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"Geneva?" Mrs. Barton asked. "You all right?"
She looked back at the counselor. "Sorry. Yeah, it's fine."
The woman again studied her father closely and then turned her brown eyes on the girl, who looked away.
"Is there anything you want to tell me?"
"Uhm . . . "
"What's the real story here?"
"I--"
It was one of those situations when the truth was going to come out no matter what. "Okay, look, Mrs. Barton, I'm sorry. I wasn't completely honest. My father's not a professor. He's been in prison. But he got released."
"So where have you been living?"
"On my own."
With no trace of judgment in her eyes the woman nodded. "Your mother?"
"Dead."
She frowned. "I'm sorry . . . . And is he going to take custody?"
"We haven't really talked about it. Anything he does he has to get it worked out with the court or something." She said this to buy time. Geneva had half formulated a p
lan for her father to come back, technically take custody, but she'd continue to live on her own. "For a few days I'm going to stay with Mr. Rhyme and Amelia, at their place."
The woman looked once more at her father, who was offering a faint smile toward the pair.
"This's pretty unusual."
Geneva said defiantly, "I won't go into a foster home. I won't lose everything I've been working for. I'll run away. I'll--"
"Whoa, slow up." The counselor smiled. "I don't think we need to make an issue of anything now. You've been through enough. We'll talk about it in a few days. Where're you going now?"
"To Mr. Rhyme's."
"I'll give you a ride."
Geneva gestured her father over. The man ambled up to the car, and the girl introduced them.
"Nice to meet you, ma'am. And thanks for looking out for Geneva."
"Come on, get in."
Geneva looked across the street. Keesh was still there.
She shouted, "I gotta go. I'll call you." She mimicked holding a phone to her ear.
Lakeesha nodded uncertainly, withdrew her hand from her purse.
Geneva climbed into the backseat, behind her father. A glance through the back window at Keesh's grim face.
Then Mrs. Barton pulled away from the curb and her father started up with another ridiculous history lesson, rambling on and on, you know I did a 'piece once 'bout the Collyer brothers? Homer and Langley. Lived at 128th and Fifth. They were recluses and the weirdest men ever lived. They were terrified of crime in Harlem and barricaded themselves in their apartment, set up booby traps, never threw a single thing out. One of 'em got crushed under a pile of newspapers he'd stacked up. When they died, police had to cart over a hundred tons of trash out of their place. He asked, "You ever hear about them?"
The counselor said she thought she had.
