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“Hmph. It’s not like it’s the first time.”
I gnaw the flesh inside my lip. No, but I’ve never discussed this factoid with her or anyone else in my family. “Those were different.”
Her eyes widen at my uncharacteristic admission. Or at its plural nature?
“But it’s nothing to joke about, Rachel, and it isn’t a badge of honor, either.” Nor is it a point of shame. I’ve done what I had to when duty came calling, and that’s the best I can say about the many things I’ve done.
“But this guy was inyourapartment. So, yeah, that is different.”
My heart appreciates her defense, but theexpertssay the punk hadn’t stepped over the threshold yet. I say he stumbled backwards. I say there was a gun. They say I’m making it up. Given there was no weapon found on the body, I see where they’re coming from.
But Isawthe gun—or at least I saw him raise his arm like he had one. Sure, the lights were off and all I had to work with was the glow from the breezeway backlighting the guy in the doorway. The doorwayofmyhome.But I saw a glint of metal in his hand, I know I did.
Rachel is quiet, and my thoughts drift back to that night, my first night home after a two-week stint in the field, undercover in some of the worst parts of town. My single stop on the way home was for milk and cereal and a few things to tide me over until I could do a real shopping trip. I’ve rarely been more ready for a reprieve from the dark work I do, but that night, my nerves were frayed, and I was as worn down as I’ve ever been, desperately in need of a break.
It came too late.
“Marco?”
Rachel is watching me, and the television provides enough light to see that I’ve made sleep impossible for her. I reach over and squeeze her knee. Perhaps a little reassurance wouldn’t be a bad thing. “Hey, don’t look so grim. Prison is still a ways off. There’s always a chance I won’t be charged, but if I am, a trial is a long process. And I could get a jury that sees it my way.”
“But what if…how long…”
“Look, it could be as little as a probated sentence.”
“And as long as?”
Dang, she was supposed to let it go at that. I pat her knee. “That isn’t going to happen.”Huh.
She wants to push, but she’s also scared to death, so both of us let it go.
She scoots to the end of the sofa, swings her legs up, and plops her feet on my lap. “So, let’s talk about Annalise.”
Yeah, let’s not. I scowl at her pink toenails. Foot-rubbing is a thing in our family. I’m a master at it, or so I’m told by the women in the house, though Mom is the usual beneficiary. I remember, as a kid, how she limped home some evenings, worn out and aching from long hours in cheap shoes. The only thing that’s changed is that today she wears a brand name. The endless hours on her feet remain the same.
Rachel is a different story. “I’m not touching those dirty things.”
She wiggles her toes. “Oh, come on. You owe me.”
“How do you figure?”
“For harassing my boyfriend and scaring the…crap…out of him.”
I lift one eyebrow and draw down the other. I have no doubt she’s taming her tongue solely to be spared a lecture.
“We’ve been texting all night, you know.”
“Should have broken his fingers too, I see.”
She slugs me in the shoulder. “Stop it! I hate you, and Adolfo’s just as bad. I’m a big girl, you know.”
I rein in a snort. She’s a child, thinking and acting like a child. Can’t see the big red hurricane flag snapping in the breeze in front of her. “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, Rachel. Be smart. Graduate, go to college.”
“Of course I’m going to finish school. Why wouldn’t I?”
I use a single raised eyebrow to communicate what I don’t want to articulate. Usually, I’m blunt and tell it like it is, but this is my sister. My little, still-a-child-if-you-ask-me sister.
“Ughh. Please. I’m not going to get pregnant. I’m smart. Careful.”
