Troy had talked about getting rich. Unperturbed. As if the charges against him were an inconvenience along the road to affluence. His mother’s delusions made my eyes hurt.

She placed her hands on the BMW’s steering wheel. Pressed down on the inactive gas pedal. Muttered, “This is somethin’.”

“The car?”

She eyed Weider through the windshield. “You think she’s gonna help Troy?”

“She seems to be a good lawyer.”

“You don’ ever answer a question, do you?”

“Let’s talk about Troy,” I said. “You want him to go to college.”

“He ain’t goin’ there now. You’re sending him to prison.”

“Ms. Hannabee, I can’t send him anywhere— ”

“The judge hates him.”

“Why do you say that?”

She reached over and touched my arm. Stroked it. “I know men. They’re all hate and jumping.”

“Jumping?”

“On women,” she said, working her way up toward my shoulder. Touching my cheek. I removed her hand.

She gave me a knowing smile. “If there’s something a man needs, I know it.”

I shifted backward, touched the door panel. “Is there anything you want to tell me about Troy?”

“I know men,” she repeated.

I caught her gaze and held it. She touched the bruise on her cheek. Her lips quivered.

“Where’d you get that?” I said.

“You think I’m ugly.”

“No, but I would like to know— ”

“I used to be hot,” she said. “My tits were like water balloons, I used to dance.” She pressed her palms to her chest.

“Ms. Hannabee— ”

“You don’t have to call me that. Miz. I’m no Miz.”

“Jane— ”

She wheeled, grabbed my arm again. Claw-fingers bit through the wool of my sleeve. No seductiveness this time. Desperation, as cold fear brightened her eyes and I caught a glimpse of the girl she’d once been.

“Please,” she said. “Troy didn’t kill no baby. The retard did it. Everyone knows it.”

“Everyone?”

“He’s the big one, Troy’s little. Troy’s my little man. It weren’t his fault he hooked up with the retard.”

“Rand’s the guilty one,” I said.

Her grip on my arm tightened further. “Zactly.”

“Did Troy tell you that Rand killed the baby?”

“Yeah.”

I glanced down at her fingers. She coughed and sniffed and removed them.

“He’ll get better,” she said.

“Who will?”

“Troy. You give him a chance and he’ll get better and go to college.”

“You think he’s sick.”

She stared at me. “Everyone’s sick. Being alive’s being sick. We got to be forgiving. Like Jesus.”

I said nothing.

She said, “You understand? About forgiving?”

“It’s a wonderful quality,” I said. “Being able to forgive.”

“I forgive everyone.”

“Everyone who hurts you?”

“Yeah, why not? Who cares what happened before? Same with Troy, what he did is over. And he didn’t even do it. The retard did.”