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

the range with Dad was fun.” She raises her arms out in a shooting stance, hands clasped. “Bang, bang. Like in those cop shows. We always went for pizza on the way home at Anthony’s.”

“I love Anthony’s,” I say, in an effort to redirect her attention.

“Me too. Pepperoni’s my favorite. But I like plain cheese too. What’s your favorite topping?”

“Veggie.”

“Yuck!”

I smile. A normal kid talking about normal kid stuff. As it should be.

“Did your mom go with you guys?”

A dark shadow crosses her face like a rain cloud across the sky at the very moment you’re pitching your tent. “No, Mom doesn’t eat pizza.”

“I mean did your mom go with you to the range?”

“Hell no. Thank God.”

I suppress the urge to laugh. “Why do you say that?”

“It was our thing. Me and Dad. She won’t go anywhere where there’s no A/C.”

“Did your mom learn to shoot?”

“Dad got her private lessons for her birthday.”

What a guy. If Manny had given me marksmanship lessons as a birthday gift, I might have left him. Or shot him.

“Where’d your father keep the guns?”

“In a safe in their bedroom. At least, I think so.”

“Okay, this may be painful, but I have to ask. How were you feeling around the time Mr. Sinclair was killed? Your trip to Lauderdale West wasn’t the first time you’d been in bad shape, was it?”

Her lower lip starts to tremble, and she bites down on it so hard she draws blood.

“You know what I mean,” I say, pointing at the wound on her head, trying not to look down at the scars on her forearms, too many to count. Some scabbed over, others healed long ago. The medical report from Lauderdale West said the concussion happened when she fell off her desk chair and passed out, collateral damage from downing a bottle of Xanax, but slicing her wrists up hadn’t been accidental. Did she actually want to kill herself? To get attention? Or was she just damaged at her core?

“I was taking meds, but nothing helped. My head hurt all the time. I couldn’t sleep, and then I’d fall asleep in class. Half the time I was trying not to explode, the other half I wanted to die. Sometimes it’s all too much, you know?”

It’s a rhetorical question, but I find myself answering, “Yes, I do know.”

She shoots me a quizzical look and opens her mouth to speak, but I cut her off. “Why did you feel that way?”

“Stuff. Everything,” she says, clenching and unclenching her fists. “But, like I told Dr. Michaels, I didn’t try to kill myself. I only took one Xanax, not the whole bottle, no matter what they say. I would never do that!”

“Mr. Sinclair was your counselor. Did you speak to him about how you were feeling?”

“Every Monday morning at eight.”

“Did it help?

“He listened, you know? I mean, really listened.”

“And you didn’t see him the morning he died? Or talk to him, maybe on the phone?”

“No. I said that already, didn’t I?”

I run my finger down my list of questions to ensure I’m not missing anything. “About the pills you took after your folks left for the gala?”

She flops back and sets about plucking hairs out of her head, one strand at a time.

“Please answer my question.”

“Can we not talk about that? Like I said, I didn’t take all those pills,” she says, her words slurring again.

“Do you need to take a break?”

“I’m okay. I don’t want to talk about any of this anymore.”

“Just a few more questions.”

She groans.

“Did you talk to your mom about what was going on with you?”

“I tried, but she doesn’t get it, you know?”

“And your dad?”

“God, no!”

“What do you mean, ‘God, no’?”

“If you haven’t noticed, he’s not exactly Mr. Touchy Feely.” She lets out a snorty laugh. “He tries, but he comes from what he calls the school of hard knocks.”

“You don’t get along with your dad?”

“No, I do. He’s old-fashioned. He’s doesn’t talk about feelings much.”

“For some people, feeling too much isn’t good,” I say.

“Huh?”

“Feeling too much isn’t part of being a surgeon. It’s not good to overthink things when you’re cutting into someone.”

“Gross,” she says, wrinkling her nose, which makes me laugh. “And how would you know?”

I push back from the table and unveil Oscar.

Her eyes go from droopy to wide. “What happened?”

I drop my pant leg. “Story for another day. Let’s just say I know a thing or two about surgeons.”

“I guess,” she says, in a way that implies, “Duh!”

“Getting back to it, I understand you were adopted. From Russia.”

She swallows hard. “If it weren’t for Mom and Dad, I’d probably be some sex slave.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because that’s what happens to girls like me. Girls who don’t matter.”

Her matter-of-fact assessment stuns me into silence.

“I was six when they got me. Most people want newborns. But they chose me anyway. Without them I’d be God-only-knows where.”

“Do you remember much about it? The orphanage, I mean?”

“You know what I remember? I remember getting a new winter coat the day Mom and Dad came to get me to look nice when they arrived. At least nice enough for them not to change their minds and ask for a refund. It was the only new thing I’d ever owned. Only the chosen kids got a new coat. The rest? The ones who stay behind? They just keep wearing worn out hand-me-downs that don’t keep out the cold.”

She walks to the window and runs her hands across the bars, and I wonder if she’s trying to divert my attention. “Dad was poor when he was a kid, too.”

“Let’s get back to your case, okay?” I say, conscious of the possibility, she’s playing on my emotions. “There were some texts the cops got off your and Serena’s phones.”

She stiffens.

“You and Serena are best friends?”

“Were,” she says.

“What do you mean, ‘were’?”

She crosses her arms and sits. “Story for another day.”

I look her in the eye. “I hate to ask this, but I have to. I’ve seen Serena’s texts. She knew you had