how do you know . . .”
“Because,” he said, “I know. I just know.”
In Stephen Warrensburg’s universe two plus two can equal whatever he wants it to.
11
It should have ended right there.
There in the overflow parking lot before we ever made the turn down toward the observatory, it should have ended. I should have walked away. Never should have said another word to Stephen A. Warrensburg.
Maybe one day I’ll learn to keep my mouth shut.
Maybe not.
“Warrensburg,” I said, “I’m going to give you a break, because I can’t imagine what it must be like . . .”
“Don’t feel sorry for me, Caldwell,” he cut me off. “I don’t need your pity.”
“All right, then. Let me tell it to you like it is. If you’re half the genius you claim to be, you know you need evidence before you can just know something.”
“Oh, yeah, then how do you just know that your dad was not involved in all this?”
“Involved in all of what?” I shouted. “You’ve thrown wild accusations at all of your dad’s closest friends, including your own mother, and you’ve got no reason, got no facts, you just know.”
“Yeah? I’ll tell you what I just know. I just know that my mother and your father are lovers.”
I hit him right smack in the nose.
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