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“Nobody else did.”
“No, but…but…Aw, hell. There’s no arguing with you when you think you’re right. In that respect you’re just like my brother was.” He’d spoken with both gruff annoyance and affection.
“Please promise me that from now on, when you want to set a wrong situation right, you’ll talk it over with me first. We’ll figure out a way to fix it that doesn’t involve you drawing blood. Promise?”
That was the second promise that Ledge had been called upon to make that day. He’d upheld his promise to Crystal never to reveal her secret. To an extent. He hadn’t told about Morg out loud. But he’d intimated enough that his uncle had read between the lines.
Although he and Ledge had never mentioned it again in all the years since, Henry must have reported the abuse to CPS, the cops, something, because when Morg had recovered enough to be released from the hospital, he’d left it manacled and in police custody.
Crystal and her mother were persuaded by the authorities to testify against him. He stood trial and was convicted. Only three months into his prison sentence, another inmate had done the world a favor by jamming a shiv into Morg’s left kidney, killing him.
Ledge could justify fudging a bit on his promise to Crystal, because it had served to liberate her and her mother from the degenerate. However, he’d flat broken the promise he had made his uncle Henry. After leaving the diner on that rainy Saturday morning, he should have gone straight to Henry and told him about Rusty’s mad plan to burglarize Welch’s. He hadn’t. That had been costly bad judgment, which he was still paying for.
To this day. To this moment.
Crystal covered his hand resting on her knee with her own. “Memory lane is a dangerous neighborhood, Ledge. Why don’t you stay out of it?”
“I wish I could. I can’t.”
“What’s happened? What’s the matter?”
He pulled his hand from beneath hers. “The night I got arrested for the second time, when all that weed was found in my car? Remember?”
Caution clouded her eyes. “What about it?”
“Was Rusty with you that night?”
Her expression became guarded. “That was twenty years ago.”
“I know exactly how long ago it was, Crystal. Please answer the fucking question.”
She hesitated, then left the sofa, went over to a bar cart, and uncapped a bottle of bourbon.
“I don’t want a drink.”
“It’s not for you, it’s for me.” She poured and carried the glass of neat whiskey over to him. “But you’ll probably need one, too.”
He took the glass from her but didn’t drink from it. She returned to the bar and poured another for herself. “Yes, Rusty came to my house that night. My old house. Mother was asleep. He knocked on my bedroom window and threatened to raise a ruckus that would wake the dead if I didn’t let him in.”
“What time was that?”
“Lord, Ledge, I don’t remember.”
“Try.”
“Why is it so important?”
“What time?”
“Late. One, one-thirty. Thereabout. And I couldn’t swear to that. I was too astonished by the condition he was in.”
“What condition?”
She gave him a withering look. “Like you don’t know.”
Matching her pique, he thumped his untouched drink onto the coffee table. “Please stop making me repeat my questions. Describe his condition.”
She took a quick sip of her whiskey. “He was all banged up. His jaw had a fist-sized bruise. Here.” She pressed her knuckles against her jawline in front of her ear. “His lower lip was split open. His left arm was black-and-blue, swollen twice its normal size. I assumed that it was broken. An assumption that was later confirmed. He was in a lot of pain. Anxious. Sweating profusely.”
