my past.”
Riley was staggered.
Her “past”? she thought. Jesus, how can a thirteen-year-old have a “past”? What’s the matter with people?
“I’m sorry,” Riley said.
Jilly spoke haltingly through her tears.
“It’s like … well, you know, it’s … I mean, Riley, it seems like you’re the only one who cares.”
Riley’s throat ached and her eyes stung. She couldn’t reply.
Jilly said, “Couldn’t I come to live with you? I won’t be much trouble. You’ve got a daughter, right? She could be like my sister. We could look after each other. I miss you.”
Riley struggled to speak.
“I … I don’t think that’s possible, Jilly.”
“Why not?”
Riley felt devastated. The question struck her like a bullet.
“It’s just … not possible,” Riley said.
She could still hear Jilly crying.
“Okay,” Jilly said. “I’ve got to head over to breakfast. Bye.”
“Bye,” Riley said. “I’ll call again soon.”
She heard a click as Jilly ended the call. Riley bent over her desk, tears running down her own face. Jilly’s question kept echoing through her head …
“Why not?”
There were a thousand reasons. She had her hands full with April as it was. Her job was too consuming, both of her time and energy. And was she in any way qualified or prepared to deal with Jilly’s psychological scarring? Of course she wasn’t.
Riley wiped her eyes and sat upright. Indulging in self-pity wasn’t going to help anybody. It was time to get back to work. Girls were dying out there, and they needed her.
She picked up the folder and opened it. Was it time, she wondered, to get back in the arena?
CHAPTER THREE
Scratch sat on his front porch swing watching the kids come and go in their Halloween costumes. He usually enjoyed having trick-or-treaters come around. But it seemed a bittersweet occasion this year.
How many of these kids will be alive in just a few weeks? he wondered.
He sighed. Probably none of them. The deadline was near and no one was paying attention to his messages.
The porch swing chains were creaking. There was a light, warm rain falling, and Scratch hoped that the kids wouldn’t catch cold. He had a basket of candy on his lap, and he was being pretty generous. It was getting late, and soon there would be no more kids.
In Scratch’s mind Grandpa was still complaining, even though the cranky old man had died years ago. And it didn’t matter that Scratch was grown now, he was never free from the old man’s advice.
“Look at that one in the cloak and the black plastic mask,” Grandpa said. “Call that a costume?”
Scratch hoped that he and Grandpa weren’t about to have another argument.
“He’s dressed up as Darth Vader, Grandpa,” he said.
“I don’t care who the hell he’s supposed to be. It’s a cheap, store-bought outfit. When I took you trick-or-treating, we always made your costumes for you.”
Scratch remembered those costumes. To turn him into a mummy, Grandpa had wrapped him up in torn-up bed sheets. To make him into a knight in shining armor, Grandpa had decked him out in cumbersome poster board covered with aluminum foil, and he’d carried a lance made out of a broomstick. Grandpa’s costumes were always creative.
Still, Scratch didn’t remember those Halloweens fondly. Grandpa would always curse and complain while getting him into those outfits. And when Scratch got home from trick-or-treating … for a moment, Scratch felt like a little boy again. He knew that Grandpa was always right. Scratch didn’t always understand why, but that didn’t matter. Grandpa was right, and he was wrong. That was just the way things were. It was the way things had always been.
Scratch had been relieved when he got too old for trick-or-treating. Ever since then, he’d been free to sit on the porch dispensing candy to kids. He was happy for them. He was glad that they were enjoying childhood, even if he hadn’t.
Three kids clambered up onto the porch. A boy was dressed as Spiderman, a girl as Catwoman. They looked about nine years old. The third kid’s costume made Scratch smile. A little girl, about seven years old, was wearing a bumblebee outfit.
“Trick-or-treat!” they all shouted as they gathered in front of Scratch.
Scratch chuckled and rummaged around in the basket for candy. He gave some to the kids, who thanked him and went away.
“Stop giving them candy!” Grandpa growled. “When are you going to stop encouraging the little bastards?”
Scratch had been quietly defying Grandpa for a couple of hours now. He’d have to pay for it later.
Meanwhile, Grandpa was still grumbling. “Don’t forget, we’ve got work to do tomorrow night.”
Scratch didn’t reply, just listened to the creaking porch swing. No, he wouldn’t forget what had to be done tomorrow night. It was a dirty job, but it had to be done.
Libby Clark followed her big brother and her cousin into the dark woods that lay behind all the neighborhood backyards. She didn’t want to be here. She wanted to be home snugly in bed.
Her brother, Gary, was leading the way, carrying a flashlight. He looked all weird in his Spiderman costume. Her cousin Denise was following Gary in her Catwoman outfit. Libby was trotting along behind both of them.
“Come on, you two,” Gary said, pushing ahead.
He slid between two bushes just fine, and so did Denise, but Libby’s costume was all puffy and got caught on some branches. Now she had something new to be scared about. If the bumblebee costume got ruined, Mommy would have a fit. Libby managed to get untangled and scurried to catch up.
“I want to go home,” Libby said.
“Go right ahead,” Gary said, moving right along.
But of course Libby was too scared to go back. They had come way too far already. She didn’t dare go back alone.
“Maybe we all should go back,” Denise said. “Libby’s scared.”
Gary stopped and turned around. Libby wished she could see his face behind that mask.
“What’s the matter, Denise?” he said. “Are you scared too?”
Denise laughed nervously.
“No,” she said. Libby could tell she was lying.
“Then
