going to have to wade through them. The first one told the story.
“You were killed in a drive-by shooting,” I said.
There it was again, that ole sensitivity o’ mine.
Justin winced. “What was I doing at the time?”
“Waiting for a streetlight to change after a concert,” I answered, turning in my chair. “If it’s any comfort, they caught the perp. He’s doing life in the state pen.”
Justin absorbed the news with admirable ease. “Then I guess I’m not hanging around here waiting for my killer to be caught, like Gillian is.”
My heart seized. “Did she tell you that’s why she’s here? In sign language or something?”
“No,” Justin said. Then he reached for the TV remote, lowered the screen expertly and flipped to a rock-video channel. “You had me ask her if she knew who killed her. It was no great leap to guess why she’s still around. The question is, why am I still around?”
I thought I knew the answer to that one, though I wasn’t about to say so.
I do have some sensitivity, after all. There are moments when I positively exude it.
Justin hadn’t gone into the Light, if there was such a thing, because his mother couldn’t—or wouldn’t—let go.
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