LITMIR.BIZ

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“How was your weekend?” she asked.

      He shrugged. Turned a chair over before hefting it in place. “Dad signed me up for the indoor soccer league.”

      She helped him lift the next chair. “I didn’t know you wanted to play soccer.”

      “I don’t. I want to play basketball.”

      “Then why—”

      “Dad wants me to.”

      “Well, it might be fun—”

      “No, it won’t. None of my friends are playing and I think soccer’s boring, but Dad wants me to play it because he says I’m not good enough to start at basketball, which means I’ll be on the bench for most of the games and won’t get enough exercise.”

      She crouched in front of him and placed her hands on his shoulders. “Dad just wants what’s best for you. Come on, give it a try. If you don’t like it after a few weeks, I’ll talk to your dad about quitting.”

      Marcus frowned, but it wasn’t the anger on her son’s face that made her throat constrict. It was the disappointment. “No, you won’t. You always say you’ll talk to him but it never changes anything.”

      She sat back on her heels. “Honey, that’s not true. Dad and I may make decisions that you don’t like but we’re only thinking about what’s best for you.”

      “Basketball’s what’s best for me.”

      “Well, then,” she said slowly, “I’ll discuss it with your dad.”

      He searched her face. “Promise?”

      The idea of confronting Trey, of subjecting herself to his put-downs and arrogance made her palms sweat. But for her son, for that hopeful look on his face…

      “Of course I promise.” Something crashed in the kitchen. Nina stood. “Could you please check on your sister?”

      As she watched her son leave, his back stiff, she couldn’t help but wonder if she was doing the right thing. She wanted to teach her kids how to get along with their father. To protect themselves from his stinging comments and wicked temper. So why did she feel like she was failing them?

      And in the process, failing herself?

      

      ONE GOOD THING about his latest foster parents. They had decent taste in music.

      Kyle Fowler loaded AC/DC’s “Back In Black” into the SUV’s CD player and cranked the volume. He switched on his high beams but that made it harder to see in the heavy snow.

      Their vast CD collection was the only good thing about Joe and Karen Roberts. Sure, during the past seven months with them they’d given him a cell phone—to use in case of emergencies—and bought him some new clothes. But they were no different from any of his other foster parents.

      He slowed enough to make sure there was no other traffic and then coasted through a Stop sign. No other foster parents had given him anything except a hard time. But Joe and Karen had bought him things just so they could take them away again.

      What kind of sick head game was that? They were getting off on their power, that’s what they’re doing.

      Jeez, it was just a little pot. It wasn’t like he was cooking up meth or something really bad. Pot never hurt anyone. Besides, they shouldn’t have been snooping around his room. They were the ones who were wrong and yet they thought they could ground him?

      Who the hell gets grounded anymore?

      None of his other foster parents had ever cared if he got in trouble. Okay, so maybe they cared—but only how it affected them and their check. Oh, once in a while he’d have someone bitch him out, maybe slap him around a bit but nobody lectured him like the holier-than-thou Joe and Karen.

      On a straight stretch by the high school, he accelerated and flipped the bird to the empty building. He wasn’t going back there, that’s for sure. The SUV fish-tailed on the slippery, snow-covered road, but he easily kept it under control.

      He remembered Karen’s disappointment, Joe’s anger, as they’d sat him down earlier this evening. He’d felt almost sick when Joe tossed the baggie of weed onto the coffee table in front of him. And when they’d both said how disappointed they were in him, he hadn’t been able to breathe.

      Karen claimed she found it when she was cleaning up his room. She was always doing stuff like that—cleaning his room, putting away his clothes. Acting all nice and sweet, as if she enjoyed having him around. But he knew the truth would come out eventually. She and Joe were just messing with him. Acting as if they liked him, cared about him.

      His hands tightened on the wheel. What bullshit.

      He reached into his coat pocket and took out a pack of smokes. He’d just forget how nice Karen pretended to be, how she smiled at him and laughed at his jokes. How she asked him what he wanted at the grocery store and never complained that he ate too much. How she’d made him a cake for his birthday.

      No one had ever made him a cake. No one had even remembered his birthday before. But Joe and Karen took him to a restaurant and when they got back home, they had the cake with candles and everything. They’d even sung to him.

      It was freaking embarrassing. He was fifteen, not five.

      The worst part was, when Joe had hugged him and Karen kissed his cheek, he’d thought maybe, just maybe, this time would be different.

      His eyes burned. And it was different. But it was also worse. Because he’d thought they were cool. But the way they flipped out over a little bit of pot was whacked.

      He had wheels, a full tank of gas and, thanks to his helping himself to the extra cash around the house and in Karen’s purse, he had money. Almost two hundred dollars. That would last him until he was far enough away to ditch the car. He’d get a job and start fresh. Make his own way.

      And to hell with everyone who’d ever held him back. To hell with anyone who tried to stop him.

      With his cigarette in his mouth, he lifted his hips and dug in his front pocket for his disposable lighter. Steering with his left hand, he lit the cigarette with his right and blew out smoke. He glanced at the speedometer. He was going fifty down Main Street. He should probably slow down but nobody in this hick town was up anyway.

      Not even the cops.

      He pushed a button to roll the window down a crack. He took his eyes off the road for a second to flick the ash off his cigarette but when he looked through the windshield again, he was heading straight for the sidewalk. Swearing, he dropped his cigarette and jerked the wheel to the right at the same time he slammed on the brakes. His tires locked up. The SUV spun out of control, jumped the curb and crashed through the front of Sweet Suggestions.

      

      NINA WAS SURE it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. It couldn’t be.

      Because it seemed really, really bad.

      Two of the three large, glass display cases were smashed. Tables and chairs were in pieces across the room. Donuts, pastries and loaves of bread covered the floor, along with rubble and glass. Both large windows were demolished. The outside wall was gone.

      And a banged-up SUV sat in the middle of the room, halfway through the wall separating the kitchen from the front.

      The frigid air cut through her sweatpants. She shivered and flipped the hood of her heavy down coat over her snarled hair. When Police Chief Jack Martin had called and woke her, she’d tried to take off in her sweats and the ratty Hello Kitty T-shirt she slept in. Luckily, her mother—whom she’d called to watch the kids—had shoved Nina’s arms into the coat. She just wished she’d had the good sense to pull on wool socks instead of slipping her bare feet into these ancient canvas sneakers. She could no longer feel her toes.

      Outside, the lights from two police cars were flashing while bright orange flares burned at the intersection.

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