“The parents are good. We moved out of the apartment complex a few years after you left. We got a real house a few blocks away. My little brother was so excited to have his own backyard, even though he never could quite wrap his head around the fact that it was too cramped for a baseball game,” says Riley, grinning at the memory. “Jake is in college now. Bowdoin College in Maine. Can you believe that? I don’t know how he deals with the cold all the way up there.”
“And what about you? What else have you been up to, beside the shop? Keeping busy with friends? Dating anyone?” I press.
He shifts in his seat. “Not up to much, I guess. And I’m not dating anyone. The store takes a lot of time. I read a lot, and I try to write a little when I can.”
“Really? Can I read your work anywhere?”
“Essays, mostly. And no, I’m not published. It’s mostly just for me.”
“What kinds of things do you write?” I ask. I know I’m verging as nosy with all my questions—but as I gaze at him, it’s suddenly difficult to hold myself back.
The stray thought crosses my mind that he may have at some point written about me. I shake the idea out of my head.
Don’t be so self-involved, April, I tell myself. I’m sure he’s hardly thought about me since I left.
But still, there’s something in his cocoa-colored eyes as he looks back at me. It’s a deep, soulful look, almost like yearning. I find myself leaning forward, eager for his response.
Riley opens his mouth, and then closes it again. He shakes his head and looks down at his book.
The realization crashes over me like a wave.
Can it be? I wonder, feeling stunned. Did I spend my entire childhood not knowing?
All those afternoon bike rides, those treks to the park, those hours spent playfully teasing each other. It all added up to one thing: my childhood crush on Riley was never unrequited, as I had thought.
Although I didn’t know it at the time, he liked me too.
And as I watch the scarlet gather on the back of Riley’s neck, I wonder—is it possible that those feelings never left?
I look down at my hands. I’m not sure what else to say.
We spend a few minutes in silence. The only sounds come from high in the treetops, where birds sing to each other. The wind rustles through the leaves, and the breeze unexpectedly stings at my eyes. I bring my hand to my face and discover that my eyes are beaded with tears.
Apparently I haven’t handled this reunion as coolly as I thought.
“So you’re going after the Hawthornes and the judge,” Riley says at last. His voice is hesitant. “Anyone else? Can you tell me that much, at least?”
I hold my breath. If I tell him too much, I know he’ll find a way to insert himself, for the sake of saving me. Coming to my rescue. He won’t be able to help himself.
But if I don’t tell him anything, I could risk alienating the only friend I have.
I choose my words carefully. “I’ve pretty much had tunnel vision for the Hawthornes,” I admit. “And it was only after I got back to town that I decided to go after the judge too. But now that I’m starting to think about it, I already have a few other people in mind.”
“Like who?”
“The prosecutor, for one. He made the case that my parents were some kind of horrible demon people, which just isn’t true. He ruined their reputation,” I say. “Also, Kimberly and Eric Benz.”
“Oh, I know them,” Riley says, surprised. “They’re still friends with my folks. They stop by my store every now and again to buy some books. They haggle with me every single time. It gets tiring pretty quick, to tell you the truth.”
“They were my godparents,” I say, my hands clenching. “Eric and my dad had been friends ever since college, and Kim became practically best friends with my mom over the years.”
“So why would you go after them? Shouldn’t they be on your side?”
“They should have been, yes. But apparently they never were,” I say. “They testified against my parents. They betrayed us in the worst way possible.”
“I never realized that,” says Riley, looking surprised. “Why did they do that?”
“Beats me,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. But I can’t keep the anger out of my tone. It seethes under my skin.
“Sounds like you’re missing a few pieces of the puzzle,” Riley replies.
I turn my head sharply. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs. “It’s just unexpected, is all. Maybe there’s more to the story.”
“Maybe,” I echo, losing myself in my thoughts for a moment. But then a bird squawks overhead, breaking my trance, and I shake my head. No use overcomplicating things right now. What’s done is done, and there’s no point in asking why.
I look back at Riley. “So how are they doing now? What are they up to?” I ask, hoping that some kind of karma has already done my work for me.
But Riley says, “They’re doing fine. Their daughter just had a kid, so they’re grandparents now. They seem pretty happy, relatively speaking. They’re pretty finicky people, so I think their notion of ‘happy’ is more demanding than most.”
I try not to let my disappointment overtake me. I persist, “And the prosecutor? Do you know anything about him?”
Riley thinks for a moment. “His name was Chaisson, wasn’t it? Something Chaisson?”
“Robert Chaisson. That’s right.”
“I see his name in the paper sometimes, but I don’t really know much about him. I guess he’s still working for the city, though.”
My back slumps. So much for karma.
“Are you really going after all these people?” Riley asks me, sounding almost disbelieving. He doesn’t think I have it in me. He thinks I’m too innocent, too pure to do something so terrible.
I nod. Like Riley says, maybe I do come from criminals.
I should have this in my blood.
At least, I think.
8
The sky is turning dark and cloudy when I approach the courthouse. Pulling over into an empty parking spot on the street, I keep my eyes on the entrance and tap my fingers distractedly against the steering wheel.
There’s no sign of Judge Connelly. Not yet. I’m not sure what time the judge is supposed to get out of work, but I figured it was better to be on the safe side and arrive early.
And besides, it’s not like I haven’t had practice waiting. I’ve already waited fourteen years. I can handle a few more hours.
My eyes flick down to the paper bag resting beside me on the car seat. Inside are a half-dozen miniature glass bottles of liquor——tools for today’s plan. They are sealed, for now. I bunch up the bag and stash it underneath the seat, out of sight.
I unbuckle my seat belt and get out of the car, reflecting back on my conversation with Riley earlier today. Even though I never planned to reveal myself to him, I’m still kind of glad that he recognized me. Part of me expected that he had long forgotten me by now—it wasn’t like we were ever best friends or anything, just childhood pals brought together because we happened to live in the same building. But it means a lot that he remembers me. Sitting with him in our old haunt in City Park was like something from a dream.
And there’s one more thing. After talking with him, I realize now just how wide the scope of my vengeance has become.
I’ll admit—at the time, it was incredibly disheartening to hear how all of the people involved in my parents’ persecution never received their just desserts. The judge. The prosecutor. The so-called friends who testified against my parents.
But as I walk up the courthouse steps, my muscles twitch beneath my skin; my level of anticipation is running high. As nervous as I am, it feels energizing to be doing something. It feels right, like at last all the forces in the universe are coming together to restore a balance that had been upended so long ago.
Who needs karma, anyway? I think.
Today, I am the karma.
I cast some furtive glan
ces around me as I approach the courthouse doors. Suited lawyers scurry up and down the steps, carrying briefcases. Well-dressed men and women linger in clusters, talking urgently to their lawyers. I can hear their frantic whispers:
…this is just a preliminary hearing, so don’t…
…so what am I supposed to say again?…
…if there’s one thing you should not do, it’s give the judge any attitude…
My ears prick at this last one. A lawyer is standing in front of a lean, frightened-looking teenager with a neck tattoo peeking out of his collared shirt. The lawyer, a tired-looking, sallow-faced man, rests his hand calmly on the teenager’s shaking shoulder. His parents stand off a few feet beside them; his mother is bunching up her hands in concern.
I try to edge closer without being conspicuous.
“Look in his eyes when he talks to you. Always say ‘Your Honor.’ Don’t give him any reason to dislike you—I told you what kind of punishment he meters out to kids who get on his bad side. Do you remember that?” the lawyer is saying.
The teenager shakes his head emphatically.
“Good.” The lawyer claps his hand on the boy’s shoulder one last time. “Keep your chin up, you’ll be fine. Let’s go.”
They don’t seem to notice when I follow them inside. There’s a hushed kind of quality in the courthouse lobby. Footsteps thud back and forth across the hard, polished floor. People whisper to each other, their voices echoing off the cavernous walls, ghostlike.
We round a corner and come to a stop outside a set of courtroom doors. I keep my distance from him, pausing at the wall a few yards away.
“What are we waiting for?” asks the teenager in a panicked tone. His voice is thin and shaky. I blink in surprise—I had pegged him at seventeen or eighteen years old, but he sounds much younger.
The lawyer checks his watch. “The bailiff will come out and get us when it’s time go in. We’ll only be here for a few minutes.”
My phone chirps. I reach for it, hastily putting it on mute, and then smile to myself when I see the screen.
It’s Liam.
I’ve been staring at paperwork all day and my assistant just put another pile on my desk. I could use a light at the end of this tunnel, he says. And I think you know what I mean by that.
There’s a warm rumbling in my lower belly as I read his words.
Still at work? I text back, keeping one eye trained on the courtroom doors so I don’t miss my chance to slip inside when they open. I wish I could help you, but how am I supposed to send you another photo of my panties when I left them at home?
That’s a lie, of course. I’m wearing a pair underneath my jeans right now. But I let Liam think that I’m his obedient little sex kitten.
You naughty girl, Liam texts in approval. What are you doing right now?
My fingers pause on the screen. There isn’t a way to say “I’m at the courthouse” without sounding incredibly suspicious.
I’m in the car, I type out vaguely.
Sophia, Liam texts back immediately, if you’re texting me while you’re driving, I’m going to be very unhappy with you.
My eyebrow arches. Liam Hawthorne never seemed like the type to be concerned about my safety. But apparently there’s a more caring, protective side to him than he lets on.
Keep your boxers on, I reply half-jokingly. I’m parked. Spending the day exploring the city. I grin to myself, satisfied with my quick thinking. That seems like a sufficient explanation for my evening wanderings.
How can you be so sure that I’m wearing boxers?
I bite my lip, holding back a laugh so I don’t draw attention to myself.
He texts again, Check out the Frenchmen Art Market if you’re in the area. It’s in the Marigny, a little neighborhood right next to the French Quarter.
Concerned if I’m texting and driving? Giving me recommendations for art markets? I’m beginning to wonder if it is indeed Liam on the other end of the line, when another message flashes on my screen:
They’re pretty easy going over there. They won’t mind if you accidentally flash them.
Ah, there’s the Liam I’m familiar with.
Mr. Hawthorne, I reply, play-acting as if I’m offended, I’ve been raised to be a proper lady. I promise you there will be no ‘accidental’ flashing of my private parts.
Better do it on purpose in that case, returns Liam.
I’m about to type out a witty reply when the courtroom doors across from me suddenly open with a clang.
Got to run, a cop just tapped on the window and told me I have to move. I quickly text out the lie to Liam, and then shove the phone into my pocket.
I look up just in time to see a uniformed bailiff step outside the doors, escorting a small cluster of people out of the room. There’s a sour-looking woman in a pantsuit, and her lawyer, and a balding man ushering two young children through the door. The woman’s handcuffs jangle with each step she takes.
My good mood vanishing, I watch them trudge slowly down the corridor. I wonder what’s happened to them. Is this yet another family whose lives the judge has destroyed? What has the woman done? Does she even deserve this?
At one point in my life, when I was very young, I believed that the world was generally fair. I once believed that people got what they deserved—the good people got to live happily ever after, while the bad ones were punished. Just like the fairy tales. It seemed simple. Safe.
But I’m not so naive anymore.
I follow the teenager and his parents as they walk tentatively into the courtroom. The lawyer takes the teenager up to the defense table in the front, where my parents once sat fourteen years ago. I take my familiar seat in the back, rubbing my bare arms.
Is it cold in here, or is it just me?
I look back up, my limbs trembling. The judge’s bench is empty, for the time being. He must have slipped into his quarters for a few minutes. There are, however, other people flitting about the room—the bailiff, and the clerk, and a stenographer, and the district attorney. This attorney is younger and gentler-looking than the one who tried my parents’ case, the last time I was in this room.
It seems like hours before anything happens. Everyone moves mechanically, dispassionately, like they’ve repeated these motions a thousand times before.
Let’s get on with this already, I think. There’s a phantom-like ache in my chest. It grows in intensity as the minutes tick by. My fingers curl against the wooden pew.
A door opens with a creak. Judge Connelly’s black robes shift around him as he lumbers out of his quarters. His eyelids are hooded and low, and his cheeks sport a dark five o’clock shadow.
It’s possible that he’s just had a long day, but judging from the way he’s staggering up to the bench, I have another theory for his haggard appearance. My mind flashes back to the crinkled bag in my car.
This is more perfect than I’ve planned.
The judge clears his throat as he sits down. My heart starts pounding painfully while he shuffles through the papers in front of him. He’s taking his time, paying no mind to the frightened teenager at the table below him—or to me, for that matter.
Which at least works in my favor.
At last, the judge’s eyes lift. They sweep over the teenager critically, resting a moment on his tattoos and his pierced ears. Judge Connelly’s lips, which were resting in a disinterested grimace, pull back into a sneer.
The teenager’s back arches, his posture turning a little straighter. It looks painful on him. He brings a hand to his head in a futile attempt to smooth down his spiky hair.
But I can tell from the look on the judge’s face that he’s already made up his mind.
The teenager is already doomed.
The clerk reads from a piece of paper, “The Honorable Roger T. Connelly presiding. The Court will now hear the case of the State of Louisiana versus Adam Marcus.”
“Please be seated,” says the judge in his loud, growling voice.
And ju
st like that, with the simple sound of his voice, I’m eleven years old again. My hands grip the edge of my pew more tightly. Tears gather in my eyes. I blink them back.
"All right, Mr. Marcus, you've been charged with three counts of the malicious destruction of a building," drones the judge. He looks up and glares at the teenager. "I want you to understand before we proceed, Mr. Marcus, is that this is a felony. Each one of these counts carries up to five years in prison. Do you understand?”
The teenager visibly gulps. He nods frantically.
“Answer me, Mr. Marcusss. For the record,” the judge snaps.
I straighten in my seat. Did I mishear, or is the judge slurring his words?
The teenager tries to speak, but only a tangled, frightened sound comes out. He clears his throat and tries again.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Good,” says the judge, seemingly unmoved by the boy’s obvious terror. He shuffles the papers on his desk once again, then looks back down at the defense attorney. “Mr. Carney, have you had the opportunity to review these charges with your client?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Good,” says the judge again. He shifts his eyes back to the teenager and does little to hide his evident disdain. “As to the charges that have been made against you, Mr. Marcus, how do you plead?”
The teenager opens his mouth to respond, but the judge cuts him off.
“Let me remind you, Mr. Marcus, that entered into evidence by the State is a video recording, in which you can clearly be seen spray-painting the side of a building. The so-called tag that you used at the scene of this crime was also found on two other buildings nearby.” The judge leans forward over the desk, his scowl fixed and angry on his face. “For your own sake, Mr. Marcus, I recommend that you tell the truth. The court will spare no mercy if you lie.”
Watching the whole scene, I can’t help but feel for the poor teenager. OK, maybe he sprayed a little graffiti—but it’s not like he’s some kind of monster. But the way that the judge is looking at him, the teenager may as well be holding a bloody knife.
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