I patted her good hand. “It’s okay, babe: we’ll think of something else. You’re recovering from a bullet wound. Try to calm down: you need to save your strength for healing. I’m on your side in this, really, truly. If I wasn’t, I would have talked to your granny without consulting you, you know.”

She blew her nose. “I can’t even braid my own hair. I can’t play lacrosse or ride for months until this stupid arm heals. Everything takes forever, or I have to get people to do stuff for me. I hate it.”

“Speaking as one who’s been through the wars, I agree: it’s a pain. Want me to finish buttoning you? Just this once?”

She nodded, her eyes still tearing a bit. Judging by the size and the cut, the shirt must have been filched from her father’s closet. It covered her tasted right arm with room to spare.

“Your dad off getting your lesson plans?”

“Yeah. He’s meeting with Ms. Milford to see what I can do online. It’s only a few days, I keep telling him not to be so anal.”

“And he says, `Young lady, where did you pick up that kind of language?”’ I suggested.

She gave a shaky laugh. “Something like that. And that it’s a competitive world and I need to learn that losers are not strivers. Then he adds he’s going to take me to Washington, to a school with my natural peers where I’ll learn how to behave with proper respect. Like, learning how to totally trash the environment or something while I’m pretending to protect it, that’s his idea of respect. Where can Benji go i? he has to leave St. Remigio’s?”

“I’ve only had one not very bright idea. I could put him up in a motel for a few days, while I try to find an immigration lawyer who can help him. It’s not the best idea-I hate for him to have keep skulking around, not to mention for him to have to be by himself. It’s not good for his spirits, and, anyway, as he himself says, there’s no point in his staying here if he can’t work. And he ought to be with kids his age-your age-and feel able to relax.”

“But he can’t do that as long as those racists are looking for him.” She

smacked the dressing table with her good hand. “I tried to get him to let me send his mom money, but he wouldn’t take it. No matter what Daddy and Granny are saying, he isn’t trying to exploit me.”

“I have a tiny idea about that, too. Last Sunday night, when Marcus Whitby drowned in the Larchmont pond, Benji was standing at the attic window watching for you. I’m almost certain Benji saw what happened. If Marcus Whitby didn’t go in on his own, Benji saw who pushed him in. Benji won’t tell me or Father Lou, but if you could get him to talk about it, I might be able to work out a deal with the Chicago police. Captain Mallory, who’s in charge of the city’s antiterrorism squad, could-“