States of Grace by Mandy Miller (great novels of all time .TXT) 📗

legs, knobby knees protruding out over the chair. “Shoot,” she says, an unfortunate choice of words, but one which makes us both smile, albeit nervously.

“You said before you weren’t there. What did you mean?”

The standard teenage eye roll. “You won’t believe me.”

“Give me a chance, okay?”

“Fine,” she says, with a tired sigh. “I couldn’t have killed Mr. Sinclair because I wasn’t there.”

“Where were you if you weren’t at school?”

Her brows draw together. “That’s not what I mean. I was at school, but I got there late. I slept through my alarm and got there just in time for first period English, so I missed my regular appointment with Mr. Sinclair.”

“Did you call to tell him you couldn’t make it?” I say, hoping against hope there might actually be some useful phone records.

She bows her head. “I was going to go by later and apologize. Maybe if I hadn’t…” she pauses for a deep breath. “Maybe if I hadn’t missed my appointment, he’d still be alive. Maybe if I’d been there, maybe whoever killed Mr. Sinclair would have, I don’t know, just gone away.”

“In my experience, Zoe, killers who mean to kill someone don’t give up that easily.”

“Yeah, or maybe whoever it was would have killed me too.” Her shoulders sag. “But maybe that wouldn’t have been so bad.”

My heart sinks. “Don’t say that. You’re a smart, beautiful young woman with parents who love you,” I say, although I’m unsure of the parent part.

“You’re only being nice because my parents are paying you,” she says, swiping at an errant tear.

Her cynicism shocks me. But, then again, Russian orphans ordered up like pizza don’t exactly have the luxury of believing there’s such a thing as something for nothing.

“I can understand why you might think that. But no matter who pays me, it’s my job to make sure you get the best defense possible.”

She tilts her head to one side as if I’ve asked her to solve a complex math problem. “You’re saying you’re one hundred percent in my corner?” After a second or two, she lets a full smile bloom and raises a clenched fist, knuckles forward, for a fist bump.

“It’s settled then. All for one and one for all,” I say, surprised to find myself knocking my knuckles against hers, surprised her mood shifted so fast.

“Three Musketeers, right? I love that movie.”

I reel back. “Really?”

“I know it’s a book too, silly!” she says, as an ungodly ruckus erupts out on the unit.

“What the heck is that?”

“I’ve been here a couple of weeks now and, I’m not kidding, every afternoon the same two nut jobs get into a screaming match because one wants to watch Jerry Springer and the other Judge Judy.”

“Hilarious. But maybe we shouldn’t call them nut jobs?” I say, trying to keep the tone light.

Her quick smile is replaced by an even quicker grimace. “It gets a little scary sometimes.”

“I can imagine.” I hold her gaze. Is she testing me, to make me believe we’re a team? Or worse, maybe just plain crazy, her mood shifting like the wind? “Okay, so you say you weren’t there, and—”

She slams her fist on the table. “I wasn’t! I told you you wouldn’t believe me.”

I press on. Backing down in fear will rob me of credibility and will do her no good either, a cowed defense lawyer being about as useful as tits on a bull. “That’s not what I meant. I was just repeating what you said. But let’s move on from there, why don’t we? We need to talk about your father’s gun, the one the cops found in your locker with your fingerprints on it.”

I brace myself for her reaction, but, to my surprise, no sooner are the words out of my mouth than the emotional floodgates open. “That’s not possible. I didn’t kill Mr. Sinclair, and I would never bring a gun to school. St Paul’s has metal detectors. And I would never…He helped me…He was the only one—”

I pat her arm. “Hey, slow down there, kiddo. We’ve got all the time you need.”

Her chest’s heaving as if she’s run the hundred-yard dash.

“First, did you know your father had a gun?”

“Yes,” she says, gulping in air.

“Had you ever seen his gun?”

“Yes.”

“When did you see his gun?”

“A few times.”

“A few times, like when? How many times?”

“I don’t remember. Not exactly.”

“Try. This is important.”

“There was a break-in at our house a few months back. After that, Dad said our security system wasn’t enough anymore.”

“And he bought a gun.”

“For protection.”

“What did they take?

She raises her eyebrows. “They?”

“The burglars, what did they take from your house?”

“I’m not sure. Some of Mom’s jewelry, maybe. Not that she’d miss it. She’s got so much.”

Her gaze drifts out the window to a column of patients in mismatched clothes shuffling past the window.

“Did they ever find who did it?”

Her head jerks back. “What?”

“Find who broke in?”

“No, they didn’t,” she says, her tone becoming more firm with each answer. “Another reason Dad wanted more protection.”

“What kind of gun did he get?”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Glock 19. Two of them.”

“Two? Why two?”

“He wanted both of us, Mom and me, to learn how to use them since we’re home alone a lot.”

“Did you see the guns?”

“Of course.”

“Handle them?”

“Sure.”

“Both?”

“Yes.”

“Dad took me out to the gun range at Markham Park to learn how to shoot.”

“Your dad’s familiar with guns I take it, since he was giving you lessons?”

“God, no. He needed lessons, too. Some off-duty cop came with us to make sure we were doing it right.”

“From the Fort Lauderdale Police Department?

“No idea. He wasn’t wearing a uniform.”

“Do you remember the cop’s name?” I ask, confident there are few cops working for FLPD or the Sheriff’s Department I haven’t heard of, or that haven’t heard of me.

“No.”

‘What did he look like?”

“I can’t remember exactly. Tall, maybe. Not too old, but not young.”

“So, you did shoot the gun? One of the two your dad bought?”

“Yeah.”

“Only one time?”

“More. We went to the range a bunch of times. I liked shooting. Going to