gave her head a slight shake. “I was wondering how things are with Tim. He called me. Did I tell you?”
     

Chapter 8
     
    It was out in the open between them, that was the difference.
    They’d both brought it up to him.
    The accident.
    That thing he’d done that had wrecked their lives. And now he was forced to see it where he hadn’t really noticed before, the raw evidence of what they’d lost. Maybe it was only his mind putting it there, that terrible shadow in Nikki’s eyes, Wes’s eyes, but it was real as far as Cotton was concerned. It was there every time he looked at them. Nikki only grieved, but Wes was enraged. Wes wanted something done, lawfully or not. He was past the point of caring and who could blame him?  Not Cotton. He’d figured they’d tell him; he’d been waiting for it, but he hadn’t thought about how it would make a difference, make it matter more. Make it hurt in some way he couldn’t name. By Sunday he was in bad shape.
    Sundays were bad anyway. They were trouble. Crammed with hours that hung in front of him, vacant and loose. He wanted to sleep in, but he was up at first light. He couldn’t eat; his head was on fire, full of everything that was wrong. This fake life he was living, like he was some ordinary guy.
    He made himself do his chores, the usual Sunday stuff, laundry, grocery shopping. He repaired a leaky toilet for one of Gooney’s tenants. He sat on a bench in the park. A wife whisked crumbs from her husband’s lower lip. Their children’s laughter burst in the air around him like bright sparks. Every minute he thought he’d drink, but he fought it. He went home at nightfall and called Anita. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t hold it alone anymore.
    She wanted to know how he’d kept his composure, how he could look Wes in the eye at all. Cotton said it was weird.
    “The guy’s got no clue, no clue who I am and I’m standing there listening while he tells me what happened like I don’t know, like I’m just-- Then he says something about how ever since he lost his wife he’s got no faith in the cops, you know? Like with these break ins?--he’s not waiting around for the police to catch this gang, hell no. He borrowed a gun from a buddy, a Glock, he says, nine millimeter, and he knows how to use it.”
    “My god, Cotton, you can’t go back there.”
    “I just stood there like an idiot, Nita. He thinks I have a problem with him having the gun, that I don’t get it. And it’s scary because I know if it was me? if somebody had run Livie down? I’d kill the bastard with my bare hands if I had to. You just can’t imagine how bizarre this is. I mean it’s like I’m wishing Latimer would get what he wants and what he wants is me. Dead.” Cotton laughed but not as if it was funny. Except in a way it was. He went to the window and pushed aside the moldy drape that hung over the A/C unit, looked out at the dark brick face of the building next door. “Did I ever tell you how bad I hate being sober?”
    “Not more than a gazillion times, but, Cotton, be serious. You have to get out of there.”
    “Everything is so damned clear now, you know? So clear it hurts. Everything except what in the hell I should do about it.”
    “I just told you--”
    “If you could have seen his eyes, Nita. Latimer’s eyes. It’s gone past just losing someone he loved, you know? It’s like his pride is mixed up in it. Somebody took something from him, got