Family Law, Gin Phillips [top novels of all time .txt] 📗

Marlon, still unable to see Donna’s beautiful face, but well able to see the Mazda jump forward slightly. She was sure that the woman had shifted the car back into drive.

“No,” she said firmly, not shouting. She held out a hand. “Stop, Donna.”

She had no idea, it occurred to her. She had no idea if a single word that Donna said was true. Who knew, maybe Donna had taken the gun from her boyfriend and fired those shots herself? Maybe she had told the boyfriend to do it or maybe she really was blameless. Maybe at this moment she was terrified that this red-faced man would attack her, or maybe she liked the idea of making Lucia bleed.

Regardless, Lucia planted herself in front of the car. The prone beagle was slightly off to the side, out of the path of the tire, but Marlon was directly in front of the hood. She angled herself in front of him, her skirt brushing against the bumper, and she backed up so that he had no choice but to back away as well. Keeping him behind her, she felt the pistol in her purse slap against her hipbone. She knew what would happen if she reached into her bag: this seemed to be one of those scenarios that Evan warned about. By the time she got the gun, the front fender of the car would have broken her knees, leaving her bloody like a dog on the pavement.

She would have to tell Evan that: he had been right. The gun had not made her safe. Although it had made her feel safe, whether that was a false sense of security or a legitimate comfort—she and Evan could argue about it, she would love to argue it, him stealing a sip of her drink, his hand warm against her hip. He would shake his head at the fact that after all the boys’ club stonewalling and sexist slurs and ass grabbing, it was a woman who decided to run her down.

Marlon threw an arm in front of her, shouting. She could see them both, from a distance, like a movie, going through the motions of an absurd dance, and the car seemed to be moving in slow motion, too, but it would not be slow enough.

Lucia braced herself, even as she stumbled.

Rachel

I.

I’d been running for a few blocks when I realized that I couldn’t hear or see Mr. Cleary behind me. I suspected he’d gone back to his car, and I could see how it made more sense to come after me that way. I didn’t feel afraid, though. Adrenaline had sapped away the burn in my lungs and the ache in my legs, but I was eating up sidewalk, weightless, passing house after house with blurs of lighted walkways and porch swings and gingerbread curlicues around the roofs.

I was almost sure that I would make it to Lucia’s banquet before Mr. Cleary found me, and if not, I would run up to one of these houses, and I would scream my head off. I might enjoy screaming.

I wondered if Mr. Cleary had been right about Gilmer. It was possible that the McNally House was a separate street entirely, and I might be blocks off course. It didn’t worry me: I would find my way. The street was silent enough that I could hear the leaves on the trees, and I’d have thought that downtown would be all horns and sirens.

It was a night full of surprises.

It was possible Mr. Cleary had given up and gone home, and he might even head next door and tell my mother what had happened. Maybe he would stand there in his jacket and tie and explain how he’d done nothing but offer me a ride, and then I’d burst out of the car and disappeared into the night. Maybe my mother would even believe that version, but I doubted it. My horror story would suit her better.

A collection of stories, Mr. Cleary had said. Interpret as you like.

I clenched my toes tighter around my flip-flops, and I thought of Grant Cleary: he struggled with garden hoses and analyzed the Bible like he was sitting in English class and touched me too often for it to be accidental. Then there was Margaret Morris: she bought me Icees and hurled razors and would give her life for me even though she hardly knew me. And Lucia Gilbert: she threw her body on top of mine when the bullets came and she shut the door in my face. It was all a mess, everything overflowing out of drawers that were never going to close, and I did not mind because I was overflowing, too.

I was open to interpretation.

I saw a stream of headlights a block or two ahead of me. A line of cars, all turning right from the same parking lot. I saw windows, lit, and a gas streetlamp by a stone fountain.

I didn’t slow down until I reached the curb. I noticed the street sign that said Gilmer, and I waited for a gap in the line of cars. When I was midway across the street, I spotted Evan’s car in the parking lot, and then I saw Lucia near a car I didn’t recognize.

Lucia.

It felt like years since I had seen her.

I stopped next to a white van that was pulled up close to the house, which wasn’t quite as big as I’d expected, although it was like Mr. Cleary described, Tara-ish. The black shutters were glossy, and through the front windows I could see chandeliers and fireplaces and pictures on the walls so vivid that they looked like the paint was still wet. The side door of the house was propped open with a broom. The back doors of the van next to me were wide open, too, with stacks of aluminum trays and cardboard boxes crammed across the entire floor. The inside of the