The old biker turned away, and I didn’t even think about it, just drove with my legs, put a shoulder on his belt, and slammed him into the wall. With blood in my eyes, I couldn’t see much, but I could feel him, the old fucker. I got two good ones on the ribs and a couple on his face before someone pulled me off. I swung wild, and felt a lip burst. Then I was on the ground, and a dozen boots were working hard to keep me there. They swung in and out, and the world became a simple thing.

At first, it was pain.

Then it was the truck.

Then it was the ditch.

23

Across town, Gibby’s parents ate a late dinner alone. French was angry at his son’s absence, but so pleased with his wife the anger didn’t matter. She laughed, and touched his hand, her lips bright with five years of forgotten smile. Pouring wine, he asked, “Why are you so happy tonight?”

Strangely timid, she shook her head. “I feel guilty talking about it.”

“You’re allowed to be happy.”

“But Jason is still … He’s still…”

“Sweetheart, Jason is beyond us now. Whatever we believe or wish to believe, it’s up to the system.”

“What do you believe?”

She posed the question in such a quiet, small manner that she seemed childlike to French. He placed his hand on hers. “Tonight, all I want to talk about is you.” She looked away, but it was clear the comment pleased her. “This feels fresh—this moment. I don’t want to lose it. Look at me, okay? Tell me your thoughts.”

“You’ll hate me for them.”

“I won’t.”

“But you will. I know you will.” She lowered her eyes, and a single tear hung on her lashes. “It’s been so hard…”

“But you’re happy now. Won’t you tell me why?”

“You won’t be angry?”

“Never.”

She looked up, and her damp eyes filled with trust. Leaning so their faces were inches apart, she said in a soft and smiling whisper, “I don’t feel him anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“In my heart, I don’t feel him. Jason,” she said, and the childlike smile was back.

That image stayed with French long after he’d taken his wife to bed. Lying in the darkness beside her, he studied the workings of his own troubled conscience.

What do I believe about my son?

Since Jason’s arrest, French had walled himself away from as much emotion as possible, and, perhaps, he admitted now, from critical thought as well. That detachment had offered shelter and security, but he felt cracks in the foundations of those walls; and it was his wife who’d unsettled his defenses.

In my heart, I don’t feel him …