

Redemption

By Christopher Suarez

Copyright 2020 Christopher Suarez

Smashwords Edition

CHAPTER ONE

So you never looked back, huh?

Can't say I blame you. Why the hell should you care what happened to us after the way we treated you? Still, if you're willing to listen I'd like to tell you. You'll never believe how I ended up here – wherever here is.

You don't mind?

Great. Well, for starters, the first thing I did when I realized you weren't breathing anymore was to run to tell Mom and Dad. Dad was sitting on the living room couch drinking a can of beer. I told him first.

"Dad, I think there's something wrong with Luanne," I said.

"There's something wrong with her all right," he responded, smiling like he thought it was all a big joke.

"No, I mean really wrong. I don't think she's breathing."

He didn't make any more clever remarks after that, but he didn't seem all that concerned either. Slowly rising to his feet, he put his beer down on the coffee table and casually headed for the basement. I followed him.

"What were you doing down there?" he asked as we went down the stairs. "I told you to stay away from her."

"I just wanted to check on her," I answered weakly.

Dad squatted next to you, watched your chest to see if it rose and fell, held a hand in front of your mouth to see if any breath came out, and finally checked one of your wrists for a pulse. Now he looked concerned.

"Go get your mother," he ordered. "Tell her to come down here. Then you and your brothers stay in your rooms until I say you can come out. Got it?"

"Yeah," I answered.

"Go."

I ran upstairs to Mom's art room and knocked on the door.

"Mom?"

"I'm painting!" Mom barked.

"I know, but Luanne's really hurt. Dad said to get you. He's in the basement with her."

"What do you mean she's really hurt?"

"I think she's stopped breathing."

"What?"

I opened the door and stepped inside. Mom was seated at her easel working on her latest watercolor painting, this one a painting of a crocus. "I said I think she's stopped breathing."

Mom put down her paintbrush and stood up. "What happened?" she asked.

I just stared at her. I couldn't believe she asked me that.

"Well?"

"You know what happened," I said.

"Oh come on," she replied, sounding exasperated. "He didn't hit her that hard."

"Yes he did."

Shaking her head, Mom headed downstairs. I followed her out into the hallway and saw Justin and Rory standing in the doorway to their room.

"What's going on?" Justin asked.

That question seemed just as senseless to me as Mom's.

"Well?"

"I went down to the basement to check on Luanne," I told him. "She looked really bad. I think she might be dead."

Justin, like Mom, found it hard to believe that Dad finally hit you too hard. "She's not dead."

"Her chest isn't moving," I said. "She's not breathing."

"Maybe she's taking very small breaths," Rory suggested.

"Even small breaths make a person's chest move."

"She's just sleeping," Justin said.

I thought of what you said to me right before you lost consciousness. "She thought I was Mom," I muttered, more to myself than to the boys.

"What?" Justin asked.

I couldn't bring myself to tell him. Instead I retreated to my room and sat on my bed brooding. The more I brooded, the more certain I was that you were dead. And the more certain I was that you were dead, the more scared I felt. Do you know what I did? I prayed for you. Can you believe it? For the first time in my life I prayed that you would be okay, that you would survive the way you did all the other times.

Not long after I finished praying, maybe ten minutes later, I heard footsteps on the stairs, and Mom telling Justin and Rory to go back inside their room. The footsteps grew closer, and a moment later Dad carried you into our room and put you on your bed. Mom entered right behind him. You looked even greyer and deader than you did in the basement.

"Go stay in your brothers' room," Mom ordered me, "and close the door."

I obeyed instantly. The door to Justin and Rory's room was open. They were standing just inside the threshold, trying to hear what was going on.

"Mom told me to stay with you," I said. "And she said to close the door."

"No, leave it open," Rory said.

"Mom said to close it." I squeezed past them, closing the door behind me.

"Shit Mara," Justin said. "I think you might be right about Luanne."

"Oh man, this is bad," Rory whispered. "Really bad."

We didn't talk much after that. We were afraid we might miss something if we did. But we still couldn't hear anything. Mom and Dad must have been whispering.

"I wonder what they're going to do," I finally said.

Neither Justin nor Rory offered any theories. Looking at them sitting on the edge of their beds, I was once again amazed at how strongly they resembled each other. Except for identical twins, all brothers have some facial differences. But Rory was like an eleven-year-old clone of his fifteen-year-old brother – a Justin "Mini Me". The two of them had the exact same heart-shaped faces, narrow delicate noses, and coarse black hair – all inherited from Dad. And the same full lips and almond eyes – inherited from Mom. And I wasn't all that different from them lookswise. I just had Dad's ordinary, thinner lips and Mom's fine hair.

But you --- with your round face and close set eyes and big nose. You were like a sibling from another planet. Was that the problem? Is that why Mom and Dad had it in for you? But why would that matter so much to them? You were definitely their kid. I remember Mom talking about how difficult your birth was. And Dad would never let you call him "Daddy" if you weren't his.

There was a loud thumping sound from our room, like someone kicking a door or pounding a dresser with his fist. The silence again.

"We shouldn't have lied," I said.

"We're going to be poor now," was Justin's response.

"What?"

"I mean, if she's dead and the doctors say it's because Dad beat her, Dad'll get arrested. Maybe Mom too. And they'll have to spend all their money on lawyers."

"Shit. We might have to go into foster care," Rory whined.

Going into foster care was an understandable thing to worry about, even at a time like that. But the family finances? I was just about to ask Justin what the hell was wrong with him when I suddenly realized that I had absolutely no right to judge him. Where was my sense of decency all the times Dad beat on you? That's when I should have had some humanity, not when you were dead or dying.

I heard more footsteps out in the hallway – hurried footsteps. And then the doorbell rang. We all moved as close to the door as we could to listen.

The footsteps faded down the stairs. There was a brief silence, and then multiple heavy footsteps, definitely belonging to more than one person, came back up. There was a loud burst of static, obviously from a cop's or paramedic's radio.

"Shit," Justin whispered. "The cops."

"Or maybe the paramedics," I said.

The footsteps passed the boys' room and kept going, heading for our room. The boys and I tried again to eavesdrop, but we still couldn't make out anything that was said. There was definitely a lot of talking going on though.

"Damn, I wish I could hear them," Justin hissed. Then the doorbell rang again. There was more up and down traffic, and another burst of radio static, followed by some definite police dispatcher jargon: "Six-three Adam, respond to a ten-thirty with a gun, Bergen Street and Avenue N."

"Now it's the cops," I said.

Rory looked on the verge of tears. "They're gonna get busted! We're screwed!"

That's when I first got it into my head that being placed in foster care would be a suitable punishment for all of us – especially me. And I told them so.

"It would serve us right if we got put in foster care," I said.

"Shut up!" Justin snapped.

There were more footsteps out in the hallway. A lot of footsteps.

"What hospital are you taking her to?" I finally heard Mom ask.

"Booth Community," a male paramedic answered. You were still alive! I couldn't believe it, considering how bad you looked. The paramedics must have revived you.

The footsteps faded down the stairs again.

"She's not dead!" I cried. "Thank God!"

The door opened suddenly. Mom stood there in the doorway. "Your father's gone to the hospital with your sister," she said calmly. I called your Aunt Carol. She'll be here in a little while. As soon as she gets here I'm going to the hospital too. You kids behave yourselves until I get back. Just stay up here in your rooms."

"Is Luanne going to be okay?" I asked.

"Never mind about your sister. Just behave yourself until I get back. And if your Aunt Carol asks you what happened, tell her I told you not to say anything, that I'll tell her the whole story when I get back."

Mom went downstairs. I did as I was told and went back to our room. The first thing I checked out was your bed. It didn't look disheveled at all, just slept on. I remembered reading somewhere that you can't do CPR on a person who's on a bed. The springs in the mattress make it impossible to compress a person's chest enough. The paramedics must have put you on the floor. I scanned the space in the middle of the room, the only place where they could have put you. There was no sign that any medical heroics had taken place. It looked the same as always.

The doorbell rang a third time. I went right to the top of the stairs. Justin and Rory were already there.

"Thanks for coming," Mom said.

"What happened?" Aunt Carol asked.

"I'll tell you everything when I get back. The kids are upstairs in their rooms. I told them to stay up there. Just leave them be."

"Okay," Aunt Carol sighed.

Mom left. Justin and Rory slipped back into their room. I crept back to ours and closed the door. The house suddenly seemed unbearably quiet. I turned on the radio just to kill the silence. It was still tuned to the oldies station, the one we were listening to that afternoon before we went downstairs to see what the boys were doing. "A World Without Love," by Peter and Gordon, was playing. It was right at the end, the final lyrics. "I don't care what they say / I won't stay in a world without love," Peter and Gordon sang three times.

All of a sudden I felt queasy.

Aunt Carol knocked on the door. "Mara?"

I hadn't even heard her approach. I shut off the radio. "Yeah?"

Aunt Carol opened the door. "Your mom wants you to stay in your room until she gets back."

"I know."

"I have no idea when that'll be, but don't stay up too late."

"I won't."

I hoped that would be it, that she would leave without asking me what happened, but no such luck.

"What happened?" she asked in the same way she had asked Mom, as if she knew damn well what happened. Despite her thinner face and constantly worn out look, there was no missing her resemblance to Mom. They had the same almond eyes and full lips. But if your physical difference from the rest of us really was the reason you got all the hatred, why didn't Aunt Carol hate you too? She never laid a hand on you when she babysat for us.

I sat down on my bed. "I'm not supposed to say. She'll tell you."

"Sure she will," Aunt Carol sighed again, turning and closing the door behind her.

Alone again, I turned the radio back on, kicked off my shoes, and stretched out on my bed. "Daydream Believer" was playing. Not the Monkees version, the Anne Murray version. The one you liked. I closed my eyes.

When I opened them again the radio was off and the room was dark. I tried to recall exactly when I fell asleep, but of course I couldn't. I looked at the clock on my night table. It was ten past midnight. Who turned off the radio and lights? Aunt Carol or Mom?

I got out of bed, went over to the door and opened it just enough to stick my head out into the hallway. The light in the hallway was off, but the lights downstairs were on. I listened for a few seconds but didn't hear anything. No voices, no television, nothing. Was Mom home? Was Aunt Carol still here?

I tiptoed over to the bannister. As soon as I reached it I heard the front door open and close.

"How is she?" Aunt Carol asked immediately.

Mom didn't answer right away.

"Lindsay? How is she?"

Another moment of hesitation. Then Mom said it.

'She's dead."

How did I react when I heard you were dead? I know this sounds terrible, but I just kept eavesdropping. After all, you looked so terrible when Dad carried you into our room that I pretty much knew you weren't going to make it. I actually felt more emotional in the basement when you mistook me for Mom than I did when I heard you were dead.

"Good Lord," Aunt Carol said. "What happened?"

"The little brat broke a lamp," Mom replied, "so Orville punished her." There wasn't a trace of remorse in her voice.

"He killed her over a lamp?"

"He didn't kill her."

"Lindsay, she's dead!"

"All he did was whip her. He's whipped her dozens of times and nothing ever happened."

"Well something certainly happened this time."

Even now I can't believe what Mom said next.

"The little shit couldn't even take a beating right."

Aunt Carol couldn't believe it either.

"Is that what you're going to tell the cops when they question you – that your daughter's dead because she couldn't take a beating right? And they're going to question you, you know. They might even question the kids."

Mom wasn't worried. "I'll tell them I was upstairs painting and didn't know what was going on. The kids will say the same thing."

"No one's going to believe you didn't know," Aunt Carol said.

"It only takes one person to make a hung jury, and that's why I want you to testify on Orville's behalf."

To her credit, Aunt Carol balked at first. "What can I possibly say on Orville's behalf? Nothing can justify what he did."

"Testify that Luanne was out of control. That when you babysat for us she would disobey and curse at you, and then hit you when you tried to discipline her. Testify that she was a violent and out of control kid."

"I'm not going to lie."

"Do you want me to go to jail?" Mom asked. "Because if Orville goes I'll probably go too, for not stopping him. What will happen to the boys and Mara?"

"Jesus," Aunt Carol muttered.

"Are you going to help me or not?"

It took Aunt Carol a long time to answer.

"Well?"

Finally she caved. "Yes Lindsay," she said. I'll help you."

After Aunt Carol promised to help Mom, I retreated to my room. I tried to fall asleep again, but couldn't. I just couldn't stop thinking about the moment when I would have to talk to the cops and the Child Services Investigators. I told myself I would tell the truth and finally do right by you. But even though Mom and Dad deserved to go to jail, the thought of pointing the finger at them, of ratting out my own parents, disgusted me. I didn't know if I could do it.

It was one o'clock in the morning when Mom came to get me. I know because just a few seconds earlier I gave up trying to sleep and checked my clock.

"Come downstairs," Mom said when she saw that I was awake. "I want to talk to you and your brothers."

"About Luanne?" I asked stupidly.

"Yes."

I followed her downstairs to the living room, where Justin and Rory were already seated on the couch. I sat down next to Rory. Mom sat in her usual armchair and got right to the point.

"Luanne died."

Justin didn't say anything. He just sat there looking pissed off – obviously worried about the loss of any inheritance he might have gotten one day. Rory, on the other hand, looked terrified. Not by the horror of the situation, I'm sure, but by the thought of a foster home future. "Has Dad been arrested?" he asked.

"He's being questioned by the police. That's what we have to talk about – what you're going to say if anyone asks you about Luanne."

"The cops are going to question us too?" Justin asked angrily.

"Maybe. If they do, if they or anyone else asks you where you were and what you were doing the night Luanne died – "

"You mean the night she was killed," I interrupted.

Mom ignored me. " – you say you were all upstairs in your rooms doing your homework and didn't see or hear anything. You didn't now Luanne was hurt until I let the paramedics in. And if anyone asks you if you ever saw your father hit her, you say no. Got it?"

"Got it," Justin said.

"Got it," Rory echoed.

I didn't respond. I couldn't. I couldn't even look Mom in the eye. Instead I looked down at the coffee table.

"Mara?"

"Even if we all say we were upstairs, nobody's going to believe we didn't know what was going on," I said finally, echoing Aunt Carol.

"It doesn't matter what anyone believes because there's no way anyone can prove that you knew. Your father and I don't want you kids involved in this, for your own good."

For our own good? I thought. Yeah, right.

"Well Mara?"

There was only one answer that she wanted to hear, so I gave it to her.

"Okay," I said.

CHAPTER TWO

The moment of truth came two days later, when two detectives came to the house to question me and the boys. Before that nobody asked me anything about what happened to you. Honest. None of the kids on the block, none of the adults, none of my classmates, none of my teachers. Nobody. And there were actually articles about you in the newspapers! They were very small articles – you weren't a big story yet – but they were still articles. All about how a nine-year-old girl died after "allegedly" being beaten by her father, and how the father was arrested and charged with manslaughter and child abuse. You'd think with publicity like that someone would have asked me about you – at least one of the kids on the block. But I guess they were afraid to. Maybe they thought if they asked me and I told them that I'd get beaten. Or maybe they just didn't want to put me on the spot. Whatever the reason, it wasn't until two days after your death, when I came home from school to find two detectives – a grey-haired man and a Hispanic woman – waiting for me in the living room with Mom and the boys, that I had to decide whether or not to tell the truth.

"Come here Mara," Mom ordered. She was sitting on the couch with Justin on one side and Rory on the other. The detectives were standing across from her, in front of the television.

"Mara, this is Detective Armstrong, and this is his partner, Detective Rivera," Mom said, gesturing first towards the male detective and then the female. "They want to ask you some questions about Luanne. Don't be afraid. Just tell them the truth."

The female detective did the talking, I guess because I was a girl. She had a kind face and was clearly trying her best not to intimidate me.

"Mara, were you home when your sister got hurt?"

"Yeah," I answered meekly.

"Did you see what happened?"

"No. I was upstairs in my room doing my homework."

"Did your father hit your sister?'

"I don't know. I was upstairs."

"Did you ever see your father hit your sister? Or your mother hit her?"

My throat tightened. I started to feel nauseous.

"Answer her honey," Mom coaxed, obviously expecting me to stick to the script.

All of a sudden, in my mind, I saw you looking up at me from the basement floor, calling me 'Mommy'. If you thought I was Mom, why the hell did you tell me you didn't feel well? Mom never gave a damn how you felt.

Detective Rivera took a step closer. "Mara?"

That's when I broke. "Yes!" I shouted. "I did see him hit her! Many times! He was always beating on her! And my mom let him!"

"That's a lie!" Mom yelled in response. "She's lying!"

The two detectives must have already made up their minds about how you died, and the role Mom played in your death, because they didn't seem at all surprised by my outburst.

"Sure she is," Detective Armstrong said sarcastically.

"But she's lying!" Mom insisted. "Yes my husband whipped her a few times, but he had no choice. She was out of control." She turned desperately to the boys. "Tell him."

The boys had Mom's back.

"Yeah Officer. Mara's lying," Justin said. "Everything she just said was a lie. Dad whipped Luanne a couple of times, but only when she acted up. Not all the time."

"Yeah, Rory piped.

"I'm not lying!" I shouted. "Take me to the station house! I'll say it on camera! And then I'll testify in court!"

That was all the detectives needed to hear.

"Mrs. James, I'm afraid you're going to have to come with us," Detective Armstrong told Mom. "Is there someone you can call to look after your children?"

"Why do I have to come with you?" Mom demanded.

"Because you're under arrest."

"What for?"

"Child neglect for starters. Depending on the district attorney, maybe even criminally negligent homicide. Do you have someone to call?"

"My sister," Mom said, sounding defeated.

"Call her."

Mom took her cell phone out of her pocket. "Why are you doing this?" she asked me as she dialed. "Why are you lying?"

"I'm not lying and you know it," I snapped.

"Go upstairs," she ordered me. "Boys, you too."

The boys and I glanced at the two detectives to see if it was okay. "Do as your mother said," Detective Rivera commanded.

I led the way upstairs. "You bitch!" Justin hissed as soon as we reached the upstairs hallway. Ignoring him, I went to my room, closed the door, and curled up on my bed, wondering how Aunt Carol would react to my betrayal.

Aunt Carol arrived even faster than she did the night you died. At least, it seemed she did. Once again, she knocked on my door as I brooded.

"Mara?"

I sat up. "Come in."

Aunt Carol opened the door but didn't enter. "Justin said you told the cops you'd testify against your mom and dad in court. Is that true?"

"Yeah," I said. "It is."

Aunt Carol looked more hurt than angry. "Why? Why did you do that?"

"Because I will. Is Mom still down there?"

"No. The cops took her to the stationhouse. And do you know what she asked me right before they put the cuffs on her?"

"No," I answered, even though I had a pretty good idea.

"She asked me to take care of you and your brothers – to ask your Uncle Simon to let you stay with us so you wouldn't have to go into foster care. I promised her I would."

"We deserve to go into foster care." I said.

"But you won't. And you know it. That's why it was so easy for you to turn on your mother."

That crack finally made the tears come. "It wasn't easy!" I shouted. "I hated to do it! But I had to – for Luanne!"

"Since when did you give a damn about your sister?" Aunt Carol asked.

Good question. I dried my eyes on the sleeves of my blouse. It was all I could do to keep from sobbing.

Aunt Carol turned to leave.

"It wasn't easy!" I shouted again.

"Yeah, right," Aunt Carol said, closing the door behind her.

Aunt Carol kept her promise to Mom. She asked Uncle Simon if the boys and I could live with them, and even though he had no use for Mom and Dad – or us kids – Uncle Simon said yes. We moved in two days later.

The first few days at Aunt Carol's were very awkward. There were a lot of problems. The first was the sleeping arrangement. I got off easy because Cousin Cynthia's room was big enough to put another bed in. But the tiny guest bedroom was only big enough for one bed. Of course Justin claimed it, so Rory was shut out. He had to sleep on a cot in the basement, which he really hated to do. He was convinced there were spiders down there, and you know how scared of spiders he's always been.

The second problem was Uncle Simon. He was very cold and unfriendly towards me and the boys. Pretty much the only time he ever spoke to us was when we did something that annoyed him, like leaving an unwashed dish in the sink or a jacket hanging on the back of the couch. Aunt Carol was a little friendlier but not nearly as friendly as she used to be. And she kept trying to convince me to retract the statement I made to the cops, something I refused to do.

The third problem, of course, was Justin and Rory. They did everything they could to get under my skin: jostling me at the dinner table so that I spilled something, hogging the bathroom when I wanted to use it, muttering "bitch" and "traitor" whenever I walked by.

The only bright spot, the only person who was good to me, was Cynthia. At first she was shy around me, no doubt because she'd heard about what happened to you. She would smile and say "Hey" whenever we passed each other, and tell me when dinner was ready, but that was it. But after a week or so she got over her shyness and started talking, asking me what TV shows and bands I liked, if I had any hobbies, if I ever had a boyfriend. She was small for eleven and skinny, and as the days passed I noticed that she never called anyone on her cell phone, or got calls, or had friends over. It was obvious that she was a social misfit. I should have returned her kindness, but instead I rejected it, answering her questions with as few words as possible or ignoring them completely, and saying no when she invited me to go to the mall with her. After a while she got the point and left me alone.

The evening before I made my videotaped statement to the cops, Aunt Carol tried one last time to convince me to retract my previous statement, or at least partially retract it.

"Okay," she said as she finished cooking dinner and I set the table, "if you insist on cooperating with them, at least leave your mother out of it. Tell them that she didn't know what was going on – that you only said she did because you were mad at her. Tell them she never hit Luanne. Blame it all on your father. You won't get in trouble."

Rather than say no right away and deal with her anger, I told her I'd think about it.

"Will you?"

I couldn't stand the pleading look on her face. "Yeah," I said coldly.

I couldn't sleep that night. I tried all my usual tricks for making myself fall asleep – counting for as long as I could, thinking about a turtle walking across a lawn, thinking about a baby sleeping – but nothing worked. When Aunt Carol came to wake me up the next morning, I felt tired.

"Did you decide what you're going to do?" she asked.

Jesus!

"I'll decide at the stationhouse," I snapped, postponing the moment of confrontation until the last possible moment.

No one said a single word to me during breakfast, not even Cynthia. They wouldn't even look at me – except for Justin, who glared at me between spoonfuls of oatmeal.

Uncle Simon had to go to work, so Aunt Carol had the honor of escorting me to the Sixty-Third Precinct stationhouse. Talk about awkward. Her silence lasted all the way until the moment she finished parking. That's when she finally turned to me and said "Putting your mother in jail won't bring Luanne back, and won't change the fact that you did nothing to help her."

Detective Rivera and Detective Armstrong, the two detectives who came to Aunt Carol's house to question me and the boys about what happened that night, were the same cops who videotaped my witness statement. I was glad. Having to tell my story to two new cops would have been even more stressful.

The juvenile room, the designated place in the stationhouse for questioning juveniles, looked more like a room designed for questioning murder suspects than children. A bare lightbulb hanging overhead was the only source of light. The only furniture was a rectangular wooden table and four chairs. The video camera, which was mounted on a tripod at one end of the table – and aimed at me – only made the room even more intimidating.

"Since you're recording this, will I still have to testify in court if my dad goes to trial?" I asked Detective Rivera.

"That depends," she answered as she sat down across from me. Detective Armstrong stood behind the camera, waiting to turn it on.

"On what?" Aunt Carol asked. She was sitting next to me.

"On whether or not she's declared capable of giving accurate testimony."

"Who decides that?"

"The court will appoint a child psychiatrist to evaluate her."

"Doesn't she have to be evaluated to do this?"

"No"

Aunt Carol sighed.

"Okay, are you ready?" Detective Rivera asked me.

"Yeah," I said.

"How about you?" she asked Aunt Carol, even though I was the one who was going to do all the talking."

"Yes, I'm ready." Aunt Carol replied grimly.

Detective Rivera signaled to her partner. "Okay Danny." Detective Armstrong turned on the camera. Detective Rivera made a brief introductory statement listing the date and time, the fact that my statement was being recorded in the Sixty-Third Precinct Juvenile Room, and the fact that she and her partner were present, as well as my temporary guardian Aunt Carol, who declined to have legal counsel present for me. "Will the witness please state her name and address."

I stated them, but gave them Aunt Carol's address, not ours.

"Were you present at 555 Tennyson Avenue on April 10, 2017?"

"Yeah."

"What happened that day?"

I told them. The truth. All of it. Aunt Carol remained silent until the moment Detective Rivera asked the big question, the only question she really gave a damn about.

"Did your mother know that your father was beating your sister?"

I didn't hesitate. "Yeah. She saw him drag her into the basement."

"Wait," Aunt Carol interrupted. "That's not true."

"We're taking your niece's statement, not yours," Detective Rivera growled. "If you wish to make your own statement you can make it after she finishes."

Aunt Carol wouldn't be silenced. "Fine. But I want to go on record right now as saying that what she just told you isn't true."

"Were you there that night?" Detective Rivera asked her.

"No."

"Then how do you know it's not true?"

"I know my sister."

No you don't, I thought. I was tempted to say it out loud, but stopped myself. I didn't want to come off as a brat. If I did the detectives might not believe me.

Detective Rivera focused on me again. "Did your mother do anything to stop your father from beating your sister?"

"No. She never did."

"Did she ever beat your sister herself?"

"No. She let Dad do all the beating. But she slapped her – many times."

"Did you ever tell anyone your parents were hitting your sister?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Yes, I thought. Why not? Why didn't I?

"I didn't want to get my parents in trouble."

"Did you ever tell your aunt?"

"No."

Detective Rivera sat back in her chair. "Is there anything else you'd like to tell us, Mara?"

I shook my head.

"Answer out loud please."

"No."

Detective Rivera added an official postscript to my statement – "Witness statement concluded at eleven thirty" – and then gave Aunt Carol a stony look. "Would you like to make a statement now?"

"No," Aunt Carol said quickly, taking me by the arm. "Let's go Mara."

After I gave my statement to the cops the hostility at Aunt Carol's house increased tremendously. Except for Cynthia my remaining "loved ones" all hated my guts, and I hated them back. I felt a special hatred towards Aunt Carol for telling the cops I was a liar. But the person I hated most of all was myself, for waiting until you were dead to finally defend you. Detective Rivera's questioning had driven the point home: I was just as responsible for your death as Dad was.

I expressed my self hatred by lashing out and destroying things and doing whatever I could to make myself even more despised than I already was. Justin was my first victim. One night, when he and Rory and I were watching DVDs in the living room, I "accidentally" dropped and stepped on one of his favorite horror movie DVDs – "Hostel" – as I took it out of the DVD player. Of course he knew I did it on purpose, and so did Rory, but I played innocent. They ran to Uncle Simon to complain, but he was already so sick of all of us that he refused to take sides. All he did was tell us to quiet down and behave ourselves or he'd let us all have it. (Funny how Justin was so fond of those torture porn movies like "Hostel" and "Saw" and all their sequels. I wonder if that had anything to do with why he took so much pleasure in hearing you get beaten.)

Justin swore revenge. "Payback is a bitch," he hissed as he dropped the fragments of the DVD into the kitchen garbage can. "I'll get you for this. You'll see." But unfortunately for him he couldn't destroy any of my possessions. All of my DVD's and stuffed animals and things were back home. I left them there on purpose. That was my first act of penance after you died. I figured it was only fair for me to do without the things you never had.

Next up was Rory. I placed his skateboard under the back wheels of Uncle Simon's car so that when he backed out of the driveway to go to work he ran over it. This time I did it when the boys weren't around, but they still figured out that I was the culprit. Rory wasted no time accusing me when Uncle Simon chewed him out for leaving his crap lying around.

"I never leave my board anywhere but in my room," he cried. "Mara must have put it there, for the same reason she stepped on Justin's DVD – just to be a bitch."

Uncle Simon turned to me. "Is that true?"

"No" I said.

Uncle Simon kept glaring at me and for a moment I thought he was actually going to do something, but instead he just walked away.

"You bitch!" Rory shouted, tears in his eyes.

"You're gonna get yours," Justin promised. "You can count on it."

"Whatever" I said, and retreated to the room I shared with Cynthia.

Since she had nothing to do with your death, and I'm pretty sure no part in Aunt Carol's attempt to get Mom off the hook, I decided not to mess with Cynthia. Instead, I chose Uncle Simon as my next victim. I didn't break any of his stuff right away though, because I knew that once I did he would realize that Justin and Rory had told him the truth about me, and I wanted the boys to go on sulking some more. So I gave Uncle Simon a two week grace period.

It was during those two weeks that I started ditching school. I don't know why. School was always a source of happiness for me – my friends, my A-plus average, the praise I got from my teachers. Maybe I felt I didn't deserve to be happy at school, since you never were. Remember how your classmates used to bully you, and how your teachers never did anything about it? Whatever the reason, I started playing hooky. I started by cutting my last period class and gradually worked my way up to ditching everything after lunch. Two factors helped me get away with it. First, thanks to city budget cuts, there were only two school safety officers for the entire school, and the one who was supposed to guard the main door, a paunchy middle-aged Asian man, was frequently off his post. (According to school gossip he had irritable bowel syndrome.) Second, my after lunch teachers weren't the most dedicated educators in the world. They never bothered to take attendance. In fact, my last period teacher, Mr. Danvers, a man in his sixties, actually told me and my classmates that he was just killing time until he retires.

Once out of the building I made my way to Hayes Park, which was only four blocks away from my school – a safe enough distance to travel without being stopped by a cop. In the park I stayed off the footpaths and kept to the wooded areas, where I just sat and spied on the park's day visitors – mostly retirees and stay-at-home moms pushing strollers. But wouldn't you know? One day I spotted a stray cat and followed it onto one of the footpaths, and a cop doing bicycle patrol rode by and busted me for truancy. He radioed for the truant van, and I was taken back to school and handed over to the principal, who immediately called Aunt Carol. (The day the boys and I moved in with her, Aunt Carol had the smarts to go to each of our schools and give the administrators her phone number, to use in case of emergencies.)

I made no effort to avoid Aunt Carol when I got home. Not that I could have. She was standing right there in the foyer when I opened the door.

"What do you have to say for yourself young lady?" she snarled as I hung up my jacket.

"Nothing," I answered calmly. "Nothing at all."

"Why did you play hooky today? You've always liked school."

"No reason. I just felt like it."

Aunt Carol got right up in my grille. What the hell are you up to?"

"What do you mean?" I replied innocently.

"You know damn well what I mean."

"No, I don't."

"Destroying your brothers' things, and now playing hooky. It's like . . . it's like you're deliberately trying to make me and your uncle angry."

"Now why would I want to do that?"

Aunt Carol knew why. She proved it by breaking eye contact with me and stepping back.

"Let's just stop, okay?"

"Stop what?"

"You know damn well what. Look, you did what you did for your sister, I did what I did for mine. Let's leave it at that and move on – for everyone's sake."

"Move on?"

"Yes."

"What about the trial? When Mom and Dad go to trial I'm going to testify against them. Are you gonna move on from that?"

"Yes, because I'm going to testify for them. We're both going to do what we think is right. We should respect each other for that – or at least forgive each other."

"I can't forgive you," I said. "I can't!" I turned and fled up the stairs.

"If your mom has to pay for what happened, then you should too," Aunt Carol called after me.

"I will," I shouted without looking back.

Aunt Carol wasn't in a talking mood after our confrontation, and she was the one who always started all the mealtime conversations, so dinner that evening was quieter than usual. Pretty much the only thing anyone said was "pass this" or "pass that". The only one who showed any willingness to be social was Cynthia, and she must have sensed something was wrong, because she waited until the meal was almost over before she finally spoke. When she did, she spoke to me.

"Do you want to go see 'Ocean Boy' this weekend Mara? It's showing at the multiplex." She was talking about a new movie that had come out starring Bobby Caulfield, that twelve-year-old pop singer turned actor. Remember him? Cynthia was obsessed with him.

"Sure."

That finally made Aunt Carol exercise her vocal cords. "Mara can't go anywhere this weekend. She's grounded until further notice."

Justin and Rory exchanged smirks but said nothing. Uncle Simon didn't react at all. He must have been in on my punishment.

"Er . . . okay," Cynthia said. She gave me a questioning look. I responded with a shrug. No one said anything until Aunt Carol began to clear the table for the desert dishes. Once again it was Cynthia who broke the silence. "What do you want for your birthday Mom?" she asked. "Another glass figurine?" Aunt Carol's birthday was in two weeks. She had a collection of glass figurines that she kept in a cabinet in the living room.

"Yes," Aunt Carol answered. "That would be great."

As soon as she said that, I knew two things for certain. First, that I was going to smash Aunt Carol's collection of glass figurines. Second, that she and Uncle Simon were going to react by kicking me out of their house and putting me in foster care.

Yes. I was going to pay.

"What did you do?" Cynthia asked me as soon as we reached the safety of our shared bedroom.

"Cut school."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Damn." Cynthia looked impressed. "Where'd you go?"

"Just to the park."

Our cousin sat down on the bed. "Why'd you do it?"

"I just wanted to be alone."

Cynthia nodded thoughtfully. "I feel that way a lot. Only I'd never have the nerve to ditch school. If I got caught Dad would – " She stopped, so embarrassed by what she almost said that she just sat there with her mouth open, unable to think of a different way to finish the sentence. I finished it for her.

"Kill you?" I asked.

Cynthia closed her mouth and swallowed. "Yeah," she said weakly.

To change the subject, and let her off the hook, I said "I better try to figure out what I missed at school today," and grabbed my school backpack off the floor.

"Yeah, and I better start doing my homework," Cynthia said quickly.

Even though I should have, I didn't lose any sleep over what I was going to do. And I didn't have to make any special plans to wake up either. I always wake up in the middle of the night – sometimes twice. So when I woke up at three AM, instead of turning over and going back to sleep I got up and tiptoed downstairs.

The glass fronted cabinet was in a corner of the living room next to a window. There were two dozen figurines in it, little colored glass animals about an inch tall. Not the expensive crystal kind you sometimes see in jewelry or watch stores – the cheaper kind that they sell in gift shops for about fifteen to twenty dollars. Aunt Carol didn't buy any of them for herself. Cynthia and Uncle Simon bought them for her as Christmas and birthday presents, so they definitely had emotional value to her. The cabinet doors had no lock. Anyone who wanted to could open them.

Even though I had no trouble going to sleep thinking about smashing the figurines, when it came time to actually do it I hesitated. It seemed like such a drastic, mean, cruel thing to do. But when I opened the cabinet and held one of the figurines – a tiny glass giraffe – in my hands, the fact that this beautiful thing belonged to someone who wanted to help one of the people who killed you filled me with rage. I dropped the glass giraffe on the bare wood floor and stepped on it. Then I did the same with a glass rabbit, a glass duck, a glass pig, until the entire menagerie was destroyed. Then, leaving the cabinet doors open, I calmly went back upstairs and went to sleep.

CHAPTER THREE

Aunt Carol woke me up the next morning by yanking my pillow out from under my head.

"Did you smash my figurines?" she asked. Her voice was calm but there were tears of rage in her eyes.

"Yes," I answered without hesitation.

Aunt Carol stormed out of the room.

I sat up and waited for Uncle Simon to make his entrance. What would he do? Hit me? Considering my situation, would he dare? Or would he just cut to the chase, curse me out, and call Child Services and ask them to take me away.

I waited, but Uncle Simon never showed up. After a few minutes though, I heard his voice. At first I couldn't make out what he was saying. But soon his voice grew louder. Much louder.

"Well what did you expect?" he shouted. "That's why I didn't want them here! I knew they were going to be a pain in the ass!"

I couldn't hear Aunt Carol's response to that. She must have spoke in a low voice to encourage him to do the same. But I heard Uncle Simon's response to her response. "You wanted them here, you call!" he yelled.

"Is something wrong?" Cynthia asked, slowly sitting up. Like me, she was a light sleeper. I'd been so busy eavesdropping I didn't notice her waking up.

"Yeah," I answered.

"What?"

"You'll find out."

Cynthia and I went down to breakfast together. As we passed the living room I saw that the cabinet doors were still open, but I couldn't see whether or not the remains of the figurines were still on the floor. The sofa was in the way.

The others were already eating when we entered the kitchen. Uncle Simon and the boys all gave me dirty looks but said nothing. I noticed, without surprise, that my place at the table was empty. No cereal bowl, no glass, no spoon. I went to the cupboard over the sink to get a bowl.

Cynthia started to sit in her usual place.

"Wait Cynthia," Aunt Carol said.

Cynthia stopped. "What?"

Aunt Carol tilted her head in my direction. "Did she tell you what she did?"

Cynthia gave me a puzzled look. "No."

"Show her," Aunt Carol ordered me.

I led Cynthia right to the cabinet. The smashed figurines were still on the floor, exactly where I had left them. Cynthia stared down at them, horrified. "You did this?" She asked, her voice wavering.

It was much harder to admit my guilt to her than to Aunt Carol, but I did. "Yeah."

"Why?"

Did she really not know? Had Aunt Carol actually managed to keep her in the dark about our conflicting cop testimonies? Apparently so. I decided to keep her in the dark too. "None of your business," I responded.

"I gave most of those figurines to Mom as gifts. I have a right to know. Why did you break them? Was it because she grounded you?"

"No."

"Why then?"

"None of your business," I repeated. I turned easily and headed back to the kitchen. Cynthia followed me, but several paces back, as if she didn't want to follow too closely behind such a despicable person.

When I re-entered the kitchen, Justin was leaning close to Aunt Carol, whispering something in her ear. As soon as he saw me he sat up straight and started eating his cereal again.

"Well?" Aunt Carol asked Cynthia icily. "What do you think of your cousin now?" The "now" at the end of her question told me that Cynthia must have spoke up for me in the past.

"It . . . it was a terrible thing to do," Cynthia stammered, not exactly answering her mother's question. "I don't know how anyone could do such a terrible thing."

"Tell her Mara," Aunt Carol demanded. "Tell her why you did it. I don't mind."

Caught off guard by Aunt Carol's dare, I just stood there, silent.

"Go on. If you're so convinced you have a right to judge and punish me, tell her why you think I deserved what you did to my figurines."

"You tell her," I said finally.

"No, you."

Cynthia looked from me to her mother, then back at me again. "Well?" she asked. "Tell me."

Uncle Simon put an end to the back and forth. "It doesn't concern you!" he barked. "Sit down and eat your breakfast!"

Cynthia did as she was told.

"It doesn't concern her," Uncle Simon told his wife, in a quieter but somehow even more intimidating tone.

I took a bowl out of the cupboard and a spoon out of the utensil drawer, sat down, and reached for the box of Cocoa Puffs on the table.

"You're on your own from now on Mara," Aunt Carol informed me. "I'm not driving you to school anymore. Get there on your own. Or don't get there. I don't care anymore."

In other words she was washing her hands of me. Which meant I was out of there and on my way to foster care.

I actually did go to school that morning. There didn't seem to be any point to denying myself school any longer now that I'd succeeded in pushing Aunt Carol and Uncle Simon past the breaking point.

None of my classmates commented on my truancy, or on my return to school under police escort the day before. They either hadn't noticed or didn't give a damn. Two of my teachers made remarks though. The first, my math teacher, a paunchy bald guy named Mr. Dennings, said "Wow. Mara's here. Now we're complete." The second, my social science teacher, Mrs. Fefferman, a short, frizzy-haired woman with glasses, said "Thanks for coming Mara." Both times I smiled defiantly. For some reason, the second time, I thought about you, and the lousy time you had in school. Did you ever force a smile to try to convince your classmates that you weren't hurt by their cruelty? I remember you telling me that you did everything you could to make friends at school, even giving away your lunch a few times, but nothing ever worked. You asked me to teach you how to make friends.

Do you remember what I said?

Sure you do.

I said "That's not something you can teach. It just happens. Good kids make friends."

Good kids make friends. I can't believe I actually said that to you.

"Is that you Mara?" Aunt Carol called out from the living room as soon as I got home from school.

"Yeah."

"Come in here."

I took off my backpack, dropped it on the floor, and went in.

Aunt Carol, looking very glum, was sitting on the couch. Next to her was Miss Reiley, my newly assigned Bureau of Child Services caseworker.

"Sit down," Aunt Carol commanded.

Rather than join them on the couch I sat in the armchair opposite the television.

"This is Miss Reiley," Aunt Carol informed me. "She works for the Bureau of Child Services."

"Hello Mara," Miss Reiley said warmly. She was a thin woman in her thirties, with a narrow face and long black hair tied in a ponytail.

"Hi," I muttered.

"So, your aunt tells me you've been having some problems lately. What's wrong?"

I shrugged.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"She won't obey me, she won't obey my husband, she destroys things," Aunt Carol said, presenting her case against me. "Last night she destroyed my collection of glass figurines – just dropped them on the floor and stomped on them. All of them. And she cuts school. Yesterday the truancy patrol found her in the park and took her back to school in a patrol car. It's nothing but trouble with her, twenty-four seven.

"What do you have to say about that Mara?" Miss Reiley asked.

"Nothing."

Aunt Carol sighed. "My husband and I have talked things over, and we both think that Mara will be better off in a foster home. We'll keep her brothers – they're no trouble. But we want you to find someplace else for Mara. Today."

"Today?"

"Yes."

Miss Reiley didn't seem at all surprised by Aunt Carol's request. "If you want we can arrange for Mara to get some counseling. Maybe that will help."

"I'm sure it will," Aunt Carol said. "But we still think it will be better for her in the long run if she lives somewhere else"

"Would you be willing to wait a few weeks to see if she responds to counseling?"

"No. I'm sorry, but our minds are made up."

"What about waiting until we find a family to place her with? It shouldn't take us long, and in the meantime – "

"No. I – we – want her out today."

Miss Reiley turned to me. "Mara, would you be willing to apologize to your aunt, and promise to behave better from now on? If you do maybe she'll change her mind."

"No she won't," I responded. "And I don't want her to."

"You don't?" Now Miss Reiley looked surprised.

"No."

"Why not?"

I locked eyes with Aunt Carol. "Ask her," I said.

I only packed a few clothes – just enough to fill an overnight bag. Aunt Carol promised to send the rest of my stuff later.

Justin and Rory came home in time to see me leave. I didn't say goodbye to them, and they didn't say goodbye to me. The only one who said goodbye – to Aunt Carol, and a bit too cheerfully in my opinion – was Miss Reiley.

The group home Miss Reiley drove me to was located in a once affluent but now run down neighborhood on the edge of town. It was a big three story house with two massive columns in front of it – a former mansion. The two upper floors were all bedrooms. The third floor was for girls, the second for boys. The first floor was for the staff. The place was run like a mini orphanage, but since only two dozen kids lived there, and since the staff – except for the cook and maintenance man – consisted almost entirely of young, hip, laid back people, it didn't feel like one.

I was only there for a week and kept to myself the whole time. I ignored the other kids and they ignored me. On my last day, the day before I was placed with my first foster family – The Wilsens – Miss Reiley stopped by and drove me to the Bureau of Child Services main office for the first of my city funded counseling sessions.

I was intimidated by my counselor, Mrs. Burgess, from the moment I first met her, and never stopped being intimidated by her. A huge, imposing, middle-aged black woman with greying hair, she wasn't a comforting, feel good type of counselor. Just the opposite. She was a confrontational, 'fess up kind of counselor, and she had a way of looking at me that made me feel like she could see right into my mind. Even her small, cramped office was intimidating. She kept a big stack of case folders on either side of her desk blotter, like she was a divine judge and the case folders were records of her assigned children's sins. And I wasn't the only one who was intimidated by her. When it came time for me to enter Mrs. Burgesss office, Miss Reiley wouldn't go in with me. She just said "Good luck kid," and started fooling around with her i-phone.

Mrs. Burgess didn't waste any time putting me on the spot. As soon as I walked into her office, before I even had a chance to sit down, she growled "Why the hell did you destroy your aunt's glass animals?"

The best way to play it cool would have been to sit down before answering, but I didn't have the nerve to put my butt in the one guest chair before being invited to. So I did the next best thing. I answered her question with a question.

"Who told you about that?"

"Who do you think? Your aunt. Why'd you do it?"

I wasn't willing to tell her. Not yet, anyway. "I don't know," I said.

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"Exactly what I said. I don't know."

"And why did you tell your caseworker that you didn't want to live with your aunt anymore?"

"Because I don't."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know much of anything do you?"

"I guess not."

"Sit down."

I sat down. Mrs. Burgess leaned forward in her chair resting her elbows on her desk blotter. "Nobody does anything without a reason," she said, her tone only a little softer. "Even animals act with a purpose. You're smarter than an animal, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

"So you know why you did what you did. Maybe you don't want to admit it to yourself, but you know. And before I'm through with you you're going to tell me."

I slumped in my chair. "I smashed my aunt's figurines because I was mad at her."

"Mad at her for what?"

"Mad at her for telling the cops I'm a liar."

"Why did she tell them you're a liar?"

"To protect my mother!" I shouted. "I told them the truth – that my dad beat my sister to death, and that Mom knew he was beating her but didn't do anything. But Aunt Carol wanted me to lie. She wanted me to say that Mom was upstairs in her room and didn't know what was going on."

Satisfied with that answer, Mrs. Burgess sat back in her chair. "Is that why you told your caseworker that you didn't want to live with your aunt anymore?"

"Yeah."

"Is that the only reason?"

"Yeah."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah I'm sure."

"The night your sister died, was that the first time your dad beat her?"

"Hell no."

"How many other times were there?"

"I can't even count."

"Did your mother ever try to stop him?"

"No. She hit her too."

"Did you?"

"No." I waited for another question. But it didn't come. She just gave me her x-ray look. "Look, what could I have done?" I asked.

"You tell me."

Yes, tell her, I thought. Tell her what you've told yourself so many times: that there were things you could have done. Sure, telling Aunt Carol would have been a dead end. But I could have tried calling the police or the child abuse hotline, or telling one of my teachers, or even standing between you and Dad and shielding you with my body. I doubt any of those things would have worked, but I could have at least tried them.

"Well?"

I couldn't bring myself to tell her just how guilty I felt, not during that first session. Rather than make her mad by saying "I don't know" again, I looked down at the floor.

Mrs. Burgess leaned forward in her chair again and said "You're not atoning for anything by getting yourself put in a foster home." It was the one and only time that she told me what was in my head, instead of making me tell her. The tactic worked. A lump formed in my throat, and I felt my eyes start to tear up. But then she overplayed her hand. "Tell your aunt you're sorry and promise to behave from now on. She'll take you back."

I took a deep breath. Swallowed. Blinked back the tears. "No," I said firmly. "I won't."

CHAPTER FOUR

The next day I was placed with my first foster family, The Wilsens. Mr. Wilsen was a security guard at a bank, Mrs. Wilsen was a part time receptionist. They had two sons, an eleven year old and a nine year old. They were what most people would call a typical blue collar family, except for the fact that they were willing to take in a foster kid. They were willing to do that because Mrs. Wilsen had been abandoned by her parents as a child and spent some time in an orphanage. She wanted to do something to help kids who had nowhere to go, and convinced her husband that he wanted to too.

My stay with the Wilsens lasted a month. They were kind to me, but just like with Cynthia, I refused to return their kindness. I barely spoke to Mr. and Mrs. Wilsen, ignored their sons completely, and refused to do my chores. They were patient and understanding at first, but by the end of the second week Mrs. Wilsen laid down the law. "Look," she said gently, taking me by the arm after dinner as soon as Mr. Wilsen and the two boys had left the kitchen, "I know you've had a hard time, but that's not my fault, and it's not Mr. Wilsen's fault, and it's not Lionel and Timmy's fault. We want to help you, but we can't if you're going to be hostile and unfriendly all the time. You have to meet us halfway, and that means behaving yourself and doing your chores – starting now. Help me load up the dishwasher."

I helped her, and helped her again the next night. I started talking to her and the rest of the family, and generally acted like I was getting with the program. But all the while I was waiting, waiting for the right moment to strike.

When I finally decided it was time to turn their kindness into hate, I couldn't have asked for an easier set up. Due to the Wilsen's lack of a spare bedroom I slept in their finished basement, just like Rory slept in Aunt Carol's. Not the whole basement, just a sectioned off part of it. On my side of the bamboo partitions were a cot, a battered old wooden dresser, a folding canvas chair, and a folding card table. (Mrs. Wilsen promised to get me a television set as soon as I was more "settled in".). On the other side were the washer and dryer and a set of floor to ceiling metal shelves stacked with household items, including Mr. Wilsen's booze supply – six bottles of vodka, three bottles of Tequila, two bottles of whiskey, and a bottle of something called Brandenjaeger. One night, during my usual three a.m. wake up moment,, I just got up and poured all the bottles into the small sink next to the washer. Then I recapped them, put them back exactly where they had been on the shelves, and went back to sleep.

The next morning I went to school the same as always. (Luckily, the Wilsens lived in our school district, so I didn't have to change schools.). When I came home, Mrs. Wilsen was waiting for me in the living room. Another living room ambush. "Did . . . did you pour out all those liquor bottles in the basement?" she asked hesitantly. She must have decided to take a little nip before dinner.

"Yeah," I answered calmly.

"Why?"

I had the perfect punk kid answer all ready for her. "Because I wanted to."

Shaking her head, she retreated to the kitchen. I went downstairs to my makeshift bedroom and tried unsuccessfully to take a nap. Had I done enough to get the boot again? I wasn't sure. Mrs. Wilsen didn't seem all that upset, but then again it wasn't her booze. I would have to wait until Mr. Wilsen came home to find out my fate.

It turned out I pinched the right nerve after all. Mr. Wilsen didn't come stomping down the stairs to chew me out. In fact, he didn't come down to the basement at all. But he looked really pissed off during dinner that evening. And after Mrs. Wilsen finished putting the food on the table, she apologized to me.

"I'm sorry we couldn't make you happy here Mara," she said sadly. "We wanted to help you, but I guess we just weren't up to the job. I called your caseworker and told her that things weren't working out. She said she's going to make other arrangements for you. Okay?"

I shrugged.

"In the meantime, please don't do anything else to hurt us. After all, we tried."

Hearing Mrs. Wilsen apologize to me because I was mean to her and her family made me feel like a piece of crap. But I couldn't weaken. As much as I wanted to promise her that I wouldn't do anything else, I couldn't do anything that might make her and her husband decide to forgive me and keep me. So I just shrugged again.

Four days later I was placed with my second foster family, the Diprendas. The Diprendas were an ultra-liberal, social minded, upper middle class family. They lived in a sitcom pretty, no crime neighborhood in the northern part of the city. Dr. Diprenda was a pathologist, like on that old TV show Quincy. Mrs. Diprenda was a former nurse turned watercolor artist. (A successful watercolor artist, not like Mom.). They had a sixteen-year-old biological daughter and, at the time I moved in with them, an eleven-year-old African American foster daughter. They took in foster kids, in Mrs. Diprenda's words, to "give back to the world community."

There's no point in going into detail about my life with them, because except for the far more comfortable setting and first rate neighborhood school (they lived in a different school district, so I had to transfer), it was an exact replay of my life with the Wilsens. I treated them the same way – their foster kid too – and they reacted by dumping me. Making them hate me was no trickier than it was with the Wilsens and Aunt Carol. I simply waited for a moment when I was alone in the house and yanked Mrs. Diprenda's watercolors out of their frames and ripped them up.

When they discovered what I'd done, the Diprendas, like Aunt Carol, couldn't wait to get rid of me. Unlike the Wilsens, who agreed to keep me around until I could be placed with another family, they wanted me out immediately, the world community be damned. They must have really made that clear to my caseworker, because Miss Reiley showed up the very next morning and told me to pack my things.

"You better knock off this crap Mara," she warned me as we drove back to the group home. "If you don't you're going to end up in a state run home for disturbed kids. Trust me, you don't want to go to one of those places."

Yes I do, I thought. That's why I'm pulling all this "crap" – so that I'll be sent to a place where I'll be made to pay.

"You hear me?"

"I hear you."

"You're not making up for anything by getting yourself sent to a state home," Mrs. Burgess told me after the Diprendas kicked me out. "If you really want to make amends you should behave yourself, go to school and graduate, and become a children's rights activist or a counselor – someone who helps abused kids."

'How will helping abused kids when I become an adult make up for the fact that I didn't help Luanne?"

"You can do it in Luanne's name. Then her life will be the reason that other children are saved."

"You mean her death will be the reason that other children are saved – the death that I didn't do anything to stop."

For once Mrs. Burgess didn't have a comeback, but we only had a few minutes left to our session by then, so she had an easy out. "We'll talk more about this next time," she said.

I stayed at the group home for a week, and then got placed with the Beekmans. The Beekmans, like the Wilsens, were a blue collar family. Mr. Beekman was a construction worker, Mrs. Beekman a homemaker. They had twin ten-year-old girls, one of whom had leukemia that was now in remission. According to Mrs. Beekman herself, that's why she and her husband decided to take in a foster kid – to show God their gratitude for their daughter's remission.

Again, I was cold and unfriendly towards my new foster family. But it was a lot harder to be a brat this time, because of the twins. Those two girls were such good kids. They were even better kids than Cynthia. They never argued, never teased each other, never turned on each other. The healthy one, Kim, helped the formerly sick one, Ruthie, catch up on all the schoolwork she missed, and even accompanied her to her doctor appointments for moral support. And Ruthie, in turn, frequently did Kim's chores for her, to make up for all the times Kim had to do hers. There was no resentment between them, even though Ruthie must have gotten the lion's share of parental attention when she was sick. Seeing the good example they set as people – not just as kids, but as people – made me feel even more shitty about myself, and made it even harder for me to do something to hurt them and their parents. Harder, but not impossible. I thought about something I could do that would make them dump me, and I did it.

The twins, like a lot of girls their age, had big crushes on all the current teen and pre-teen male pop singers. The walls of their bedroom – the room I shared with them – were covered with Tiger Beat and Teen World pin up posters. Their favorite singer, the one who had the most posters in the place of honor – the space on the wall between their beds – was Bobby Caulfield, the singer turned actor star of "Ocean Boy". One Friday afternoon, I waited until the twins went down to the kitchen for their usual afterschool snack and ripped all their posters off the wall and tore them into confetti, just like I did with Mrs. Diprenda's watercolors. Then I just sat on the bed and waited.

Even though the posters had no monetary value and could be replaced simply by buying a stack of teen idol magazines, the Beekmans reacted even more emotionally than Aunt Carol did about her figurines and the Diprendas did about Mrs. Diprenda's paintings. Don't get me wrong. I'm glad they went nuts. I wanted them to. Still, their reaction definitely didn't fit my crime.

The twins, devastated, came running to me sobbing, asking me why I did it, how could I do it? Okay, that I understand. They were only ten. But Mr. and Mrs. Beekman getting all teary-eyed as they picked up the torn poster fragments? That was a definite overreaction.

"Okay that's it," Mr. Beekman said hoarsely. He handed his fragments to his wife and then stood with his hands on his hips in a typical outraged parent pose. "You're out of here young lady." Then, to Mrs. Beekman, he added "We'll thank God with another kid." A practical man, that Mr. Beekman.

You can guess what happened after that. Mr. Beekman made the call, Miss Reiley came to fetch me the next day, and I did another stint in the group home – three weeks this time. That's how long it took Child Services to find another family that was willing to take me in.

Back at the group home, I played the loner again. It was even easier this time, since most of the kids from my previous stays had either been assigned to foster homes or returned to their parents. The few that remained already knew that trying to befriend me was a waste of time, and kept their distance. As for the new kids, they were too busy sizing up their new keepers to care about making friends. None of them approached me.

Surprisingly, Mrs. Burgess didn't have anything to say about my cruelty towards the Beekmans. After I confessed to it, she focused instead on my destruction of Aunt Carol's figurines.

"If your Aunt hadn't called you a liar, if she had backed you up with the cops and agreed to testify against your mother, would you still have smashed her figurines?"

"No," I answered quickly.

"You wouldn't have?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I wouldn't have had any reason to."

"What about the way she never spoke up for Luanne?"

I realized the point she was trying to make. If I was willing to give Aunt Carol a pass for waiting too long to do the right thing, I should be willing to give myself a pass. But I wasn't.

"Well?" Mrs. Burgess leaned forward in her chair, the way she always did when she had me on the ropes.

"No," I said. "I take it back. I still would have smashed them, because she still would have deserved it. All the people who helped kill Luanne deserve to be punished, no matter what."

Three days before I left the group home for the last time, Miss Reiley paid me a late afternoon visit. She took me for a walk around the block and told me what was in store for me. By then it was the beginning of summer. School was out. It was sunny. I thought of the previous summer, and how happy I was back then, even though I knew you weren't.

"You've been placed with another foster family," Miss Reiley told me as soon was we were out of earshot of Mr. Mason, the group home's huge, beer-bellied maintenance man, who was sitting on the front steps smoking a cigarette. "Your last."

"My last?" I asked, staring straight ahead as I walked. "Is that definite?"

"Definite."

"Who told you?"

"My supervisor. If you blow it this time you're going to a state run facility. Understand?"

"Yeah. I understand."

So I only had one more kind-hearted family to hurt, and then I could start doing my penance for real.

"Maybe that's what you want," Miss Reiley suggested. Her sudden insight immediately made me suspicious – and angry. Mrs. Burgess might have been paid by the city to counsel me, but she was still my counselor. She was supposed to keep everything I told her, and everything she figured out about me, a secret. "What makes you say that?" I asked.

Miss Reiley looked at me like I had two heads. "The way you keep doing everything you can to make your foster families give up on you, that's what. But if being sent to a state home is what you want, you have a problem."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean the foster family you've been placed with is a last resort family."

"A last resort family?"

"They take in kids other foster families reject. And from what I've been told, they've never given up on a foster kid. Not once."

Two days later I was delivered to the Carascos. Miss Reiley had to attend some kind of mandatory training course, so Mrs. King, an older caseworker with a short, butch haircut, did the honors.

The Carascos' house was a small two story clapboard house in one of the city's less affluent neighborhoods. Mrs. Carasco was sitting in a folding canvas chair on her front porch when we pulled up across the street. She was a short, heavyset, tough-looking Hispanic woman who looked to be in her forties.

"Here we are," Mrs. King said, putting the car in park and turning off the engine.

"Is that my new foster mom?" I asked.

"That's her."

We got out of the car. Sighing, I opened the rear passenger door and grabbed the two duffle bags containing my clothes.

"Hi," Mrs. King greeted Mrs. Carasco.

"Hi," my new foster mom responded. She remained seated as we crossed her tiny front yard, standing up only after we'd climbed the four steps of her porch.

"Well here she is," Mrs. King said. "Mara, this is Mrs. Carasco. Mrs. Carasco, Mara."

Mrs. Carasco looked me over with the wary expression adults always have when meeting bad reputation kids for the first time. "Hello Mara."

"Hi," I said glumly.

"Well I have to get back to the office," Mrs. King said. "I have a ton of paperwork to do."

"Can I get you anything before you go?" Mrs. Carasco asked. "Coffee or tea?"

"No thanks. I really have to get going. It was nice seeing you again."

"Same here."

Mrs. King turned to me. "Goodbye Mara. Remember what Miss Reiley told you."

"Bye," I muttered.

Mrs. King headed back to her car.

"Come in," Mrs. Carasco said, holding open her front door. She said it in a firm tone that made it sound more like a command than an invitation. I stepped inside.

The Carasco residence was small compared to the Diprendas' but slightly larger than the Wilsens' and the Beekmans'. It was pretty much the same size as our house, and furnished pretty much the same way too. There was only one way it stood out from all the other houses I'd stayed in: the place was spotless. And I mean spotless. There was no dust on the lamp shades, no rings on the coffee table, no stains or dark patches on the carpet. At first I thought it was just the living room that looked like something out of a magazine ad, that Mrs. Carasco had just tidied up that one room for Mrs. King's visit. But I soon found out that all the other rooms were just as clean, and that it wasn't my new foster mother who cleaned them.

Mrs. Carasco closed the door behind her. "We've already had lunch. Do you want anything?"

"No thanks," I answered honestly. Despite the fact that this was my fourth time meeting a new foster mother – by choice – I was still tense, and being tense always killed my appetite.

"Then I'll show you your room. Bring your things."

Mrs. Carasco led me upstairs, then down a small hallway to a tiny guest bedroom furnished with only a bed, a night table and lamp, a single dresser, and a wooden rocking chair. There was a radio on the dresser, but no TV and no computer. To the right of the hallway door was another door with a full length mirror on it – the closet door. Like the living room, this tiny bedroom was spotless.

"This is your room," Mrs. Carasco said. "The next one down the hall is my son's room, and the room at the end of the hall is mine. Mr. Carasco and I are both very light sleepers, so if I were you I'd do nothing but sleep after lights out. And I'd do nothing but what I tell you to do or give you permission to do during the day. What did your caseworker tell you about me and Mr. Carasco?"

I put the two duffle bags with my clothes in them on the bed. "She told me that you're last resort foster parents. That if you decide you don't want me around anymore I'll be sent to a state run home."

"Is that all?"

"No. She said you and Mr. Carasco have never quit on a foster kid."

"We haven't. And we're not about to start with you. Have I made myself clear?"

"Perfectly," I said.

"Good. My son Lavon is taking a karate lesson and Mr. Carasco is still at work, but your foster brother Ian is here. I'll introduce you."

Mrs. Carasco led me to the next bedroom down the hall, where a chubby, round-faced African American boy about my age was lying on his stomach on one of two beds, reading a magazine. She knocked on the open door. The boy sat up quickly.

"Ian, this is Mara, the girl I told you about," Mrs. Carasco said as we entered. "Mara, this is Ian Simms."

"Hi Mara," the boy said shyly.

"Hi," I responded.

"Ian's been with us for two months, so if you have any questions about how we do things around here, ask him. He's also the one who cleaned your bedroom and got it ready for you this morning."

"Thanks," I said. Ian nodded, looking embarrassed. A troubling thought occurred to me: what if the reason the Carascos took in foster kids was to use them as housekeepers? What if the house was spotless because Ian was forced to spend all his time cleaning?

Mrs. Carasco checked her watch. "Well, I have to start dinner," she said. "You two get to know each other. Like it or not you're going to be living together from now on. I'll call you when dinner's ready." She started for the door, then stopped. "Oh, one more thing Mara. Unless you're getting dressed or undressed, keep the door to your room open."

"Okay."

"Okay what?"

It took me a moment to figure out what she wanted me to say. "Okay Ma'am," I said finally.

Satisfied, Mrs. Carasco headed down to the kitchen.

"Yeah. When she gives an order she expects you to say 'Yes Ma'am'," Ian confirmed.

"Great," I said. I should have asked him for more details about life with the Carascos, but I didn't want to come off looking too friendly. Just like with the kids at the group home and the kids in my previous foster families, my plan was to interact with him as little as possible. "Well I gotta go unpack."

Ian didn't seem at all disappointed that I didn't want to talk. In fact, he seemed relieved. "Sure," he said, stretching out on his bed again. "We can talk later." He went back to reading his magazine.

I went back to my room and unpacked, then kicked off my sneakers and spent the next hour just lying on my bed, brooding. Eventually, despite all my worries, I dozed off. I didn't even hear Mrs. Carasco when she called everyone to dinner. It was Ian's voice that woke me up.

"Hey!" Wake up!"

Instantly alert, I opened my eyes and sat up. "What?"

"Dinner."

"Oh." I reached for my sneakers. Ian waited for me to put them on instead of going downstairs ahead of me – a gesture of friendship, I guess. Just like with the Beekman twins, I felt guilty in advance about how I was going to treat him.

Down in the kitchen, I got my first look at Mr. Carasco. He was a brawny but paunchy Hispanic man, only a few inches taller than his wife. I had no idea what he did for a living, but based on his looks, I assumed he was in one of those macho blue collar professions – construction worker, roofer, bricklayer, plumber. He looked me over with the same wary expression his wife had earlier on the front porch.

"Mara, this is my husband Mr. Carasco. Ted, this is Mara."

"Hello Mara," Mr. Carasco said. He had a deep, slightly raspy voice.

"Hi," I said, matching his gaze. Despite his bulk and the fact that he was a man, I found him less intimidating than his wife.

Mrs. Carasco glanced at her watch, no doubt checking on her son's punctuality. As if on cue, a moment later the kitchen door opened and a tall, muscular, good-looking boy of about sixteen entered. Oddly, he bore little resemblance to his short parents.

"Just in time," Mrs. Carasco said. "Mara, this is my son, Lavon. Lavon, this is Mara."

I've always hated the awkwardness of introductions. Luckily, this was the last member of the Carasco household I had to meet.

"Hi,' I said.

There was no mistaking the look of contempt on Lavon's face. "Hi," he grunted.

"Wash your hands," Mrs. Carasco ordered her son, as if he was six years old. Lavon washed his hands in the kitchen sink while his mother took the main course – a meatloaf – out of the oven and transferred it from a roasting pan to a serving plate. She placed it on the table. So far nobody had sat down. Even Mr. Carasco was still standing, behind a chair at the head of the table. Ian stood behind one of the side chairs, so I stood behind the one next to his. What the Hell? I thought. Was there an official sit down protocol here that everyone followed?

Sure enough, there was. When Lavon finished drying his hands he took his place opposite Ian but remained standing. Finally Mr. and Mrs. Carasco took their seats. Lavon and Ian followed. Supressing an urge to roll my eyes, I sat down last, making a mental note that defying this dinner table pecking order would be a good way to start alienating my new and hopefully last foster family.

Mr. and Mrs. Carasco bowed their heads to say grace. So did Lavon. But Ian didn't. I was glad he didn't, because there was no way in Hell I was going to say grace. After what happened to you at Mom and Dad's hands, I couldn't. I know our parents were just Christmas and Easter Christians, but still, they did what they did despite going to church twice a year. And I let them do it, despite going with them.

"Lord, thank you for the food that we're about to eat, and please keep our family safe," Mrs. Carasco prayed. "Amen."

"Amen," Mr. Carasco and Lavon echoed.

We started eating. Luckily, there wasn't a pecking order regarding serving yourself. Everybody reached for what they could and then asked for the rest to be passed, just like at our house.

The food, I have to admit, was great. Besides the meatloaf, there was mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, salad, gravy and rolls. It was all fantastic. We ate in silence for twenty minutes or so, a silence I found strange considering how much Mom and Dad and the boys used to talk during dinner. I kept waiting for Mrs. Carasco to ask me why I didn't say grace, but apparently she didn't care about my spirituality, because she didn't. Finally, after her husband served himself a second helping of meatloaf, my foster mom spoke. Not to me – to him.

"How was work today?"

"Same as always," Mr. Carasco answered. He took a gulp from his can of beer. "Everything OK here?"

"Fine."

"No hassles with the caseworker or anything?"

"Nope."

At that point I expected Mr. Carasco to grill me about my past, or at least give me the usual speech about how I was living in his house and had to obey his rules or else. But instead he went right back to eating. He obviously didn't take in foster kids to have someone to talk to. Neither did Mrs. Carasco. So why did they? My previous foster parents all told me why they took in kids. Would the Carascos?

Lavon pointed at the wicker bread basket. "Pass the rolls."

Ian passed him the basket.

"How was your karate class Lavon?" Mrs. Carasco asked.

"Great. Sensei Jake says I'm definitely ready to test for brown belt."

"Wonderful. When's the test?"

Lavon buttered a roll. "Sometime in August. He hasn't scheduled it yet."

"After brown belt comes black?" Mr. Carasco asked.

"Yeah. That's the big test."

"Remember, it's the sparring that's most important. Those kata you practice won't count for squat on the street – only your fighting skills."

"I'm the sparring champ," Lavon boasted. "None of the other students can touch me, only the instructors."

"If I were you, I'd focus on your karate and forget about that so-called music of yours," Mr. Carasco said, reaching for his beer again as Lavon took a bite of his roll.

"You know how important Lavon's music is to him," Mrs. Carasco admonished her husband.

"Dad, the only reason I'm doing the karate is because of my rapping. A rapper has to be able to fight."

"And what does that tell you about rap music fans?" Mr. Carasco asked. Unable to think of a response, Lavon just shrugged.

That was it as far as dinner conversation was concerned. The only talking after that came after desert (chocolate ice cream), when Mrs. Carasco ordered me and Ian to clear the table, rinse off the dishes, and put them in the dishwasher.

"Yes Ma'am," Ian said.

"Yes Ma'am," I echoed.

"And Mara, from now on I expect you to set the table. You only caught a break tonight because Ian volunteered to do it for you."

"Yes Ma'am."

"Thanks for setting the table and letting me sleep," I said to Ian as we cleared the table.

"Anytime," he responded.

When we finished cleaning up I went straight to my room. I wasn't comfortable enough with my new foster parents to sit in the living room with them and watch whatever it was they were watching on TV, and I wanted to keep my distance from them anyway. Ian went upstairs with me. He either wasn't in the mood for the Carasco's company either or he wanted to watch a different TV show. At least he had a TV in his room to watch a show on. I saw it earlier when Mrs. Carasco introduced me to him. All I had was a radio.

I spent the rest of the evening listening to classic rock on the oldies station, the same station we listened to at home. For the millionth time I considered updating my taste in music and listening to current hits, but the new songs still didn't do anything for me. They never did anything for you either, remember?

The DJ played more recent oldies that night, songs from the eighties, but they were good ones. Material Girl, Rock the Casbah, Endicott, Ashes to Ashes – all good songs. Unfortunately Thriller was only half finished when Mrs. Carasco appeared in the doorway.

"Lights out at eleven," she said. "Ian said you could shower first. You better go now.

Eleven o'clock? Did Lavon have the same bedtime? Sighing, I sat up and switched off the radio. "Yes Ma'am."

"You can close the door while you change."

"Great."

Mrs. Carasco went back downstairs. I closed the door and stripped out of my clothes and put on my bathrobe and flip flops. When I passed Lavon and Ian's room on my way to the bathroom Lavon was stretched out on his bed. He saw me and gave me a weird look.

That night, I had the first of the crazy nightmares I started to have about you. (I don't know why it took so long for me to start dreaming about you. You'd think it would have started the night you died)

I dreamt we were in our old bedroom back home, sitting on the edge of my bed, watching the news. You had a baby doll in your lap wrapped in a towel. The anchorwoman was talking about Mom and Dad, how Dad had been sentenced to twenty years in prison that morning for killing you, and Mom sentenced to five years for child neglect. She said your tragic death resulted in a lot of tough new anti-child abuse laws being passed. When the anchorwoman started to read the next news story, about a six-year-old boy who was found dead after wandering away from a picnic (a real life event I heard about on the radio that morning), I turned to you and said "See? Because of you children are going to be a lot safer now." And you said "Not because of me, because of Dad. Because of what he did to me." When you said that, I looked down at the doll in your lap. "Who gave you that doll?" I asked. "You never had a doll before." You said "Nobody." I asked "Is it yours?" And you said 'No. We belong to each other." And then you pulled back the towel so I could see the doll's face. It was all battered. Not damaged – designed and painted to look like a baby that had been severely beaten. It had a black eye and a swollen lip and painted blood flowing from its nose. "She has wisdom." you said.

That's when I woke up. I sat up and glanced around my tiny room, then at the clock on my night table. It was six in the morning. For the first time in I don't know how long, I'd actually slept through the night. Why? Because my subconscious wanted me to dream about you?

I tried to go back to sleep but I couldn't. Every time I closed my eyes I saw that doll's face in my mind. Finally I just gave up and rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. I was still staring an hour later when Mrs. Carasco knocked on my door and told me to get up.

CHAPTER FIVE

I dragged myself out of bed and headed for the bathroom, but before I could get to it Lavon burst out of his room, elbowed me aside, and slipped in ahead of me. Even though I had a good excuse for going back to bed for a while, I didn't see the point, so I stood out in the hallway until he came back out. (It took him twenty minutes to finish his morning routine – and he didn't even shower!)

When I finally got in the bathroom I took my time brushing my teeth and washing my face. I figured I had a legitimate excuse for being late for breakfast, so there was no need to hurry. But then Mrs. Carasco shouted up the stairs.

"Mara, you better get down here or else you're not eating!"

My new foster mother was definitely the type to deny a kid breakfast for being late. Rather than risk going hungry until lunch, I hurried back to my room and dressed as quickly as I could.

Everyone was already eating when I finally entered the kitchen.

"In this house we eat on time young lady," Mrs. Carasco said as I sat down at the table. "I'll let it slide this time, but the next time you're late you're not going to eat, understand?"

I poured some cornflakes into my bowl. "Yes Ma'am."

"And another thing: Just because school's out for the summer don't think you're going to sit around all day. You're going to have chores to do, starting today. After breakfast I want you and Ian to load the dishes into the dishwasher and turn it on, and then sweep the sidewalk out front."

I waited for Ian to acknowledge our foster mom's latest command, but his mouth was full of cereal.

"Yes Ma'am," I said again.

"Ian?"

Ian swallowed. "Yes, Ma'am."

Mrs. Carasco turned to Lavon. "What are you doing today?"

"Going to karate class. Then I'm going over to Miguel's to work on my music."

"Remember what I told you about that so-called music of yours," Mr. Carasco said.

"Dad, I told you – it's inspirational rap. I'm not going to rap anything that's going to embarrass you."

"Better not."

Finished eating, Mr. Carasco took one last sip of coffee, rose from his chair and headed for the living room. Mrs. Carasco followed him.

"Shit," Lavon grumbled, once again hurt by his father's low opinion of his music. Scowling, he turned to me. "So what's your tragic story?" he sneered.

"None of your business," I snapped.

"What do you mean 'None of your business'? This is my house."

"Doesn't mean I have to tell you everything. If you want to know my story ask your mom and dad. They know all about me." To make it even more clear I wasn't going to confide in him, I shoved a big spoonful of cereal in my mouth.

"They won't tell me," Lavon griped. "They had no problem telling me this loser's pathetic history –" He tilted his head towards Ian – "but for some reason they won't tell me yours."

"Too bad," I said through the cornflakes.

Lavon drank the last of his orange juice. "Yeah, well one thing I do know," he continued. "You must have been involved in some really heavy shit to get free counseling from Child Services. Even Ian here didn't qualify for that. Hey, has he told you his life story yet?"

I glanced at Ian but didn't answer.

Lavon punched Ian's shoulder in a not so playful manner. "Did you?"

"What's it to you?" Ian asked, rubbing his shoulder.

"You haven't, huh?"

"I don't want to know his story unless he wants me to." I said, hoping that Lavon would finally let the matter of our pasts drop. But he didn't.

"His alchy parents tried to kill each other over a bottle of vodka. Only one succeeded. Guess which one?"

"I told you, I don't want to know."

Mrs. Carasco returned from seeing her husband off to work. "What don't you want to know?" she asked me.

"Nothing," I muttered.

Lavon stood up. "I'm out of here. See you later Mom."

"You stay out of trouble, you hear?" Mrs. Carasco warned.

"I always stay out of trouble. You know that."

Lavon left. I picked up my still half-filled cereal bowl and spoon and carried them to the sink. Ian did the same.

Mrs. Carasco eyed my bowl. "You didn't finish your cereal."

"I'm not much of a breakfast eater."

"Then you shouldn't have taken so much. We don't waste food here."

"I thought I coiuld finish it, but I couldn't. Sorry." Holding the cereal back with a spoon, I drained off the milk, then dumped the mushy cornflakes in the garbage can.

"I have some errands to do," Mrs. Carasco said. "I'll be back at three to take you to your counseling."

"Okay."

"I want that sweeping done by then, understand?"

"Understand."

"Yes Ma'am," Ian added.

Mrs. Carasco left. Ian and I cleared the table and loaded up the dishwasher in silence, neither of us ready to question the other yet. When we finished with the dishes Ian went down to the basement and came back up with an old straw broom and one of those dustpans that's attached to a stick so you don't have to bend. "Do you want to sweep or hold the dustpan?" he asked.

"Hold the dustpan," I answered.

There really wasn't much to sweep up, just some leaves and an old styrofoam coffee cup. We both stayed in silent mode until Ian swept the cup into the dustpan. Then Ian confessed.

"It was my mom," he said suddenly.

I tipped the coffee cup into the small white plastic garbage bag we brought out with us. "What?"

"My mom won the fight – the fight with my dad for the bottle of vodka. She stabbed him and killed him."

"Oh"

This is going to sound terrible, but the first thing I thought after he told me that was: now he expects me to confide in him. And I just wasn't ready to do that yet.

"You didn't have to tell me that," I said.

Ian shrugged. "Well Lavon already told you most of it. I figured I may as well tell you the rest."

I had to say it. "Sorry, but I'm not gonna tell you my story. If that makes me a bitch then I'm a bitch."

"You don't have to tell me anything. Not unless you want to. Besides, what difference does anyone's story make?"

"No difference at all." I twisted the top of the plastic bag and secured it with a twist tie. "I think I have a pretty good idea already, but what kind of foster parents are the Carascos?"

"They're not as bad as some," Ian said, "as long as you do what they say. If you don't, you're going to get your ass beat."

"They've hit you?"

"No. But there used to be another kid living here – a girl named Josie. She had a real attitude problem. Didn't like to be told what to do. They let her have it."

"They both hit?"

"Just Mr. C. But Mrs. C is the one who hands down the sentence."

I remembered what Miss Reiley said – and what Mrs. Carasco herself said – about how the Carascos had never given up on a foster kid. "How come Josie's not here anymore?"

"Her mom got out of rehab and took her home." Ian leaned the broom against the front porch and picked up the plastic bag. "I get the feeling this isn't your first foster home."

"It's not. There were a few others."

"What happened with them?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

A group of neighborhood kids rounded the corner and came sauntering towards us. The oldest was a tall, lean, mean-looking boy of about sixteen. A beautiful, long-haired girl of about thirteen or fourteen walked behind him, followed by a short, skinny boy and an overweight boy, also about thirteen or fourteen. Trailing several paces behind all these teens, walking with her head down, was a scrawny girl of maybe eight or nine.

"Hi Connie!" Ian said as they passed. The beautiful girl gave him a withering glance. The tall boy sneered at him too, and then, when he noticed me looking at him, locked eyes with me. I immediately looked down and pretended to check the sidewalk for any leaves that Ian and I might have missed. Ian, on the other hand, kept watching the long-haired girl until she and her friends were halfway down the block.

"Friends of yours?" I asked.

"Just some kids from the neighborhood," Ian answered.

"They don't seem very friendly."

"They don't really know me. I've only been here two months. Connie's okay – when she's not with Sudsy."

"Sudsy – is that the big kid?"

"Yeah. Be careful of him."

"Why?"

"He's one of those kids who's always getting into trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Shoplifting, vandalism, fighting. You know the type."

Actually, I didn't. At least not personally. You remember the boys from our neighborhood. A lot of them were punks, but none of them were criminals.

"I guess that girl Connie likes bad boys," I said.

"I guess."

"Who's the little girl?"

"Sudsy's sister Pearl. The skinny boy is Maxo, the fat boy Jimmy." Ian grabbed the broom. "They're probably going to the park. Come on. Let's go with them."

"Can we? I mean, will that be okay with Mrs. C?"

"Sure, now that our work's done." He held out the bag of leaves. "Here. Put that in the garbage can. I'll put the broom and dust pan away."

I traded the dust pan for the bag of leaves and put the bag in the garbage can next to the porch. Then, while I waited for Ian to come back, I spied on Sudsy and his crew as they walked to the other end of the block. Pearl was still dragging along behind them, the same way you used to drag along behind me and the boys whenever we went anywhere together.

So much about Pearl reminded me of you. The way she always walked behind everyone else. The way she avoided looking people in the eye. The way she never spoke unless someone asked her a question. She reminded me of you so much that I was convinced, from almost that first moment I saw her, that she was being abused at home, the same way you were abused. And it didn't take long for me to see some proof.

As soon as Ian came back out we made our way to the local park, which was only two blocks away.

"I guess you go to the park a lot since it's so close," I said.

"Where else can I go?" Ian replied. "Except the mall, and the mall's no fun without money."

"Mrs. C never gives you any spending money?"

"Very rarely."

When we caught up with Sudsy and his entourage they were standing under a tree just off a cobblestone path that led to the park's new field house, which was still under construction. Sudsy was bending down and talking right into Pearl's face. Then all of a sudden, he drew his hand back and smacked her upside the head. Pearl winced but didn't cry or say anything. She just stood there with her head down.

"Did you see that?" I asked Ian.

"Yeah. It's not the first time I've seen him hit her."

Apparently it wasn't the first time Sudsy's crew saw him hit her either. None of them showed any sign of surprise or disapproval. In fact, Connie and the skinny boy Maxo both laughed. Pearl backed away and stood with her back to the tree.

Right away I thought about that time two years ago when Aunt Carol and Cousin Cynthia came to visit. We were all getting ready to eat lunch together. You sat down next to me and Dad smacked you on the back of the head and told you to get lost. You ran upstairs. When Aunt Carol asked Dad why he did that he said it was because he told you earlier that you couldn't eat with us because you ate like an animal. Aunt Carol and Cynthia looked uncomfortable but they ate anyway. We all ate, even though you weren't allowed to join us.

"I'm going to tell him off," I told Ian.

"Don't."

"I have to. He shouldn't have done that."

"It won't do any good. Sudsy won't care what you say. He doesn't care what anyone says."

"We'll see."

I stormed up to Sudsy and got right up in his face, the same way he got in Pearl's.

"I saw that!"

"Saw what?" Sudsy asked calmly, not at all intimidated. I have to admit, his cool manner unnerved me. Only really tough kids, kids who can kick ass, stay calm when people get in their faces.

I pointed at Pearl. "Saw you smack her."

"So?"

"So you shouldn't have done that. You could hurt her hitting her like that."

During our confrontation, Ian stood next to Connie, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye to gauge her reaction. She ignored him completely, her attention totally focused on Sudsy. It was obvious she had a crush on him.

"She deserved it," Sudsy said. "She always wanders off as soon as my back is turned. It's bad enough I have to let her hang with me. I don't want to have to look around for her all the time too."

Of course Connie came to Sudsy's defense. "He's right to get angry," she said. She had a surprisingly husky, adult voice for a kid. "She could get molested by a perv wandering off on her own."

"What business is it of yours, anyway?" Sudsy asked.

It was none of my business. I was just making it my business because Pearl reminded me so much of you. Rather than explain that to him though, I turned to Pearl. "Are you okay?"

"She's fine," her brother answered for her.

"I asked her."

Pearl responded to my question by walking over to her brother and standing behind him, as if I was the threat to her, not him.

"See?" Sudsy said, smirking.

"Mara was just concerned, that's all," Ian explained, not to Sudsy but to Connie, who still ignored him. "She . . . she doesn't like to see anyone get hit."

"Do you?" I asked angrily.

"No, but . . ." He shrugged. "I guess everything's okay now."

I looked from Ian to Pearl, then back at Sudsy, who gave me a more exaggerated, sarcastic shrug.

"I'm out of here," I growled. Furious at all of them, I started walking back to the Carasco's house. Suddenly I heard an ambulance siren, and then an ambulance rolled into the park down the wide main walkway. It stopped by the field house, where a small crowd had gathered. Two paramedics, one male, one female, got out. They opened the back of the ambulance and took out a folded portable wheelchair and an equipment bag.

Sudsy went to investigate. His crew followed him.

"Let's check it out," Ian suggested.

"You check it out," I snapped, and walked away.

As I walked home, I thought of that time you asked me to help you. We were stretched out on our beds watching television, and you asked me why Dad hated you so much."

"He doesn't hate you," I said, even though we both knew damn well that he did.

"Yes he does," you said. "You know he does. Mom too."

I just couldn't bring myself to admit the truth. Instead, I halfheartedly defended Dad. "You just make him mad," I said. "Like the time you spilled juice on the carpet. And the time you scratched the table."

"But you and Justin and Rory do things like that," you countered, "and he doesn't hit you. Why does he hit me?"

I wussed out completely. Remember? I told you to ask him. You said he'd get mad if you did. You asked me to ask him. I said, no, I don't want to. You said "Then ask Mom." Again I said non. That's when you finally put me on the spot. "Why don't you ever ask him to stop, Mara?" you whispered.

"It wouldn't do any good," I answered. "He wouldn't listen to me." Which was true. But that's not the only reason I never defended you. The other is that part of me honestly didn't think I should. Dad was always going on about how bad you were. Mom too. All I ever heard them say about you, from the day you were born, was that you were bad. How could I not think that you deserved it? They were our parents. And even though I probably shouldn't have, I loved them.

CHAPTER SIX

I made it back to my foster home just as Mrs. Carasco was pulling into the driveway. The first thing she did when she stepped out of the car was inspect the sidewalk.

"Clean enough?" I asked her, even though I knew it was.

She gave me a suspicious look. "Where were you just now?"

"The park."

"Where's Ian?"

"He's still there. You want me to get him?"

"No. Help me with these bags." She opened the trunk. There were three bags of groceries inside. I took two, Mrs. Carasco took the third. "When we get back from your counseling I want you and Ian to empty the dishwasher, okay?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

Mrs. Carasco closed the trunk. After we climbed the steps to the front door, she took a single key on a metal ring out of her purse and handed it to me. "That's your house key. Don't you dare lose it."

I put one of my bags down and took the key. "I won't," I promised. I opened the door with it, then slipped it into the back pocket of my jeans. As I picked up the bag again a police car sped down the street, heading towards the park – probably to the field house. I watched as it crossed the intersection.

"Let's go!" Mrs. Carasco snapped. "You want to be late for your counseling?"

Sighing, I followed her inside.

As I took my seat in Mrs. Burgess's office it occurred to me that Lavon was right about my weekly counseling sessions. Child Services never would have provided free counseling for me if I hadn't been involved in such a high profile, headline-making tragedy.

Mrs. Burgess got right down to business.

"What do you think of your new foster family?" she asked.

"They're okay," I muttered.

"Just okay?"

What else could a last resort foster family be? I thought. But of course I didn't say that. "Yeah. Just okay."

"You've met all of them now, right? Mr. Carasco, their son?"

"Yeah."

"How about the other foster child living there, Ian?"

"I met him too."

"Now are you going to make an effort to get along with them and make things work?"

I shrugged. "I'll try."

Mrs. Burgess gave me her x-ray stare. "You better," she said. Then, out of the blue, she asked "Do you ever have nightmares about Luanne?"

I answered truthfully. "Yeah, I had one last night."

"Tell me about it."

I told her all about the nightmare I had the previous night, the one with you and the beat up doll.

"Wow. That was some dream," Mrs. Burgess said. "What do you think Luanne meant when she said 'she has wisdom'?"

"That's what Dad always used to ask her before he beat her. 'Where is your wisdom?'"

Mrs. Burgess looked confused. "Where is your wisdom?"

"You know, like 'How could you do something so stupid?"'

"Why do you think she said the doll has wisdom?"

"To make me feel guilty," I answered quickly. And then it hit me. You didn't actually say anything. It was just a dream. I was the one who said something – to myself.

"Did it work?"

A lump started to form in my throat. I swallowed. "Yeah. It worked."

Still giving me her x-ray stare, Mrs. Burgess sat back in her chair and waited for me to say more. It was a tactic she used a lot – because it always worked.

"This morning the Carascos' son Lavon asked me what my story was," I told her. "You know – why I was in foster care. I told him it was none of his business."

"It's not."

"I know, but for a moment I was tempted to tell him."

"Why?"

"So that he'd taunt me about it – the same way he taunts Ian about his story."

"Why do you want to be taunted?" Mrs. Burgess asked.

"You know."

"No I don't know. Tell me."

"Because I deserve it."

Mrs. Burgess wasn't satisfied yet. She had one more question. "Tell me," she said. "Exactly when did you decide that Luanne was worth feeling guilty about? When she died? You certainly didn't give a damn about her when she was alive."

I couldn't bring myself to tell her. "I don't know," I lied.

"How can you not know?"

"I said I don't know." I looked at my watch. My hour was up. Thank God.

Mrs. Burgess took the hint. "Okay. We'll talk about that next time."

I stood up.

"Wait a minute." Mrs. Burgess opened one of the lower drawers of her desk and took out a small spiral notebook. "Here," she said, handing it to me.

"What's this for?" I asked, taking it reluctantly.

"I want you to keep a journal from now on."

"What the hell for?"

"Writing about your life every day will help you sort out your feelings."

"Says who?"

"Says me."

Clutching the notebook, I escaped into the waiting room, where Mrs. Carasco was waiting for me.

"How'd it go?" Mrs. Carasco asked me as we drove home. My three previous foster mothers always asked that same question when they drove me home from counseling, and I always gave them the same answer.

"Okay."

We drove the rest of the way in silence.

As soon as we stepped inside the house Mrs. Carasco reminded me and Ian to empty the dishwasher. Then she went to her room to change into more casual clothes.

"Do you like going to counseling?" Ian asked as we put the newly clean dishes and utensils back in the cupboard. I was still mad at him for not backing me up in the park, and didn't really feel like talking, but I answered him anyway.

"Whether I like it or not doesn't matter. I have to go."

"I think I'd like counseling – as long as the counselor was sympathetic. Some counselors are ball busters. Is yours sympathetic?"

"She's okay."

"Then you have a good deal."

Mrs. Carasco returned wearing jeans and a lavender blouse. "You two can relax until dinner. I'll call you when it's time to set the table Mara."

"Yes Ma'am," I said. Ian and I went into the living room. "You going back to the park?" I asked.

"Are you?"

I sat down on the couch. "Nah. I think I'll just hang out here for a while."

Ian sat down next to me. "Sounds good to me."

"After I left the park, did that boy, Sudsy, do anything else to his sister?"

"No. He just went back to ignoring her like he usually does."

I picked up the remote and turned on the television. An old move – 'North by Northwest' – came on. Cary Grant was being chased down a deserted highway by a low flying airplane. He hit the dirt just in time to keep from being decapitated by the plane's landing gear. I switched to another channel. A giant octopus menaced a tiny submarine.

"I'm not making excuses for him," Ian said, "but no kid his age wants to spend all day with his little sister. That must suck. His parents shouldn't make him."

"It's not her fault his parents make him." I changed the channel again. This time I got that stupid commercial with the singing septic tank.

"No. I guess not. Uh, we're not allowed to channel surf like that. Mr. Carasco thinks it wears down the remote. Check the newspaper listing.

The newspaper was right in front of me on the coffee table. I reached for it, but as soon as I did the front door opened and Lavon came in carrying his gym bag. He dropped the bag on the floor near the stairs, walked right over to me and, without a word, snatched the remote from my hand and changed the channel, this time to an ultimate fighting match. Two lean, muscular men with washboard abs and matching crew cuts wrestled on the floor of a fenced-in, eight-sided cage.

"I'll be right back," Lavon said. He put the remote on the coffee table and disappeared into the kitchen, no doubt to get a pre-dinner snack. I stood up.

"There's a TV in our room," Ian said. "I don't think Lavon wants you in there, but you can ask him."

"Forget it," I said. I retreated to my bedroom and spent the remaining time before dinner starting the journal Mrs. Burgess told me to keep. It wasn't the first time I started a journal. I tried to keep one twice before, once when I was nine and again when I was eleven. Both tines I quit after two weeks. It seemed like such a chore, writing about my life every day, almost like homework.

Sighing, I started this new journal with a brief introductory paragraph – my name, how old I was, where I lived, and how I was only keeping a journal because I was ordered to by my free Child Services counselor – a counselor I had because my dad killed my sister. (More about that later, I promised.) Then I wrote about everything that happened to me that particular day: eating my first breakfast with the Carascos, sweeping the sidewalk with Ian, going to the park and seeing Pearl get smacked by her brother, coming home and going to counseling. The last thing I wrote was that Pearl reminded me of you.

"How'd it go with that counselor?" Mr. Carasco asked his wife as we ate dinner that night, instead of asking me. "Did she have anything to say to you?"

"No. We just exchanged hellos," Mrs. Carasco replied. "I don't think she's supposed to say anything to me – just to Mara."

"Whatever," Mr. Carasco snorted. "As long as I'm not the one paying her."

Again dinner was really good. Pot roast, baked potatoes, green beans – all great. Mrs. Carasco was a much better cook than any of my previous foster mothers. She was even better than Aunt Carol. I took a second helping of pot roast.

"You know, a little girl was badly hurt in the park today," Mrs. Carasco said. "Lucy from down the block told me."

"What happened to her?" her husband asked.

"The cops aren't sure. All they know is that her throat was injured."

"Like that boy?" Lavon asked, referring to Bryce Hellstrom, that six-year-old boy I told you about, the one who wandered away from a family picnic in the park and was later found dead in a driveway between two nearby houses. The doctors said he died from a crushed larynx.

Mrs. Carasco reached for the gravy boat and poured gravy on her pot roast. "Yeah. Strange, huh?"

"Didn't anyone see what happened?" Mr. Carasco asked.

"No. Apparently she was alone when she got hurt. They found her behind some shrubs near the new field house."

"How old?"

"Six."

"Six? What the hell was she doing walking around alone?"

"Who knows. Maybe she just wandered off, like that boy." Mrs. Carasco turned to me and Ian. "You two were in the park today. Did you see a little girl walking around by herself?"

"No," Ian said.

"No," I echoed. "But I wasn't there that long."

"Maybe some perv is going around choking kids," Lavon suggested through a mouthful of potatoes.

For some reason, as soon as he said that I thought of that punk kid Sudsy, and the way he smacked his little sister Pearl.

I still didn't feel comfortable enough with the Carascos to sit in the living room with them watching television, so after dinner I went back up to my room and listened to my radio.

I guess it was all the talk during dinner about kids getting injured and pervs choking kids, but I ended up thinking about you, and how badly you were victimized by Dad. I asked myself the same question you asked me once: why did Mom and Dad hate you so much? What was it about you they despised? Like you said, you never did anything that the boys and I didn't do. In fact, out of the four of us, you were probably the best behaved. So why were you singled out for all the punishment? You weren't the only girl, so it wasn't a daughter hating thing. Your grades, despite all the stress you were under all the time, were good, so it wasn't a grade thing. And you were only a little smaller than I was, so it wasn't a pick-on-the-smallest-kid thing. Could Mom and Dad have really hated you just because you looked a little different than the rest of us?

As I considered – and rejected – all the possible reasons for Mom and Dad's cruelty towards you, it occurred to me that I knew nothing about their upbringing. It wasn't my fault. They hardly ever spoke about it. All I ever heard Dad say about his parents was that his dad was a "real man" who "took care of business" both at work and at home, and his mom was a housewife who let his dad "do what he had to do". All Mom ever said about hers was that her dad abandoned the family soon after Aunt Carol was born and didn't provide a cent of child support, so her mom had to put her and Aunt Carol in day care and go to work as a waitress to support them. "She did whatever she had to do to provide for us," Mom told me once, "and she made sure we knew it." I wondered: Did "making sure they knew it" have anything to do with hitting? Did "taking care of business at home"? But even if that was the case, even if Mom and Dad hit you because they got hit themselves as kids, that didn't explain why they singled you out, why they never hit me or Justin or Rory.

I had already showered and undressed for bed when Mrs. Carasco showed up to tell me lights out. "Good. You're getting with the program," she said.

"Yes Ma'am," I responded.

Even though she thought I was getting with the program, my foster mother lingered by the door. "Have you told Lavon anything about yourself yet?"

"No."

"Good. It's probably best that you don't."

"Why?" I asked.

"Sometimes teenage boys can be cruel. What about Ian?"

"I haven't told him anything either. And I'm not going to."

"Good," Mrs. Carasco said again. "Well, good night."

"Good night."

Mrs. Carasco left. I turned off the lamp on my night table and climbed into bed.

That night I had another nightmare. A real doozy.

I dreamt we were back home. It was dinner time. I was sitting at the table with Mom, Dad, and the boys. You were sitting on the floor the way Dad sometimes made you, leaning your head against the refrigerator. There was a big bruise on your cheek.

I looked down at my plate. The dinner was the same one I just had that night at the Carascos' – pot roast, baked potatoes, green beans. Mom, Dad, and the boys were all eating – Dad and the boys quickly and noisily, the way they always did. Mom slowly and quietly. But I couldn't even touch the food. I couldn't because you couldn't. Dad wouldn't let you eat.

I sat back and pushed my plate away.

"Eat your dinner Mara," Mom ordered.

"No Mom," I replied. "Not unless Luanne can eat."

"I said eat your dinner."

Dad looked over his shoulder at you. "Did you really think I would let you eat tonight?" he asked, smirking.

You looked down at the floor.

"Where is your wisdom?"

I stood up and grabbed my plate and utensils. "She can have my dinner," I said angrily. I went over to you and offered you my plate, but you took one look at it and immediately cringed and turned away.

"It's okay," I said. "Go ahead."

You shook your head vigorously and pushed yourself back into the space between the refrigerator and the wall.

I looked down at my plate. The food was now rotten and crawling with maggots.

"Where is your wisdom?" Dad asked again. But was he talking to you or to me?

That's when I woke up. I was so disoriented by the nightmare that it took me a moment to remember where I was. When I finally did I made a mental note to write about the dream in my journal. Then I curled up and tried – unsuccessfully – to go back to sleep.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The next morning I went grocery shopping with Mrs. Carasco while Ian stayed home and dusted and vacuumed the living room. I would have preferred to be the one who stayed home but I didn't complain. I didn't think Ian wanted to go shopping either.

The minimart was only two blocks from the Carascos' house. We were there in minutes. As I followed my foster mom up and down the aisles I remembered how, when I was your age, I used to like grocery shopping with Mom. But then Dad started denying you dinner every now and then. (How old were you the first time he did that? Five? Six?). Once he started doing that I didn't enjoy shopping anymore. Watching Mom put the food in the cart made me wonder if you were going to get any that night.

"Go to the next aisle and get four rolls of paper towels – whatever's cheapest," Mrs. Carasco ordered.

I went over to the next aisle, found the paper towel section and started to compare prices. As I did a petite, tense-looking woman entered the aisle from the other end, pushing a half-filled cart. Dragging along behind her, looking even more glum than she did the day before in the park, was Pearl. The petite woman, I assumed, was her mother.

I moved a few feet closer to them, hoping that Pearl would look up for once and notice me. Surprisingly, she did. I gave her a nod. She responded by looking down at the floor. There was a large, oddly-shaped bruise on her forearm. It looked just like the one you ended up with that time Dad grabbed you by the arm and yanked you out of your chair at dinner.

Pearl's mother grabbed a pack of paper napkins from one of the shelves, put it in her cart, and moved further down the aisle. I grabbed four rolls of the cheapest brand of paper towel and returned to Mrs. Carasco.

"You checked the prices?" my foster mom asked as I handed her the towels. I nodded. She put the four rolls in her cart.

"How long have you lived in this neighborhood?" I asked her.

"Twenty years. Ever since I married Mr. Carasco." She pushed the cart a little further down the aisle and stopped alongside a selection of tinned sardines.

"I guess you know all about your neighbors."

"What do you mean?"

"You know – what they do, who's doing okay, who has problems . . . "

Mrs. Carasco selected three tins of sardines. "Mr. Carasco and I mind our own business. I suggest you do the same."

When we got home Ian was nowhere to be seen. "Ian?" Mrs. Carasco called out. No answer. She inspected the living room, looking for any trace of dust or dirt that he might have missed.

"He must have went to the park," I said. "Can I join him?"

Mrs. Carasco lifted the edges of a doily under one of the end table lamps. "Help me put the groceries away first," she replied, apparently satisfied with Ian's work.

I helped her. There weren't that many groceries, just enough to fill four shopping bags. It shouldn't have taken us more than a few minutes to put them away. Unfortunately, because I wanted to get to the park as soon as possible, I screwed up. At one point Mrs. Carasco handed me a bottle of vinegar and told me to put it on the second highest shelf in the cupboard. "Use the step stool over there in the corner if you can't reach it," she said.

"I can do it," I replied immediately, not wanting to bother with the step stool. I stood on tiptoe and tried to put the bottle on the shelf, but I couldn't push it in all the way. About a third of the bottle still protruded over the edge. When I tried to move a smaller bottle of honey next to it to make room, my hand accidentally brushed the bottle of vinegar – just enough to edge it off the shelf. I tried to catch it but I wasn't quick enough. It fell and shattered on the sink counter, with most of the vinegar splashing onto the floor.

"Now what did I tell you?" Mrs. Carasco shouted.

"Sorry," I said.

"Forget about the park! Clean up that mess!"

"Okay, okay!"

The four rolls of cheap paper towels were still in their shopping bag. Mrs. Carasco grabbed one and tossed it to me. "Use that to soak it up. Squeeze the vinegar out into the toilet, then mop the floor."

"Yes, Ma'am."

I tore the plastic wrapping off the roll, unrolled about a third of the towels, and spread them out on the floor and counter. Then I opened the small cabinet under the sink and took out the pail.

"The floor cleaner is down there too. The floor needed cleaning anyway. You may as well do the whole thing while you're at it."

It was all l could do to keep from cursing. I grabbed the bottle of floor cleaner and closed the cabinet.

"There are two mops in the basement. If Ian gets back before you're done tell him I said to help you. I'm going upstairs to take a nap."

"Yes Ma'am."

Mrs. Carasco went upstairs. I squeezed all the soaked paper towels over the pail, then threw the towels in the garbage and poured the vinegar into the toilet. Then I put the pail in the sink and turned on the faucet. I started to swish the water around to rinse the remaining traces of vinegar off the sides, but then stopped. Now was as good a time as any to start pissing off my last foster mother. I shut off the water and, leaving the pail in the sink, went to the park.

I found Ian hanging out with Sudsy and his crew by the handball court. Pearl wasn't with them.

"Hi," Ian greeted me.

"Hi. What's happening?"

"Nothing. Is Mrs. C still at the house?"

"Yeah. She's taking a nap." I glanced over at the row of porto potties that were subbing for the field house restrooms, then at the nearby water fountain to see if I could spot Pearl, but she wasn't anywhere to be seen. Sudsy had apparently managed to ditch her for the day.

"Where's your sister?" I asked him.

"Home – getting her ass beat."

Jimmy and Maxo laughed.

"Why?" I asked. "What did she do?"

"None of your business."

"What did she do?" I repeated.

"What did you do?" Sudsy sneered.

"What do you mean 'What did I do'?"

"What did you do to get sent to a foster home?"

Okay, he might have figured out on his own that I was the Carascos' latest loser kid rather than a distant relative visiting for the summer, but it was a lot more likely that someone told him. And there was only one person who could have done that. I glared at Ian, who immediately turned away and looked at Connie.

"Nothing," I said. "You don't have to do anything to get sent to a foster home. All you have to do is have a dad who . . . "

No, I thought. I'd have to be crazy to tell him.

"Who what?"

"Nothing. Forget it."

"If you don't like to answer questions you shouldn't ask so many," Sudsy said, smirking.

"Why are you so concerned about Pearl anyway?" Connie asked.

"I just don't think kids should be smacked around and beaten," I answered. "That's all."

Sudsy stepped away from the chain link fence he was leaning on and looked me in the eye. "Did you get smacked around and beaten? Is that why you were sent to a foster home?"

"None of your –," I started, then stopped.

Now they all looked at me.

"Well?"

Yes, it is his business, I thought. It's everyone's business. Tell them.

I sighed. "No. No, I never got hit. My sister did. My dad beat my sister so badly that she died. And my mom let him. That's why I'm in a foster home – because both my parents are in jail. You ever hear of Luanne James?"

"Holy shit!" Connie cried. You're Luanne James' sister?"

"Yeah."

"Really? No shit?"

"No shit."

Connie gaped at me as if I were some kind of celebrity. "Damn. No wonder you're so weird."

"Wait a minute," Sudsy said. "If you're so against kids getting beat, why didn't you do anything to help your sister? According to all the news stories you didn't do dick to help her. Neither did your brothers.

They all waited for me to answer, but I couldn't bring myself to tell them.

"Well?"

"I don't know."

Connnie, surprisingly, came to my defense. "But she did do something. She ratted her dad out to the cops. That's something at least."

"That ain't shit. She didn't do squat to save her own sister so she should quit bugging me about mine."

"Did you get all your work done before you came out here?" Ian asked, kindly giving me an excuse to retreat.

"No," I muttered. "I'll go back and do it now." Without saying goodbye to any of them, I turned and started walking home.

"See you later Connie," I heard Ian say as he fell in behind me.

"Whatever," she responded indifferently.

"You shouldn't have told them about yourself," Ian said as soon as we were out of earshot. "Sudsy just said that stuff about his sister getting beat to get a rise out of you. She's probably just home watching TV."

"I saw her this morning at the minimart when I was shopping with Mrs. C," I informed him. "She had a big bruise on her arm."

"She could have gotten that from anything."

"No. It looked just like a bruise I saw on Luanne once, after Dad grabbed her by the arm really hard. She's being abused. I can tell. The way she always hangs back from people, never looks anyone in the eye, walks with her head down all the time, hardly ever talks. That's just how Luanne used to act. And that punk brother of hers – he's beating on her too."

Looking back, I think that was the exact moment I decided to become Pearl's defender.

"If that's what you think why did you tell him your story?" Ian asked. "You didn't even want to tell me your story, but you told him."

"I told all of you."

"Why?"

A heavyset woman in a tank top and too-tight blue jeans approached us from the other direction, walking a dog – a beagle, I think. I waited until she passed before answering. "I just felt you should know."

"It's none of our business. And now he's going to use what you told him against you."

"Probably."

"Is that what you want?"

It was what I wanted – for everyone to know how I failed you, and hate me for it. But what was I thinking? How was I going to help Pearl now that I gave Sudsy and his crew a weapon to use against me?

"You shouldn't do things to sabotage yourself," Ian continued. (He sure had my number.). "I mean, it's not like you're the one who killed your sister."

"I don't know about that."

We passed a small clapboard house very similar to the Carascos'. Somewhere inside a child was crying loudly. We both stopped and listened.

"This is Sudsy's house," Ian told me after a moment.

I pointed out the obvious. "It doesn't sound like she's watching TV."

"Okay, maybe Pearl did get beaten," Ian conceded. "But believe me, there's nothing you can do about it. If you try to help her you're just gonna get in trouble."

"I have to do something."

The crying suddenly stopped. We waited for it to resume, but it didn't.

"We shouldn't stand here like this," Ian warned. "Her parents might see us. Let's go."

Mrs. Carasco confronted us the minute we stepped in the door. "Get in the kitchen young lady," she ordered me. "You – upstairs," she ordered Ian. We both obeyed immediately.

The kitchen smelled even more strongly of vinegar than it did when I left.

"What did I tell you to do?" Mrs. Carasco asked as I finished rinsing out the pail.

"To clean up this mess."

"Then why didn't you?"

"I'm going to. I just wanted to go out for a while. I felt tense. I figured a walk in the park would make me feel better."

"That vinegar has soaked into the floor tiles by now. We'll be lucky if this kitchen doesn't smell like vinegar for days."

"Sorry."

I opened the bottle of floor cleaner and poured a capful into the pail, then turned the faucet on and shoved the pail under it. Mrs. Carasco stood over me like a prison guard. "Look Missy, I know you're hell bent on making me angry so Mr. Carasco and I will send you back to Child Services, but I'm telling you right now that's not going to happen. I told you, we haven't quit on a foster child yet, so you will buckle down and do as you're told, and you will stay out of trouble. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

With that she backed up from me a bit. "I'm not going to tell Mr. Carasco this time," she said, "but next time you leave a chore undone it's going to be you and him, got it?"

"Yes Ma'am," I repeated.

I shut off the faucet, lifted the pail out of the sink, and put it on the floor. Mrs. Caraco waited until I fetched one of the mops from the basement and started mopping before she left. I half hoped that she would send Ian down to help me, but she didn't. I mopped the whole floor by myself.

"Why does the kitchen smell like vinegar?" Mr. Carasco asked later, during dinner.

"Mara spilled some this afternoon," Mrs. Carasco explained. "Some of it must have soaked into the tiles."

"Didn't she mop it up?"

Mrs. Carasco reached for the salad. "She did, but I'll have her do it again tomorrow."

Just then it occurred to me that having to mop the kitchen floor by myself was nothing compared to the punishment you would have gotten back home if you'd spilled a whole bottle of vinegar. God, Dad would have beaten the hell out of you. And then he wouldn't have let you eat dinner. And I would have eaten anyway.

Is that why Mrs. C was so mad this afternoon?" Ian asked me as we put the dishes in the dishwasher that evening. "Because you spilled some vinegar?"

"Not some. A whole bottle. It fell off the shelf and broke as I was putting it away. And then I skipped out on mopping it up and went to the park instead."

"Look, don't provoke her, Ian warned me. "If you piss her off enough you'll catch a beating. I'm not kidding."

"I know you're not."

"Then why'd you do that?"

"I was angry," I lied. She yelled at me, so I went out to calm down." I didn't tell him my real motive. There was no point sine I'd already decided to put my self-destructive behavior on hold in order to help Pearl.

Ian put the last dish in the dishwasher, closed the door and turned it on. "Well, Mrs. C doesn't look so mad anymore," he said. "Why don't you stay downstairs tonight and watch TV with us? I don't know if you like cop shows but 'Bad Cop' is on tonight. We watch it every week."

"No thanks. I'm really not into TV that much," I told him, which was true. "I'm just going to listen to my radio."

Ian looked disappointed. "Suit yourself."

As I listened to the oldies on my radio, I wrote in my journal about the wonderful day I'd had: shopping with Mrs. Carasco; meeting Pearl at the minimart and seeing the big bruise on her arm; spilling the vinegar; being interrogated by Sudsy in the park; getting chewed out by Mrs. Carasco when I got home. Then I wrote about Pearl, about how my encounter in the park with Sudsy convinced me even more that she was being abused, and how I'd made up my mind to do whatever I could to help her, to make amends for not helping you. But even as I wrote that I wondered: Was there really anything I could do to make up for that? After all, it wasn't just that I let Dad hurt you. By letting the boys lie about you, I caused him to hurt you.

It all came rushing back. The four of us in the living room. Justin and Rory play fighting. You and I watching. Rory suddenly assuming a martial arts stance – knees bent, fists out in front of him. Justin standing up straight, his hands clasped behind his back, explaining that was how French savate fighters fight. Rory saying that he was wrong – savate fighters don't fight with their hands behind their backs. Justin insisting that they do. The two of them finally 'sparring', throwing and dodging kicks and getting closer and closer to the furniture.

Me yelling "Cut it out! You're gonna break something!" Trying to prevent disaster.

Justin jumping back too far from one of Rory's kicks and bumping into the end table next to the couch. The lamp on the table falling to the ground. Justin and Rory crouching down and examining it. Turning it over. Seeing the huge crack in its base.

Me shouting "See! I told you!"

Rory putting a hand on Justin's shoulder, looking at you and saying, "Don't worry bro. We didn't do this."

You visibly tensing, saying "Yes you did."

Rory responding "No we didn't. You did."

You saying "What do you mean, I did?" And turning to me. "Mara?"

A door slamming. Dad's approaching footsteps. The moment of truth.

Justin agreeing with his scheming, lying little brother. "You're right bro. This has loser written all over it."

Me saying "Come on guys. That's not fair."

Rory, my younger brother by two years, giving me an ultimatum. "Either she did it or you did it."

Then Dad storming into the room and seeing the broken lamp. Demanding to know who was responsible. None of us answering. You giving me a pleading look.

Dad saying: "Well?"

Justin acting noble. "I don't want to be a rat."

Dad delivering his own ultimatum. "If I don't get an answer soon you're all gonna get it."

You trying to save yourself, pointing at Justin and Rory. "They did it! They were kick fighting and knocked it down!"

Rory outright lying. "No. She did it. She was pretending to be a ballerina and spinning around, and she got dizzy and bumped into the table. Right Justin?"

Justin nodding. "Right."

You shouting "No I didn't! They're lying! Tell him Mara!"

Me opening my mouth to say something, but then closing it without a word.

And finally Dad grabbing you by the arm and dragging you out of the room.

Yeah, it all came rushing back. And I vowed to write it all down, everything that happened that day. As soon as I stopped crying.

I stopped very quickly. And I did start to write it all down. But before I could finish a single sentence there was a car accident somewhere outside. I heard the screeching brakes and the bang of the impact. Even though it sounded too distant to be right in front of the house, I went to the window to see what I could see. But all I saw was Sudsy standing in the driveway of the house across the street, checking one of the house's windows to see if it was locked. Apparently it was, because he moved on to the window next to it. Suddenly a dog inside the house started barking. A few seconds later the first floor lights went on. Sudsy bolted out of the driveway and ran down the street.

Behind me, Mrs. Carasco knocked on my door. I jumped.

"What are you looking at?" she asked.

"Nothing," I answered. "I thought I heard a car accident."

The dog across the street kept barking.

"Lights out."

"Okay."

Mrs. Carasco continued down the hall to Lavon and Ian's room. I put my journal away, changed into my pajamas and climbed into bed.

CHAPTER EIGHT

During breakfast the next morning, Mrs. Carasco had news about the little girl who got hurt in the park.

"Ted, do you remember that little girl who got hurt in the park two days ago?" she asked her husband.

Mr. Carasco dumped a spoonful of sugar into his coffee. "Yeah. What about her?"

"They said on the news that she wasn't hurt in an accident. She was assaulted. Someone tried to kill her, and in a very strange way – by pressing down on, or maybe kneeling on, her throat."

"Do the cops have any idea who did it?"

"No. And the girl can't help them. She's in a coma. I wonder if the same person who hurt her also hurt that boy."

"Maybe," Mr. Carasco said. Finished stirring his coffee, he put down his spoon and took a sip.

Mrs. Carasco gave me and Ian her first order of the day. "If you two decide to go to the park today I want you to keep your wits about you. Use your common sense. Don't talk to strangers, don't accept anything from anyone, don't go off with anyone. Understand?"

"Understand," I said.

That's when Ian had a brainstorm. "If we had a little money we could go to the mall instead of the park," he said. "But I guess that's not possible."

Mrs. Carasco turned to Mr. Carasco. "What do you think?"

"It's up to you," he grunted, and then stood up and left the kitchen to go to work, his coffee cup still half full. Mrs. Carasco followed him.

"She's not gonna give you any money," Lavon sneered.

"How do you know?" I asked.

"Because she won't.

But when Mrs. Carasco came back she had two ten dollar bills in her hand. She gave one to Ian and one to me.

"Thanks," I said.

"Thanks," Ian echoed.

"Hey, what about me?" Lavon whined.

Mrs. Carasco reached for her orange juice. "I gave you money yesterday."

"I need that for my brown belt test. You said I have to pay half the fee, remember?"

"I remember. But I told you – if you want more money you have to get a summer job."

"Man," Lavon sighed, shaking his head.

Mrs. Carasco drank the last of her juice, put the glass back on the table, and issued her second order of the day. "You two make damn sure you do all your chores before you go anywhere today, got it?"

"Got it," Ian said.

"Yes Ma'am," I added.

Mrs. Carasco left. Lavon, clearly not ready to admit defeat about the money, followed her hopefully.

"Pretty slick," I told Ian.

"Thanks. Come on. The sooner we get everything done the sooner we get to the mall."

We cleared the table and loaded up the dishwasher, then went down to the basement to get the two mops so that I could re-mop the kitchen floor and Ian could mop the upstairs bathroom. I got my first look at the Carasco's basement. It was a finished basement with a linoleum tile floor and plywood paneling. There was a weightlifting bench and dumbbell rack on one side; a sink, washer, and dryer on the other; and a folding table and four folding chairs in the middle. The linoleum floor looked like it could also do with some mopping. No doubt that would be one of my future chores.

As I looked around I thought of our basement back home, and how it wasn't all that different from the Carascos'. Different tiles on the floor, painted walls instead of paneling, an exercise bike instead of a weight bench, a workbench instead of a table – but otherwise pretty much the same. I thought about how often Dad took you down there to beat you, and how when I was little I actually thought of that as one of the reasons houses have basements – to give parents a place to punish their kids in private. God how you must have hated our basement.

There weren't that many shoppers in the mall when Ian and I got there, probably because it was a weekday. We each got a milkshake at Baskin Robbins and then spent the next hour walking around talking.

"Despite the slick way you played it, I'm still surprised that Mrs. C gave us that money," I said.

"So am I," Ian replied. "Hey, sometimes things work out." He took a sip of his shake. "You mind if I ask you a personal question?"

"Shoot."

"The reason you didn't help your sister – it's because you were scared, right? I mean, your dad would have hurt you too if you tried to interfere right?"

I hesitated before answering, but told him the truth. "No. I didn't help her because I thought she deserved it. Dad always said she was a brat, and he was always good to me and my brothers, so I believed him. I didn't even feel sorry for her until the day she died."

"Were you there when it happened?"

"Yeah."

I waited for Ian to ask me for details, but he didn't.

"You know, I dream about her," I confessed.

"I know. I hear you talking in your sleep."

"I talk in my sleep?"

"Yeah. Well, you say her name a lot."

"Shit." Suddenly, I felt embarrassed.

"Usually, you sound kind of . . . distraught."

"That's because in my dreams I do try to help her – or at least comfort her. But I always fail. It's like they're designed to taunt me, to remind me over and over that it's too late for me to do anything, that I failed her and that's it."

"Have you told your counselor about them?"

"Yeah."

"What did he say?"

"She. She said they're my subconscious's way of helping me cope with my guilt."

Ian took another sip of his shake. "Kids never do anything when their siblings get punished, except maybe laugh. That's normal. Your dad's the one to blame, and maybe your mom. Not you."

Suddenly, from around a corner ahead of us, someone started swearing loudly.

"Fuck you!"

A moment later Sudsy appeared, accompanied by two angry, burly security guards, one on each side. Connie and the two boys, Maxo and Jimmy, followed several paces behind them.

"Punk square badges!" Sudsy shouted.

"Looks like Sudsy's in trouble again," Ian said.

"You know, I saw him casing the house across the street last night," I told him.

"You serious?"

"Totally. I heard a car accident and looked outside and there he was. He was checking one of the windows facing the driveway to see if it was locked. A dog inside started barking and scared him off. If it wasn't for that dog he probably would have tried to break in."

Sudsy and the guards reached the entrance. Sudsy called over his shoulder to Connie.

"Connie, find Pearl!"

Connie turned and went back around the corner to look for Pearl. Maxo and Jimmy followed Sudsy and the guards outside.

"Wait here," Ian said.

"Where are you going?"

"To help Connie look for Pearl."

"I'll go with you."

"No. Who knows what Pearl's gotten into. You can't afford to get in any more trouble. Just wait here."

I knew he was right, but I questioned his motives. Was he really looking out for me, or did he just want to get me out of the way so he could focus his full attention on Connie? "Okay. Fine," I grumbled.

Ian ran off to catch up to Connie. I sat down on a nearby bench and checked out the shoppers. A few yards away a linebacker-sized woman was chewing out a boy of about ten, probably her son. "What did I tell you about touching things in stores, you little shit?" The woman shouted. "What did I tell you?" I stared at them but did nothing, just like the other shoppers. So far it was just words. Hateful words sure, but just words. But I promised myself I would intervene if she smacked him.

Suddenly the two security guards who ejected Sudsy came running back into the mall. Holding their radios to their ears, they rushed into one of the service corridors. A few minutes later Connie came sauntering back, accompanied by Ian and a glum-looking Pearl.

"Those guards who kicked Sudsy out just ran back in here," I told Ian. "They went in there." I pointed at the two swinging doors marked 'Employees Only'."

Ian shrugged. "Maybe one of the mall maintenance workers got hurt."

I gave Pearl a quick looking over. She didn't have any new bruises that I could see, but the one on her arm was as noticeable as ever. "Hey Pearl. You okay?"

She shrugged.

"Is that a yes or a no?"

Connie gave her a scornful look. "He's gonna kill you for running off again Pearl."

"How'd you hurt your arm?" I pressed.

Finally the kid spoke. "I fell"

Connie took Pearl by the arm and started pulling her towards the mall entrance. "Come on."

"Bye Connie," Ian called after her. This time she didn't even bother to answer.

Annoyed, I watched as Connie and Pearl exited the mall and joined up with Sudsy, who was lurking just outside the glass doors with Maxo and Jimmy. As soon as she was within reach, Sudsy grabbed Pearl by the back of the neck and stormed off down the street with her, his entourage following right behind them.

"Why do you even bother talking to Connie?" I asked Ian. "She's almost as big a shit as Sudsy."

Before he could answer the two security guards emerged from the service corridor. One stood by the door, the other headed quickly for the entrance. "If the cops get here first, just tell them where to go and send them in," the guard by the door called out to his partner. "You wait for the paramedics."

"Got it," the other guard responded. He exited the mall.

Ian and I exchanged looks, then cautiously approached the guard by the door. "What happened?" I asked him.

"Nothing that concerns you," he answered curtly. "Keep walking."

I didn't like the guard's manner, but I didn't complain. The last thing I needed was to antagonize the mall security team. Besides the park, the only other refuge I had from the Carascos was the mall. The same went for Ian. We both retreated. As we walked away I heard the guard talking into his radio.

"Post One to Base."

"Go ahead Post One," came his dispatcher's response.

"I need another guard down here to help me close off this section."

"Ten-four."

I glanced around quickly over my shoulder. The guard was looking around anxiously, for what or for whom I didn't know.

"I hope no one's hurt," I said to Ian.

As soon as we got home, Mrs. Carasco gave us another chore to do – weeding the backyard. After saying "Yes Ma'am" for both of us, Ian went down to the basement and returned with two garden trowels and a metal pail.

"I haven't been out there yet," I said, taking one of the trowels.

"You haven't?"

"No. Are there a lot of weeds?"

"I haven't noticed."

The yard was small – just a rectangle of grass bordered by shrubbery. It was in the loose soil around the shrubbery that the weeds were growing. Most were this strange kind of weed I'd never seen before, with long tendril-like leaves that stood up straight from the ground before leaning over. There was another kind with flat, close to the ground leaves, and also a few dandelions. All in all there weren't that many. It wasn't going to take us long to get the job done. Unfortunately, we were going to have an audience. The Carascos' next door neighbor, a thin but busty middle-aged woman named Mrs. Soames, was sitting on her back porch, drinking a glass of iced tea and watching us.

Ian and I crouched down in front of one of the shrubs, the pail between us, and got right to work.

"Did you have to do this many chores for your previous foster parents?" Ian asked, throwing a just yanked weed into the pail.

"No," I told him. "They were all pretty mellow. Even when they decided they couldn't stand me anymore they didn't give me too much to do." I dug around one of the long tendril weeds with the trowel and pulled it out of the ground. It turned out to have a bulb-like root, like a tiny onion. I held it up for Ian to inspect. "Is this edible?"

"I don't know," Ian said. "Maybe. Mrs. C will probably know."

I dropped the weed into the pail. "To hell with it."

From over my shoulder I heard Mrs. Soames's cell phone ring. From where Ian and I were crouching we could hear every word she said when she answered it.

"Hello? . . . Oh, hi Lucy . . . Nothing. Just watching Helen's foster kids weed her backyard . . . Yeah she knows how to get work out of them . . . No, I haven't . . . Oh my God! Killed how?"

As soon as she said "killed," Ian and I both stopped working.

"Jesus. Just like that other little girl in the park . . . How old was she? . . . Same age. It's probably some nut who hates little girls . . . Yeah, you're right . . . Maybe he did kill that boy. That would make three victims. The man's a serial killer . . . How'd you hear about it? . . . I'm gonna go inside and put on the news. I'll call you if I hear anything about it. Bye."

Mrs. Soames picked up her glass of iced tea and went inside.

"Did you hear that?" I asked Ian.

"Yeah. I wonder if that had anything to do with what happened at the mall today?"

"I don't know. Come on, let's finish this. I want to check out the news too."

When we finally went back inside to put the trowels and pail away, Mrs. Carasco was sitting on the living room couch watching a talk show, so we had no choice but to use the TV in Lavon's room. Luckily Lavon was out somewhere, probably taking one of his karate lessons. Ian turned on the TV and switched right to the news channel. Sure enough, what happened at the mall was the big story.

"Only two days after a six-year-old girl was attacked by an unknown assailant in Marine Park, another six-year-old girl was found dead in the Victory Plaza Shopping Mall today," a broad shouldered anchorman announced, "and police are calling her death a homicide. Kim Abernathy has the story."

The broadcast location switched to a sidewalk in front of the mall. Speaking into a hand held microphone, Kim Abernathy, a young television reporter, told the story. About a dozen shoppers, some with children, stood several feet behind her.

"Ben, the little girl's body was found in a service corridor at about three o'clock this afternoon. Police are not saying whether or not the two crimes are related, but the similar nature of the girls' injuries indicate they might be. And many residents of this blue collar neighborhood are concerned for their children's safety."

"No shit," I said

Kim Abernathy walked over to one of the shoppers behind her, a thin, pale woman accompanied by an equally thin, pale girl of about ten. The girl was eating a popsicle.

"Does this latest attack have you worried?" the young reporter asked, and then held her microphone in front of the woman's face to record her reply.

"Of course I'm worried," the woman said. "Two children attacked in two days? One dead? And what about that little boy? Maybe he was attacked too. What I want to know is where are the cops? What are they doing about this?"

Mrs. Carasco called up from downstairs. "Mara, come down and set the table!"

"Coming!" I shouted back. Then I turned to Ian. "It's him," I told him, ignoring the rest of the news story. "Sudsy. He's the one who hurt those kids."

Ian looked at me like I'd sprouted a third eye. "What? No way. Sudsy's a punk but he's not a psycho."

"If he's mean enough to abuse a kid he's mean enough to kill one. And think about it – he was there in the park and in the mall when both attacks occurred."

Ian shook his head. "You're crazy. It couldn't be him."

Mrs. Carasco called up to me again. "Mara get down here!"

I stood up and hurried down the stairs.

As soon as we finished saying grace, Mrs. Carasco laid down the law – again. "Mara, Ian, I want you to stay close to home until the cops figure out what's going on with these attacks. Lord knows there's enough work for you two to do around here."

As sick as I was of being treated like a live-in maid, I kept my mouth shut. Ian was the one who spoke up.

"Whoever hurt those kids isn't interested in kids our age, only five and six-year-olds. He won't mess with us. We're completely safe."

"Just do as I say," Mrs. Carasco snapped.

"Okay, okay."

"I wonder what this guy's story is," Lavon mused as he salted his pork chop. "Why he hates little kids so much."

"I wonder how long it's going to take the cops to catch him," Mrs. Carasco countered, passing the ketchup to her husband.

Lavon put the salt shaker back in its place and grabbed the pepper. "Maybe they won't. Maybe he'll kill a few more kids and then just stop and disappear, like The Zodiac Killer or Jack The Ripper."

"They'll catch him," Mr. Carasco said. "Now that it's a big news story they'll assign a whole squad of detectives to the case, and sooner or later one of them will question someone who knows something." He finished pouring ketchup on his french fries and passed the bottle to Ian, then turned to his wife. "Ken and Gus are thinking about starting a neighborhood patrol."

"If they do are you going to join them?" Mrs. Carasco asked.

"With my hours I don't know how I can."

As I ate, I wondered what Sudsy's motive was. Was it just plain viciousness – killing for killing's sake? Or was it something else? I knew that children who are abused often become abusers themselves. Even though Sudsy didn't act like it, could he have been beaten when he was Pearl's age? Was that why he abused his sister? Was that why he was killing kids?

No, I told myself. Abused kids don't have followers when they become teenagers. They don't strut around confidently like they own the world. No. Sudsy only had one reason for hurting and killing people who were smaller and weaker than him.

He liked it.

CHAPTER NINE

That night, when I finished writing in my journal about the mall murder and Sudsy, I decided to start writing a complete list of every act of meanness and cruelty you were ever subjected to., from cradle to grave. (The ones I knew about, at least). But before I could start Mrs. Carasco knocked on my door and said 'lights out'."

I changed into my pajamas, turned out the lights, and climbed into bed. Lying there in the dark, I tried to recall the very first time I saw Mom and Dad be mean to you. Was that the time with the toy caterpillar? Remember that? You were about two. It was bedtime, and you were playing with this old caterpillar pull toy that you inherited from me. Mom took it from you and put you in your crib and you started to cry. She yelled at you to go to sleep, but you kept wailing. So she went and got Dad. Dad yanked you out of your crib and took you downstairs, I guess to the basement, because your cries grew so faint that I couldn't hear them anymore. Your first trip to the basement for punishment. He must have kept you there a long time, because as scary as the situation was, I fell asleep waiting for Dad to bring you back. The next thing I knew it was morning, and there you were back in your crib. You didn't look hurt. I don't know what Dad did to you, but I remember that was one of the last times I ever saw you cry. After that you would get scared and cower when you knew punishment was coming, but you rarely cried.

When was the next time one of them hurt you? Was that the time Dad spanked you with the back scratcher for spilling your juice? How old were you then? Or the time he slapped you for accidentally scratching the kitchen table with Justin's compass? Suddenly the thought of trying to write about everything they did to you disgusted me. It's late, I told myself. Go to sleep. Maybe tomorrow it'll seem like a good idea again. But for now, go to sleep.

I couldn't at first. I tried all my usual insomnia tricks plus two new ones (thinking of small waves rolling onto a beach and a snail crawling on a branch), but nothing worked. Finally I tried counting sheep the way people do in cartoons – identical sheep walking single file through a green pasture. That's what finally did it. When I got to sheep number two hundred and six you suddenly appeared alongside it. Strangely, I knew I was dreaming, but I called out your name anyway. You didn't answer. I called out again, and that's when a loud clanging noise, like a metal garbage can lid falling on a sidewalk, woke me up.

I sat up and glanced anxiously around my room. Somewhere down the block a dog started barking, and even though I'd just awakened from a deep sleep I had a pretty good idea why. I jumped out of bed and looked out the window just in time to see Sudsy running down the block again.

How late was it? I turned on the tiny lamp on my night table and checked my watch. Three sixteen A.M. Mr. and Mrs. Carasco had to be in bed by now. Lavon too. I decided to chance it.

I switched off the lamp. Fortunately the street light across the street gave off enough light for me to get dressed. I threw on some clothes and poked my head out into the hallway. The other bedroom doors were both closed. The coast was clear. I crept down the stairs and slipped out of the house, leaving the front door unlocked.

Outside there was no sign of Sudsy. One house down the block did have its lights on, but almost as soon as I spotted it the first floor lights went out, followed a minute or two later by the second floor lights. The dog stopped barking. It was obvious what happened. Sudsy had cased another house, and yet another alert, barking dog had scared him off. Where was he now? Back at his house or still prowling around?

I walked down the block to his house. It was completely dark. If Sudsy was inside he was sitting in the dark so that everyone would think that he and his family were asleep. I stood there listening for a few minutes but didn't hear a sound. Finally I gave up and started walking back to the Carascos', only to discover that I was being spied on. An old man stepped out from behind a tree and stared at me. He looked to be in his late seventies or even early eighties – the kind of frail, grey-haired, stooped over old man that people tend to feel sorry for but also walk away from. I would have walked away from him, but I couldn't once he spoke.

"Do you have wisdom?" he asked in a low, gravelly voice.

At first I thought I'd imagined it. "What?" I asked, stunned.

The old man pointed to his forehead. "About the mark. Do you have wisdom?"

This can't be a coincidence, I thought. But I don't know this old man, and he doesn't know me. How can he possibly know what Dad used to say to you? There was only one explanation. Somebody must have told him, and the only person outside of our family who knew about Dad and his wisdom question was Mrs. Burgess. But she was sworn to secrecy. And even if she felt like telling someone, why would she tell this geezer?

Suddenly frightened, I ran back to the Carascos' house. I opened the unlocked door as quietly as I could and slipped inside. I crept over to the stairs but only made it up four steps before someone switched on the living room lights.

"Have fun out there?" Lavon asked. I spun around and there he was standing in the living room doorway, holding a half eaten apple.

Still bugged out by my encounter with the creepy old man, I wasn't ready to deal with my foster parents. "I . . . I couldn't sleep," I stammered. "I decided to go for a walk. Please don't narc on me."

"If I do you'll catch a beating," Lavon said. He had a big shit eating grin on his face.

"I wouldn't narc on you."

"You wouldn't?"

"No, I wouldn't."

"Okay. I won't say anything – if you show me your tits."

For the second time in fifteen minutes, somebody said something to me that I just couldn't believe.

"What?"

"You heard me. They might be little but I still want a look." He went over to the light switch on the wall and turned on the overhead light. "Well?"

God, what a punk. As much as I feared the Carascos' wrath there was no way Lavon was going to get what he wanted. But just to piss him off I let him think he was going to. With a fake smile, I pulled my t-shirt out of my jeans and slowly, tantalizingly raised it, like a stripper. Just before my breasts were exposed, I abruptly lowered it again, went back to the door, opened it – and slammed it loudly enough to wake the dead.

Lavon actually jumped. A few seconds later the upstairs hallway light went on and Mr. Carasco appeared at the top of the stairs in his pajamas. "What the hell was that?" he bellowed. "What are you two doing down there?"

Like a true fink, Lavon didn't waste a second ratting me out. "I just came down to get something to eat," he said, holding up his half eaten apple to prove he was telling the truth. "While I was eating she came in from the outside and slammed the door."

Mrs. Carasco appeared behind her husband, then Ian. Judging from the worried look on Ian's face, I was really in for it.

"What the hell were you doing outside?" Mrs. Carasco asked angrily, glancing at her watch. "It's three thirty in the morning!"

I gave her the same answer I gave Lavon. "I couldn't sleep, so I decided to go for a walk."

"You couldn't sleep, so you decided to go for a walk," Mr. Carasco echoed sarcastically, as if that was something only a total moron would do.

"Yeah," I said weakly, then added quickly "I'm sorry I woke everyone up. There was a cat on the porch. It looked like it was getting ready to run in, so I slammed the door."

"Okay, that's it," Mrs. Carasco declared, pointing at the stairs in front of her. "Get up those stairs Missy. Go right back to your room. Move."

I obeyed. At the top of the stairs Mrs. Carasco fell in behind me. Mr. Carasco went back to his room.

"I really am sorry," I apologized again, in a last ditch attempt to earn some mercy. Mrs. Carasco responded with the classic parental comeback. "Not as sorry as you're going to be." She followed me into my room and switched on the overhead light that I almost never used. A moment later Mr. Carasco joined us, a doubled over leather belt in his hand. I was going to get it all right.

As soon as I saw the belt I mentally compared it to the one Dad used to use on you – the wide, heavy black one that he only wore with his jeans because it was too wide for the loops in his dress pants. Mr. Carasco's belt had the same width and thickness, but was longer since Mr. Carasco was fatter around the middle than Dad. And the buckle was silver colored instead of gold. Mrs. Carasco closed the door. "Strip down to your panties and t-shirt and lie face down on the bed," she ordered.

I heard many of your beatings, but never witnessed any. Were you made to strip? I remember how Justin and Rory always used to ask you if Dad made you pull your pants down, and how you always refused to answer. Considering how he hated you, I'm sure he did. What a horrible thing to make someone do. Parent or no parent, it was no different than Lavon asking me to show him my breasts. And yet I did as Mrs. Carasco said. And not just because I knew they were going to make me one way or the other. I did it because I thought I deserved to be shamed.

"Pull up your shirt," Mrs. Carasco demanded.

Again I obeyed. Would she make me go all the way and pull down my panties?

Mr. Carasco stepped up to the bed.

The moment of truth.

Now I knew how you must have felt the first time. The anxiety. Would it hurt enough to make me cry? Would he hit me hard enough to leave marks, like the ones Dad left on you? How many cracks was I going to get? The last thing I thought before the belt came down was oddly: What are they going to say afterwards? What did Dad say to you?

The first crack of the belt didn't hurt as much as I thought it would. But the ones that followed added pain onto pain until I had to bury my face in my pillow to stifle my cries. I was just about to beg Mr. Carasco to stop when Mrs. Carasco finally put an end to my ordeal.

"That's enough" she said curtly.

Mr. Carasco stopped immediately. It was over. Twenty-five cracks. Not nearly as many as you used to get.

Mrs. Carasco picked my jeans up off the floor, and draped them across the foot of the bed. "Go to sleep Mara," she ordered, turning off the overhead light. She and Mr. Carasco went back to their bedroom, leaving the door to my room open.

It took me a long time to obey Mrs. Carasco and go to sleep. And it wasn't just because of the pain, which lingered long after the whipping was over. It was because I knew the pain you experienced when you were alive was so much worse. And I did nothing to save you from it.

CHAPTER TEN

The next morning I checked the damage. Mr. Carasco did leave marks – long bruises the same width as his belt.

At breakfast everyone acted as if nothing had happened the night before. No mention was made of my late night walk and the punishment that followed it. For once Lavon had nothing to say, not even when he saw me wince as I sat down. Mrs. Carasco even did her usual thing and assigned me and Ian a chore to do – sweeping and dusting the basement – before she took me to my weekly counseling session.

It was while we were in the basement cleaning up that Ian finally brought up the previous night's violence. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"Fine," I answered sullenly.

"I told you not to piss off Mrs. C. What were you doing outside?"

I ran a disposable plastic feather duster over the weightlifting bench. "Trying to spy on Sudsy. He was at it again – casing houses."

"You saw him?"

"I heard a dog barking, and when I went to the window I saw him run down the street. What else could he have been doing?" Finished with the weightlifting bench, I dusted the top of the washing machine. "I went outside to see if I could spot him again, but by then he was back in his house."

Ian swept several large dustballs out from between the washer and dryer. "Too bad about that cat," he said.

"What cat?" I asked. I'd totally forgotten about the lie I told the night before.

"The one that made you slam the door."

"There was no cat," I confessed. "I made that up."

Ian gave me a puzzled look. "Then why'd you slam the door?"

"Lavon caught me when I came back to the house. He threatened to rat me out if I didn't do something for him, and I didn't want to do it, so I ratted myself out."

"What did he want you to do?"

That I wouldn't tell him. Ian obviously wasn't a tough kid, but I was absolutely sure he would confront Lavon if I told him, and if he confronted Lavon he would get pounded.

"Forget it," I said.

"No, tell me. What did he want you to do?"

"Forget it," I repeated, louder.

"Okay, okay." Sighing, Ian swept the dust balls into a small pile in the center of the floor. I continued dusting. We both worked in silence for a while, until all of a sudden I remembered the creepy old man I'd encountered in front of Sudsy's house, and the way he asked me if I had 'wisdom' about 'the mark'.

"Have you ever seen a kind of weird old man around here?" I asked. "Grey hair, late seventies maybe, kind of stooped over?"

"Not that I remember. Why?"

"There was an old man like that lurking around Sudsy's house last night."

"What was he doing?"

"Nothing. Just standing there. He kind of creeped me out." I didn't say anything about the question the old man asked me.

"Probably some old guy from the neighborhood with insomnia," Ian said.

"Probably."

Mrs. Carasco didn't say a single word to me during the drive to my counsesling session. But as soon as she finished parking her car across the street from the Child Services Building, she turned to me and said, very casually, "You can tell your counselor whatever you want to about last night. That's your right."

"My right?"

"She's your counselor, isn't she? I can't tell you what you can and can't say to her."

I found my foster mom's lack of concern hard to believe. "Aren't you afraid you'll get in trouble?" I asked.

Mrs. Carasco reached into the back seat for the steering wheel lock. "Mr. Carasco and I don't worry when we do what we have to do."

I coughed – loudly – as I sat down in front of Mrs. Burgess's desk, so she would think my wince was a part of the cough.

"Do you feel okay Mara?" she asked. "You don't look good."

I didn't even consider telling her what the Carascos did to me. Getting removed from their home and sent to a state home was no longer my big goal. "I'm okay," I lied. "I just didn't sleep well last night."

"More nightmares?"

"No. I just woke up in the middle of the night and couldn't fall asleep again."

Thinking about Sudsy waking me up led me to think about the old man. I had to ask her. "You never repeat what I tell you to anyone, do you?"

Mrs. Burgess looked offended. "No, of course not. That would be unethical. Why do you ask?"

"Just making sure." I wanted to believe her, and the firm way she answered me encouraged me to. But could it really have been a coincidence?

Mrs. Burgess changed the subject. "Have you been behaving yourself for the Carascos?"

"Yes," I answered, which was basically the truth. I didn't go out the night before to make them angry, just to spy on Sudsy. And I'd been doing all my chores.

"You don't want to go to a state home anymore?"

"No."

"Good. Why not?"

I wasn't sure it was a smart thing to do, but I told her. "I'm trying to help someone."

"Help someone?"

"Yeah. A kid on my block is being abused. I'm trying to help her."

"Abused how?"

"Beaten by her parents, and by her older brother too."

Mrs. Burgess leaned forward. "And how do you know that?"

"Because her brother told me she gets beaten. And I know he hits her too because I saw him smack her once. And she acts just like Luanne used to. You know – ultra timid. She's being abused. I know it."

Mrs. Burgess shook her head. "You don't know it. You just think you know it. A lot of older brothers hit their sisters. And a lot of them lie about their sisters getting in trouble and being punished."

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. "Why would he lie about that?"

"To make himself look superior to her. Or maybe to bother you. You say you've been trying to help this girl. In order to do that you've been asking questions about her, right?"

"Yeah. So?"

"So he sees how concerned you are and he lies about her getting beaten up to get under your skin."

Mrs. Burgess's skepticism annoyed me. Sure she was a professional counselor with a whole lot of experience dealing with abused kids, but I was the one with actual child abuse experience. I was the expert.

"Look, this is something I know about, okay?" I said angrily. "She's being abused. She's in the same situation Luanne was in, and she's going to end up the same way if somebody doesn't do something."

"Somebody meaning you."

"Yeah. And whoever's willing to help me." I hesitated for a moment, then asked the big question. "Will you?"

Mrs. Burgess didn't hesitate in answering. "No, because I have no reason to believe this girl is being abused. And neither do you. You've just convinced yourself that she's being abused so that you can 'save' her – to make amends for not saving Luanne."

"That's crazy!"

"Is it? How old is this girl?"

"What difference does that make?"

"How old?"

"Eight or nine."

"The same age Luanne was when she was killed. And how old is her brother?"

"Fifteen, maybe sixteen."

"The same age as your older brother." Mrs. Burgess gave me that x-ray look of hers. "You see?"

"See what?"

"This girl reminds you of Luanne. Her older brother reminds you of your older brother. That's why you think she's being abused."

"I don't think she is! I know she is!"

Mrs. Burgess sighed. "Okay, fine. You know she is. But if your insight about child abuse is so great, why can't you answer the question I asked you before? Exactly when did you decide that Luanne was worth caring about?"

If I told her maybe she would believe me about Pearl. But telling her was going to kill me. There was no way I could get the words out sitting right in front of her. I had to put some distance between us. I would be more comfortable standing anyway. Slowly, I stood up and went over to the window. I stared out at the drugstore across the street, where a young woman carrying a bulging shopping bag was holding the door open for her son, a little boy of about five. The boy was pulling a red plastic kiddies scooter and wearing a red safety helmet. As soon as the door closed behind him he hopped on his scooter and sped several yards away. His mother yelled something at him – I couldn't make out what it was – and he stopped.

"Well?"

I sighed, then turned to face my counselor. "The last time Dad beat her, the day she died, I knew how messed up she was. So instead of staying away from her like I was supposed to I went down to the basement to check on her. She was lying on the floor with her eyes closed. At first I thought she was unconscious, but when I said her name she opened her eyes. She looked up at me and . . . "

Could I tell her? I didn't even tell the cops that you spoke to me that night.

"Go on," Mrs. Burgess pressed.

"Her brain wasn't working right, because she thought I was Mom. She said 'Mommy I don't feel good'. That's what did it. For some reason hearing her say that finally made me feel sorry for her. I don't know why."

Tears came to my eyes. I brushed them away angrily with my hands and fought to keep in control.

"What else happened that night? Tell me."

I told her the whole awful story, everything that happened right up to the moment when I promised Mom I would tell the cops what she wanted me to tell them. Mrs. Burgess didn't interrupt me once as I spoke, not even when I told her how Dad joked about you when I said you weren't breathing, not even when I told her how Mom said you couldn't even take a beating right. And when I finished, she still didn't say anything. All she did was give me her x-ray look again.

"You see?" I asked angrily. "I know about abused kids. And I know what's happening with Pearl – the kid I told you about. She's being abused. I don't think it, I know it."

Mrs. Burgess responded by looking at her watch. "We're out of time," she said finally. We'll talk more about this next time."

"Will you help her?"

"We'll discuss that next time."

"How'd it go?" Mrs. Carasco asked me as we drove home. She didn't seem at all worried about what I might have told Mrs. Burgess.

"Fine," I said. I waited for her to ask me if I told Mrs. Burgess about my punishment, but she didn't. "Do you mind if I go for a walk when we get home?" I asked.

"Sure, go ahead," she answered. "Because you're definitely not going on any walks tonight.

Ian wasn't home when we got back. After checking Lavon's room and the basement, I figured he must be in the park looking for Connie. He could have been in the mall too, but the park was the better bet since Mrs. Carasco didn't give us any money that morning, and since the object of Connie's lust, Sudsy, was almost certainly banned from the mall.

"Be back in time to set the table for dinner," Mrs. Carasco ordered as I headed out the door.

"Yes Ma'am, I responded over my shoulder.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

On my way to the park I passed Sudsy's house. His mom, the petite woman I saw shopping at the minimart with Pearl, was watering the front lawn. With her, trimming the hedges with an electric hedge trimmer, was a tall, burly man who I assumed was her husband, Sudsy's dad. He had tattooed Popeye forearms and a crew cut, and a mean, intimidating look. Seeing him, I was more convinced than ever that he was abusing Pearl. But unlike his son, he was far too intimidating to confront. I kept walking right past the house, telling myself that there was no point in confronting him, since he would just deny everything. What I had to do was get an adult to believe me, and then have that adult do the confronting – and the reporting to Child Services.

But the farther I got from that house the more my conscience bothered me. After all, there was definitely a chance that he might stop hurting Pearl if he knew someone was on to him. Not a big chance, but a chance. And considering that I couldn't even get Mrs. Burgess – an expert on screwed up families – to believe me about what he was doing, what were the odds that I could get anyone else to?

I stopped, hesitated a moment, and then walked right back to Sudsy's front yard. Sudsy's dad saw me approaching and spoke first.

"Can I help you?" he asked gruffly, sounding as if he had no intention of helping me with anything.

"No," I answered weakly. "I . . . I just . . . "

"Yeah?"

I swallowed, and then just blurted it out. "I just want to tell you that I know what you're doing."

Sudsy's dad turned off his hedge trimmer. "And what exactly am I doing?"

"You're beating your daughter. You and your son." I glared at Sudsy's mom. "And you're letting them."

Sudsy's mom stopped watering. She eyed her husband nervously and waited for him to respond.

"Did Pearl tell you that?" Sudsy's dad asked

"No, but I saw the bruise on her arm. And I've seen the way Sudsy treats her, and the way she just takes it, like she's used to it."

"Really? Well it seems to me a child your age should mind her own damn business. Especially a child with your history." He paused a few seconds to let that sink in. "Yeah, I know who you are. Sudsy told me."

"So?" I asked as calmly as I could, trying to sound like I couldn't care less.

"So what if I tell everyone else on the block?"

"Sudsy's probably already done that."

"Then what if I tell your foster parents that you're harassing me?"

"Go ahead," I said defiantly, despite the lingering pain of the previous night's whipping.

Sudsy's mom took a few steps closer to me. "You shouldn't go around bothering people like this little girl. Just go away, okay?" There was no anger in her voice, just fear and pleading.

"Get me a beer," her husband demanded. "And tell Pearl to come out here."

Sudsy's mom immediately dropped her hose and hurried into the house.

"Now I really know you're guilty," I said. "You wouldn't have threatened me if you weren't."

"I'm guilty? What about you?"

The front door of the house opened and Pearl stepped out onto the porch.

"Come here," her dad ordered.

Head down, Pearl went over to him and stood at his side.

"Have I ever hurt you?"

Pearl shook her head.

"How did you get that bruise on your arm?" I asked her. "Don't be afraid. Tell me."

"I fell," Pearl muttered.

"I can help you if you tell me the truth," I assured her, even though I still had no adult support.

"I fell," Pearl repeated.

Sudsy's dad shrugged sarcastically, just like Sudsy himself did three days ago in the park. "See?"

"Yeah, I see," I said bitterly.

"Go back inside," he ordered Pearl. His wife emerged from the house with an open can of beer. Pearl slipped around her and ducked back into the house.

"I'm going to report you," I said.

Sudsy's dad laughed and took the can of beer from his wife. "Do what you gotta do kid," he said. His wife took a step back from him and, looking me in the eye, shook her head just enough for me to notice. Then she picked up the hose and started watering the lawn again.

Defeated, I stormed off toward the park.

The first thing I noticed when I got there was a small group of people gathered around the field house construction site: a grey-haired couple, two men in their thirties, and a woman, also in her thirties. They all had the same light brown hair color, as if they were related. The women were both sobbing. One of the thirty-something men placed a small wreath of flowers against the chain link fence. As soon as I saw that wreath I knew who it was for – the little girl who was injured there three days ago. The girl must have died. The wreath layers were probably her family.

Standing several yards away from the mourners, just off the footpath, was the old man from the night before, the one who asked me if I had wisdom. He didn't seem nearly as creepy during the day as he did at night. I wanted to question him, but I didn't want to risk disturbing the mourners so I waited. After maybe ten minutes, the little girl's family left. As soon as they did the old man approached the fence, took a single, slightly wilted flower – a carnation I think – out of a wrinkled paper bag he was holding and placed it on the ground in front of the wreath. I crept up behind him.

"What did you mean last night?" I asked angrily. "What mark?"

Startled, the old man turned as quickly as he could to face me. When he saw who I was he sighed with relief. I guess he didn't consider me a threat.

"Well?"

"The mark of Cain," the old man said. "Cain murdered his brother Abel. God condemned him to a life of endless wandering, but put a mark on him so that strangers on the road wouldn't kill him."

"I know the story of Cain and Abel," I hissed. "Why were you standing in front of that house? Does someone living there have the mark of Cain?"

The old man's response surprised me as much as his mysterious question did the night before.

"Do you?"

It was all I could do not to turn and run away from him again. "You . . . you know who I am, don't you?" I stammered.

"Yes, I know."

"Who told you?"

"Word gets around. I'm a good listener, and people don't lower their voices around those they think don't matter."

There was no point in denying it. "Yes, I have the mark. But – "

"No, you don't," the old man interrupted. "You've sinned, but you don't have the mark."

Did he think that would comfort me, hearing him say that? So what if he didn't think I played a part in your death? I knew otherwise. I didn't even bother to contradict him. "Why were you standing in front of that house?" I asked again.

"Why were you?"

Before I could answer the old man noticed that the family of mourners was standing by the handball courts, staring at us. He quickly turned and walked away towards the street. Trying to look casual, I walked slowly in the opposite direction, fighting an urge to look over my shoulder. I headed across a grassy clearing towards the pee wee baseball diamond, where I found Sudsy and his crew hanging out. There was no sign of Ian.

"Hey," I greeted Sudsy.

He just looked at me.

"You know that little girl who was attacked over by the construction site? She died. A bunch of people just placed a wreath there for her."

Sudsy shrugged. "So?"

"So I figured you'd want to know."

"Why the hell would I give a shit?"

"Because you're the one who killed her."

Sudsy's cool finally faltered. "Say what?" he asked, momentarily stunned.

"You heard me."

Connie laughed. "Oh shit. She thinks you're the killer."

Maxo and Jimmy cracked up too.

"I don't think you're the killer," I said. "I know you are."

Sudsy lost it. "Get out of my face, you crazy bitch!" he shouted, and then he shoved me. I stumbled backwards but managed to stay on my feet.

"Psycho bitch!" Sudsy yelled. His entourage gathered behind him to show me that they had his back.

"You're going down," I shouted back. "You and your dad. Tell your dad I said so."

"Tell your dad not to drop the soap," Sudsy countered.

Connie, Maxo, and Jimmy laughed again.

I retreated.

Even though Mrs. Carasco ordered me to be back in time to set the table, I just couldn't bring myself to go home. I was too upset about my encounters with Sudsy and his parents. It was beginning to look more and more like I was going to fail Pearl as badly as I failed you. And as I exited the park, it occurred to me that you weren't the only one I failed. I failed everyone in my previous foster families, and Aunt Carol and Cynthia too, by repaying their kindness with cruelty. They didn't deserve what I did to them. Not even Aunt Carol. Sure she wanted to help Mom escape justice, but like she said, Mom was her sister, and good sisters support each other. Not like me. And she didn't have to ask Uncle Simon to take me and the boys in. She could have dumped us all in foster care right from day one.

Out of all the people I failed, Aunt Carol was the one I just had to apologize to.

I got on the bus and headed to her house.

I had to ring three times before Aunt Carol answered her doorbell. When she finally did she didn't look at all happy to see me.

"Hi Aunt Carol," I greeted her.

"What are you doing here Mara?" she responded. Even though life must have been a lot easier for her without me around, she looked stressed. There were bags under her eyes as if she hadn't been sleeping well, and she was definitely thinner than she was the last time I saw her – not a good thing, since she was underweight to begin with.

"Just thought I'd visit."

"Does your foster mother know you're here?"

"No," I answered honestly. "But she won't mind."

"I don't believe you. Go home."

She started to shut the door but I held it open. "Wait," I pleaded. "I just want to talk."

"About what?" Aunt Carol growled. "About how you destroyed my figurines? About all the trouble you caused me?"

Thinking about those beautiful figurines, and how I smashed them, suddenly brought tears to my eyes. "Yeah," I said, "That's exactly what I want to talk about."

"Well what do you want to say?"

I took a deep breath. Exhaled. "Just that I'm sorry I hurt you and Cynthia. You were good to me. I should have been good to you."

Aunt Carol's expression didn't soften. For several seconds she didn't say anything, just stood there glaring at me. But just as I was about to give up and say goodbye, she opened the door all the way, stepped aside, and gestured for me to enter. "Come in."

I entered, but didn't go past the foyer. Aunt Carol closed the door behind me. "Do you want something to eat or drink?" she asked.

"Can I have a soda?"

"Sure. Go sit in the living room."

I went into the living room, sat down on the couch, and brushed away the last of my tears, while Aunt Carol went to the kitchen. Her living room hadn't changed a bit since the last time I saw it, except for one thing. On the top shelf of the cabinet, in place of the glass figurines, were two ceramic nesting dolls – one of a blonde, pigtailed Dutch girl with wooden shoes, the other of an Eskimo.

Aunt Carol returned with two glasses of cola and handed me one.

"Thanks," I said. "Are Justin and Rory here?"

Aunt Carol sat down in the armchair across from the couch. "No, they're out somewhere."

I took two large gulps of cola and put the glass down on the coffee table. "I'm seeing a counselor now. Miss Reiley, that woman who took me to the group home, arranged it for me, just like she said she would."

Aunt Carol's expression finally softened a bit. "Good. I'm glad."

"I see her twice a week."

"I hope she's helping you."

"She is." I drank more cola, then risked the good will of the moment by asking the question I never bothered to ask her before, because I didn't think the answer really mattered. "Did you know how badly Dad was treating Luanne?"

Aunt Carol sighed. "No. I knew he whipped her a lot. Your mom told me. But I had no idea how severely."

"Why did Dad hate her so much? Why did Mom?"

"I don't know. I think some people are born to be hated. They're loved in the next life, after they die."

The next life. I remember how, back when I was living with my first foster family, the Wilsens, I found a religious pamphlet on their kitchen table, the kind people hand to you on street corners or leave on condiment counters in fast food places. The subject was human suffering, why God allows some people to be abused and mistreated and not others. The pamphlet said pretty much the same thing Aunt Carol had just said – that some people are 'victim souls'. They're born to suffer terribly in life, but when they die they get a tremendous reward in heaven. Were you a victim soul? Is that why you had such a short, awful life?

"Then it's partly God's fault too," I thought out loud.

Aunt Carol wasn't willing to go there. "I'm sorry I told the cops you were a liar," she said, changing the subject. "I know that's why you smashed my figurines."

"You don't have to apologize to me," I said quickly. "At all."

Aunt Carol didn't argue. "Okay," she said flatly. Then – I don't know why, maybe out of some weird sense of duty – she asked me if I wanted to give living with her and Uncle Simon another try.

"I don't think that's a very good idea," I told her. "I might do something crazy again. Besides, I'm sure Uncle Simon won't approve."

"You're right about that, but if you change your mind just let me know."

"I will," I promised. I glanced at my watch. It was six-thirty. If I didn't hurry I was going to be late for dinner. "I better get going," I said.

Aunt Carol walked me to the door. "Do you want me to drive you?"

"Nah, that's okay. I'm in no hurry," I lied. "I'll just take the bus."

"Well, take care of yourself," she said glumly, holding the door open for me.

"You too. Bye."

"Bye."

I stepped back out onto the porch. The door closed gently behind me.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Mrs. Carasco ambushed me as soon as I walked in the house. "And just where the hell have you been young lady?" she snarled.

"I went to visit my Aunt Carol," I responded immediately, looking her right in the eye. "If you don't believe me, call her. I'll give you the number."

Mrs. Carasco eyed me suspiciously. "You didn't want to live with her, so why would you visit her?"

"I wanted to apologize for the way I treated her. Do you want her number or not?"

My defiant attitude finally convinced Mrs. Carasco that I was telling the truth. "Go wash up for dinner," she ordered. "Ian set the table for you. Tomorrow you're doing one of his chores."

I found Ian eavesdropping at the top of the stairs. "Did you really go to your Aunt's?" he asked, following me to the bathroom.

"Yeah. Where were you all day?"

"I went to the mall."

"Wrong choice," I told him. "You should have gone to the park. That's where Connie was – and Sudsy."

"How do you know?"

"I went there before I went to my aunt's. I saw a group of people laying a wreath at the construction site where that girl was found. Some of them were crying. That girl in the park must have died."

"Yeah, she did. They said so on the news."

I turned on the water and started washing my hands. "I told Sudsy she was dead. He didn't give a shit."

"Did you think he would?"

"No. But he certainly gave a shit when I told him I knew he was the killer."

"You actually said that?" Ian sounded shocked.

"I sure did."

"How'd he react?"

"He called me a psycho bitch and shoved me. I almost fell down." I finished washing my hands and dried them on one of the hand towels.

"I don't think you should have said that to him Mara," Ian said.

"On my way to the park I passed his house. His parents were out in the yard gardening. I told his father that I'm on to him too."

"And what did he say?"

"He didn't lose it like Sudsy. He just told me to mind my own business. Oh, and he had Pearl come out and deny everything. He and Sudsy have her completely terrorized."

"Did Sudsy's mom say anything?"

"They have her terrorized too. At least his dad does. She just pleaded with me to go away." I hung the towel back on its towel bar. "I'm going to save that kid. I don't know how, but I'm going to."

"You can't." Ian said. "I told you, there's no point getting involved. You're just going to get in trouble."

"Then I'll get in trouble," I snapped. "Will you help me?"

Ian sighed. "Mara – "

"Dinner!" Mrs. Carasco called out.

"Well?"

"I'll think about it," Ian said.

I had absolutely no appetite that evening. I ate a few forkfuls of baked ham and a few more of macaroni and cheese and then just pushed the rest around on my plate, hoping that no one would notice that I wasn't eating.

"Mara, stop playing with your food and eat," Mrs. Carasco ordered.

"I'm not hungry. Can I be excused?"

"No. Eat your dinner. We don't waste food in this house."

"Then don't blame me if I throw up."

The phone rang. Mrs. Carasco got up to answer it. I knew without even looking at him that Mr. Carasco was watching me to see if I obeyed his wife, so I ate another forkful of macaroni, chewing as slowly as possible. No one at the table had anything to say for the moment, so I could hear Mrs. Carasco's part of the phone conversation very clearly.

"Hello? . . . not right now. We're eating dinner . . . What about her? . . .Look, I really can't talk now. I'll call you later, okay? Bye."

Mrs. Carasco hung up.

"Who was that?" her husband asked.

"Lucy from down the block. She just wanted to ask me something."

Mrs. Carasco returned to her seat and started eating again. I ate a little more ham.

"Ken and Gus are starting that neighborhood patrol tonight," Mr. Carasco said. "I told them I can ride with them for an hour tonight and maybe again Thursday night, but that's it. I can't do any more."

"That's good enough," Mrs. Carasco assured him.

Mr. Carasco gave me an intimidating look. "Hopefully we won't run into any juvenile delinquents."

After dinner I made another entry in my journal. I wrote about my confrontation with Sudsy's dad and how Pearl denied – obviously out of fear – that she was being abused. Then I wrote about my violent confrontation with Sudsy.

Writing about Sudsy and his dad made me think about you. Would you have said yes if anyone had bothered to ask you if you were being abused? Or would you have said no out of fear too? You were certainly too scared to reach out to anyone, since Child Services never came to the house. Or maybe you did reach out, and the person you reached out to didn't believe you.

I failed my sister, I wrote. And unless I can get an adult to believe me about Pearl, I'm going to fail her too. But how can I get someone to believe me if Pearl herself denies that she's being abused?

Mrs. Carasco knocked on my open door. "Time for bed," she said.

I checked my watch. It was eleven o'clock. I'd been so focused on my journal entry and thoughts that I lost track of time. "Okay," I said, closing my journal with the pen still inside it.

"Do you know what that call during dinner was about?"

I stood up and faced my foster mother. "No."

"It was about you."

"Me?"

"A friend of mine down the block said you told her daughter Connie who you are – that you're Luanne James's sister. She wanted to know if it was true."

It figured that Connie's mother would turn out to be one of Mrs. Carasco's friends. "Have you called her back yet?" I asked calmly.

"Yes I called her back."

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her the truth."

Still standing in the doorway, Mrs. Carasco waited for my response. But I had nothing to say. I put my journal in the top drawer of my dresser, not caring that Mrs. Carasco now knew where I kept it. "You said you weren't going to tell anyone," she said.

"I know. I'm sorry," I muttered.

"Why did you do it? To make me angry? To make Mr. Carasco angry? I told you we weren't going to give up on you no matter what you did. All you've done is make things harder for yourself."

"I wasn't trying to make anyone angry. I just felt that Connie and the other kids should know."

"You told other kids too?"

"Yeah."

"Which ones?"

I hesitated before answering. Was she friends with Sudsy's mother too?"

"Well?"

I sighed. This older kid named Sudsy and these two boys who – "

Mrs. Carasco rolled her eyes. "Great. The biggest troublemaker on the block knows your secret now." Shaking her head in exasperation, she started to close the door. "Go to sleep."

My timing was terrible, but I chose that moment to try to talk to her about Pearl. "Wait," I said. "That kid Sudsy, his little sister Pearl is being abused – abused the same way my sister was."

Mrs. Carasco was just as skeptical as Mrs. Burgess. "And just how do you know this?"

"I saw a big bruise on her arm. And she acts really scared all the time, just like – "

"She probably just got some discipline. And if she's anything like that brother of hers, I'm sure she deserved it."

"And another thing," I continued. "I've seen Sudsy hit her. My brothers used to hit my sister too, because they knew they could get away with it."

"That girl is none of your business. You just worry about yourself. Now go to sleep."

Mrs. Carasco left, closing the door behind her so I could change. Defeated, I changed into my pajamas, climbed into bed, and turned off the lights. I left the door closed.

That night I had another nightmare about you.

I was walking along a dirt road with shrubs and trees on both sides, a country road or a road in a really big park. The trees were tall, but not tall enough or close enough to the road to block out the sun. I turned a bend in the road and all of a sudden I saw you walking far ahead of me. I called out your name but you kept on walking. I ran to catch up with you and called your name again, but you still kept walking. Finally, when I was only a few yards away from you, you turned around and raised a hand like a traffic cop and shouted "Stop!".

"What?" I cried.

"It's too late!" You shouted. "Just go away!"

I asked you what you meant by 'it's too late'. You said "I'm dead. It's too late to be nice to me, so don't even try." I said "It's not too late!" And you said "Yes it is! And it's too late for you to help Pearl too!" As soon as you mentioned Pearl one of the sleeves of the blouse you were wearing caught fire. You slapped at it but the fire didn't go out. Then your other sleeve caught fire, and then your hair. "It's too late!" you shouted again.

That's when I woke up. Gasping, I sat up in bed, drew my knees up to my chest and started to cry. Covering my face with my bedsheet to stifle my sobs, I struggled to pull myself together. I wasn't quite there yet when Ian knocked gently on the door.

"Mara, are you okay?" he asked.

I coughed a few times to clear my throat. "Yeah," I croaked. "Go away."

He didn't hear me.

"Mara?" He opened the door a few inches and peered inside. "You okay?"

I angrily dried my eyes with my bed sheet. "I said I'm fine. I just had another bad dream."

"Oh," Ian said. "Okay".

In the brief silence that followed I heard what sounded like a child crying outside the house. I immediately jumped out of bed and rushed to the windows. Ian joined me.

There, standing across the street in her slippers and pajamas, was Pearl. She was rubbing her shoulder and sobbing.

"Shit," I muttered. I grabbed my jeans off the back of my rocking chair and put them on over my pajama shorts.

"Mara don't do it," Ian pleaded. "Please don't do it. You're going to get whipped again."

"So what?" I pulled my sneakers out from under the bed and put them on.

"There's nothing you can do!"

"Maybe not," I said, lacing up. "But I can at least try to help. That's a lot more than anyone else is willing to do." As quietly – and quickly – as I could I slipped out into the hallway and down the stairs and out the front door.

Pearl was still standing across the street crying. I darted over to her. There was a large bruise on her right cheek.

"Pearl, are you okay?" I asked. "What happened to your face? What's wrong with your shoulder?"

She looked down at the ground.

"Who did that to you – your Dad or Sudsy? Tell me!"

Suddenly she grabbed me by the arm and started pulling me towards the park. "Come on!"  
she cried.

"No, come with me," I told her. "Tell my foster mom what they're doing to you."

"No, this way!"

"But your house is that way!"

"They don't know I'm gone yet! Come on!"

She kept pulling my arm. Finally I gave in. "Where are we going?" I asked. She wouldn't answer. She just kept pulling me towards the park. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the old man standing behind a tree across the street, watching us. Would he help us if he saw we were in danger?

We crossed the street to the park. Pearl led me to the construction site, to a child-sized break in the chain link fence surrounding it. She let go of my wrist and pulled the fence back.

"Wait!" I said. "We can't go in there! We'll be trespassing!"

"They won't look for us in there!"

She squeezed through the opening and ran to the field house.

"Wait!" I called out again. But Pearl ignored me. Without even a glance over her shoulder she pulled open one of the doors – I couldn't believe it wasn't locked – and disappeared into the building.

"Shit!" I cried. I looked around to see if the old man – or anyone else – had followed us, but there was no one there. I pulled back the fence and chased after her.

The only light in the field house lobby was the light from the lamp post outside. I could make out a scaffold against one wall, and against the opposite wall something covered with a dropcloth, maybe a reception desk. But that was it. As I stood by the door waiting for my eyes to adjust, I called out to Pearl again, but she didn't answer. I took a few hesitant steps forward.

"Pearl?"

Still no answer. Then I heard a loud clanging sound like someone hitting or kicking something metallic. It seemed to come from over where the scaffold was. I crept slowly towards it.

That's when I heard her footsteps running towards me. I turned just in time to get smashed in the face with the bristle end of a broom. I fell backwards, hitting my head on the floor. Stunned, blood already flowing from my nose, I looked up just as Pearl tossed the broom aside and rushed at me again. Before I could even try to sit up she knelt on my throat, staring down at me with a completely blank expression. I tried to throw her off, but the combined effects of the blow to my head and the cutting off of my air supply was too much for me. I couldn't do it. And with each passing second I moved closer to death.

Funny thing – you'll get a kick out of this – I was dying at that point, and it was definitely a case of murder, but I still didn't have wisdom yet. Instead I had a vision – a vision that showed me just how far off the mark I'd been about everyone and everything – Pearl, Sudsy, the murders, even the old man. In my mind I saw how Pearl killed her first three victims. Each murder played out like a scene from a horror movie.

First up: Bryce Hellstrom's murder. I saw Pearl watch the little boy wander away from his family's picnic, saw her eye his arguing parents and oblivious older sister. And I saw the old man sitting on a nearby bench, spying on her. I saw Pearl catch up to the boy and lure him out of the park to a driveway between two houses, then saw her knock him down and kneel on his throat, just like she did with me.

Next up: the murder of the little girl who was found near the construction site. I saw the girl pick a dandelion while her inattentive mother sat on a bench talking to a friend. I saw Pearl watch the girl from behind a dumpster and the old man totter down a nearby footpath. I saw Pearl lead the little girl behind the field house, out of view of the old man, and kill her the same way she killed me and Bryce.

And finally the little girl in the mall. This time all I saw was Pearl yank the kid into the service corridor, but it was obvious what happened afterwards.

Yes, I saw all that in my mind and finally realized that, abused or not, Pearl was the killer, the one with the mark of Cain, not Sudsy. But despite that revelation, I still didn't have wisdom yet. No, it wasn't until right before I died that I finally got wise.

You know how they say your life flashes before your eyes right before you die? Well, I don't know if that happened with you, but that's what happened to me next. I saw my life – but only the moments of my life that I shared with you. Some of those moments, the earliest ones, I'd completely forgotten.

First up was the afternoon Mom and Dad brought you home from the hospital – the very first time I saw you. Aunt Carol held me up so I could look at you sleeping in your crib. "This is your new sister Luanne," she said. And even though I was only four at the time, little more than a baby myself, I thought you were adorable. "She looks like a doll," I said.

"Yes she does," Aunt Carol agreed.

Next, a bedtime moment, again from your baby days. I was in my toddler bed. Aunt Carol was sitting in a rocking chair, feeding you from a bottle and talking to you. "Don't worry," she said. "Your mommy loves you. She's just feeling a little down. She'll feel better soon. You'll see." Right after she said that, I heard Dad shouting at Mom downstairs. "You're the one who wanted her," he yelled. "Now that you have her, what do you do? You turn into a zombie!"

That moment was followed by one about a year later. It was mid afternoon. I was lying on my bed, awake but pretending to take my afternoon nap. You were in your crib crying. Mom came in and told you to shut the hell up. She gave you a pacifier, but you kept crying, so she yanked it out of your mouth and threw it in the garbage can.

Then I saw that time when you were four and I was eight and we were both sick with the flu. You threw up in your bed. Mom called you an idiot and made you stand around in your pajamas shivering while she changed the bedsheets, instead of letting you get into bed with me.

Next I saw Christmas Day of that year. I got a doll, one of those supermarket stockings filled with candy and little plastic toys, and a sweater. The doll, a pink-dressed plastic baby doll, was of course the standout gift. But as captivated as I was by it, one of your gifts still caught my attention: a blue blouse with a multicolored daisy on the front of it. It caught my attention because it used to be my blouse, and one of my favorites. Then I noticed that your other gifts – two more blouses, two pairs of pants, and a sweater, used to be mine too. You got my hand-me-downs for Christmas. That's all. No toys, no candy. Even at eight that didn't seem fair to me. And it didn't seem fair to you either. You looked at my doll and said 'I want a doll'. Mom said 'No. You have your gifts." Usually a 'no' from Mom shut you down completely, but you were really into my doll. You reached out and touched its hair – and Dad smacked your hand away. Remember? He said 'That's your sister's present. Don't touch what doesn't belong to you'. You started to cry. And Dad spanked you. Remember?

Next up was my birthday party the following year. Hot dogs, hamburgers, ice cream and cake, presents, my friends from school. A typical kid's party – but of course a big deal to me. And it must have looked like a big deal to you too, because after I opened my first present – another doll – you asked Mom 'Can I have a birthday party?" I guess that's when you finally noticed that you never had one before, and never got any birthday presents either (either that or it was the first time you had the nerve to say anything about it). Mom didn't answer. Neither did Dad. But Aunt Carol did. Looking surprised, she said 'Of course you can'. Mom gave her an angry look, but Dad, surprisingly, backed her up. 'Sure you can have a party', he said. And he actually smiled. You had the good sense not to ask for a present right away. You just said 'Thanks Daddy. Thanks Mommy'.

Did you really believe Dad? Did you really think you were going to have a party? Or did you just hope you were? I remember how you kept asking me how many more days it was until your birthday, and how I marked it off on the calendar in the kitchen for you. I guess you did believe, because after a week you worked up the nerve to ask Mom if you could have a doll for your birthday present. Mom said only 'We'll see', but that was enough to get you stoked. By then I was stoked too, so stoked that I decided to give you a gift of my own – one of my old stuffed animals from the bottom of my toy chest. I picked out a small stuffed penguin and wrapped it in some blue crepe paper I had left over from a school project, then buried it back under the other stuffed animals. Maybe in the back of my mind I had doubts about the party happening, but for some reason I didn't tell anyone about your gift. I kept it a secret.

Remember how during the days leading up to your birthday, Mom and Dad and the boys were unusually nice to you? How they didn't smack you or threaten you or even yell at you? It was as if they all decided all of a sudden that you had feelings. But despite their new kindness towards you I still didn't tell them about your gift.

The last shared moment of our lives that I saw in my mind was the big day. Your fifth birthday. I saw you sit down for breakfast and ask, as soon as your butt hit the chair, 'When's my party?' Without even looking up from his newspaper, Dad lowered the boom. 'What are you talking about?' 'My birthday party,' you said, still with a smile on your face. 'You said I could have a party on my birthday'.

'So have one,' Dad said.

Your smile vanished. 'But . . . But aren't you going to help me?' you asked.

Dad put down his newspaper. Now he was smiling. So was Mom. 'What do you need my help for?'

'The . . . cake,' you stammered. 'My doll.'

Now it was Mom's turn. 'What cake? What doll?'

'The ones you said I could have.'

'We never said you could have a cake and a doll.'

'Yes you did!' you shouted.

'No we didn't,' Mom insisted. 'The only thing we said was that you could have a party. And if you want to have a party go ahead – have one. Just don't make too much noise.'

Justin laughed.

'Did you really think we were going to give you a birthday cake and doll like your sister?' Dad taunted. 'Where is your wisdom?'

And that's when you started wailing and ran up to your room.

After breakfast I found you crying on your bed. That's when I should have given you your present. I started to. I actually went so far as to open my toy chest and dig for it. But then I stopped. What if Mom and Dad saw you with it? Even if I gave it to you in secret and told you never to let them see you play with it, there was always a chance one of them would come into our room unexpectedly and catch you with it. Then what? If I denied giving it to you, you would get clobbered for touching one of my things. If I admitted giving it to you, Mom and Dad would get mad at me. And I didn't want Mom and Dad to get mad at me. Not because I was afraid they would hit me. I knew they would never do to me what they did to you. I didn't want them to get mad at me because I liked being one of the kids they loved. Because despite the horrible way they treated you, I loved them and they loved me and I wanted to keep it that way. So I stopped digging for your present and closed my toy chest. The penguin is still in there. Still wrapped. I never touched it after that.

It was seeing your fifth birthday again in my mind that finally gave me wisdom – wisdom about the mark of Cain. The truth was I did have it, because I helped kill you. I helped kill your body by keeping quiet about the lamp, and, even worse, I helped kill your soul by not giving you your present.

Finally the movie screen in my mind went dark, and all of a sudden I was here with you on this beach, in the afterlife. Or maybe this isn't the afterlife. A warm, sunny beach seems way too good for a soul killer like me. Maybe I'm not dead. Maybe I'm just in a coma, and this is a dream. Whatever. The important thing is we're together again, and you say you forgive me. That's all that matters. And wherever we are, afterlife or dream, from now on things will be different. From now on I have your back. Nothing will make me betray you again. Not fear. Not love. Nothing. Because now I know just how much I have to atone for.

I have wisdom.

