Sweet Justice. Cynthia Reese
have to lift a finger to get.
Reality came crashing down. “Katelyn... I don’t have five dollars.” The confession humiliated her.
“What? C’mon. We’re not that broke. Are we?” Surprise and disbelief flooded Katelyn’s eyes...and when Mallory didn’t deny it, alarm quickly followed. “Are we?” she insisted.
“Yeah. We are. I’m between jobs, sweetie. I won’t get paid for another two weeks, and I had to use our savings for the first and last months’ deposit.”
“Well...what about your slush fund?”
Mallory couldn’t help but smile. Her “slush fund” was an emergency twenty she had tucked behind her driver’s license. “I used it to pay Kyle for the gas to move us down here.”
“Oh, man, if you used your slush fund, we are broke.”
“Well—we’re not totally broke, but I have to have gas money to get you back and forth to therapy and me to work. If worse comes to worst, I can ride your bike or even walk. It’s only a couple of miles from here to downtown.”
“A couple of miles! That’s an hour’s walk! And not even you could bike in heels. No, Mallory, you’re not going to walk. We’ll... Man. I so did want a pizza.”
“Yeah. I can taste the pepperoni. I have some flour and yeast, and we have that block of mozz. And I scored a couple of cans of tomato paste on sale. I think I’ve still got it—somewhere...” Mallory surveyed the sea of boxes. “We’ll have pizza, Katelyn. Maybe not pepperoni, but we’ll have pizza.”
Katelyn made a sudden choking sound, and Mallory realized she was trying not to cry. Mallory weaved her way back through the boxes and knelt down beside her sister. “What? Are you hurting? I can get your meds.”
Katelyn screwed up her fists and scrubbed at her eyes. “I hate this. I hate it. I can’t even help you look for the blasted tomato paste. This is all my fault. If I hadn’t been so stupid, I wouldn’t have gotten hurt—”
“No. No, honey. It’s not your fault. The house burning down wasn’t your fault. You being left there—that wasn’t your fault, either—” Was it Andrew Monroe’s? Would it make it easier somehow to blame someone for the circumstances of their life?
Yeah. Yeah, it would.
“Can I— Is there any way I can lie down for a while? I’m sorry, Mallory, but I’m so tired...”
Katelyn did look tired. Her earlier energy seemed gone, and now dark circles ringed her lower lids and her pink cheeks had faded back to chalky white, with her freckles standing out in stark contrast. “Sure. The bed’s the one thing we can actually get to.”
Mallory helped her sister to her cramped bedroom, felt her back ache even at Katelyn’s slight weight as she assisted her out of the wheelchair and onto the bed. Katelyn was already drifting off as Mallory pulled the covers up to her chin—over those poor scarred legs and feet.
Mallory felt her own throat close up and she choked back tears as she watched Katelyn settle into sleep. The facility had warned her that Katelyn still had nightmares and that her sleep “wasn’t of good quality,” as the discharge planners had put it. Mallory wasn’t surprised that her sister was tuckered out by seven o’clock.
Rest. And a settled, stable home life, away from medicinal smells and beeping monitors and nurses that said, “This may hurt a little,” when they really meant it would be agony. Yeah, that was what Katelyn needed.
Mallory sighed. She had an apartment to settle and arrange, and a first day on the job tomorrow. Katelyn needed that, too.
By eight, Mallory had discovered that the tomato paste and other canned goods weren’t in any of the boxes labeled Kitchen, and that her usual organizational skills must have taken a leave of absence when she’d been packing up.
Still, she’d made some progress. The pots and pans were found and liberated, the glasses unpacked.
The last one in the box, a big brown iced-tea tumbler, she set carefully down on the dinette table and examined for nicks or cracks. With a sigh of relief, she realized it had come through the move unscathed. It had been her dad’s favorite glass, much to her mom’s despair, as it hadn’t matched anything else in their kitchen.
Neither Mallory nor Katelyn drank anything out of it. It stayed in the cupboard with the other glasses, a reminder of all the times Mallory had toted a tall glass of iced tea out to her dad’s garage workshop.
With a gentle finger, she skimmed the smooth brown surface—it had been some leftover of the 1970s that he’d found for a quarter at a garage sale. Touching it felt as if she was touching him, that he was a breath away, ready to wrap her in his arms for a reassuring bear hug and a promise that things would get better.
The loud, unfamiliar brring of the doorbell startled her out of her reverie. The rental manager? A neighbor?
Mallory wended her way through the maze of cartons to the door. This apartment complex hadn’t appeared too friendly—it was a low-income subsidized complex where people seemed suspicious of newcomers. She’d chosen it in spite of the atmosphere, because it had a stackable washer and dryer, and it was handicap accessible.
Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe there were neighbors out there who cared enough to introduce themselves.
She looked through the peephole and took a step back.
There, on the tiny stoop, stood Andrew Monroe.
And he was holding a take-out pizza carton.
* * *
ANDREW WAS DEBATING between leaving the pizza on the porch and ringing the doorbell for a third time when finally the door swung open.
The Mallory Blair it revealed looked nothing like the one he’d seen before. Gone was the polished wardrobe, and in its place a faded T-shirt and jeans. Her hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, save for one strand of auburn silk that had escaped across her cheek. The biggest change was her glasses—the dark rims framed her intense green eyes and made her look like some glamorous scientist in a television commercial.
“Hi,” she got out. The awkwardness was apparent. “I— How did you—”
“Katelyn’s address on her chart. I honestly thought—” he glanced around at the other low brick duplexes. “I thought maybe you’d written down the address wrong. It didn’t seem to fit with...uh, what you’d live in.”
Did her chin jut out a bit? Yeah, it did.
“This was handicap accessible. And it’s just temporary,” she cut him off in a stiff voice.
He shifted the pizza to his other hand. “Well, uh, it occurred to me that maybe, what with moving in and all, you guys could do with a pizza.”
Okay, so he was a rat and he was actually using the pizza as a pretext for spying on her, which was exactly what Dutch had advised against. In fact, the lawyer’s last words that morning had been “Stay away from Mallory Blair. Far, far away, understand? The less you have to do with her, the better.”
Apparently, though, Andrew couldn’t have picked a better thing to bait Mallory with. The way she was regarding that pizza... Man, her mouth was practically watering. She seemed to be of two minds as to whether she should accept his Trojan horse, but one mind was definitely winning.
“Well, come on in, but please excuse the mess. And Katelyn is asleep, if you’ve come to see her.”
Andrew followed her in. “No, no, it was you—” He broke off and pretended to stub his toe on a carton to cover up his nearly blurted-out confession. This spy business was for the birds.
“What? Are you okay?” She had already bent down and appeared ready to whip off his steel-toed work boot to inspect for damage.
“Yeah, but I hope the same goes for whatever’s in the box.”