his swollen eyes, looks around, and sees that he’s in a plain room with no window and little more than a hospital bed. The sheets are clean. The walls are bright.
He remembers being attacked from behind, knocked face-down on the concrete. Remembers rough hands lifting him off his feet, knotting something around his neck.
He rolls his tongue around the inside of his mouth, finds his teeth all in place, and decides that he was lucky. He has been through fights before, some pretty bad, during his four years at Folsom. But this is the first time anyone has seriously tried to kill him.
He struggles to sit up and realizes he can’t move. He thrashes against the restraints, and it takes him a long moment to figure out what this means. He must be under suicide watch, tied down so that he can’t try anything stupid with sheets or a stray pair of scissors.
This is a first, but it’s fine with him. He raises his head and looks around at the narrow cabinets, the plastic dish of cotton balls, the roll of paper towels mounted to the wall. Everything is neat and clean and white.
He’s glad to be safe and alone behind a locked door, but he wonders who attacked him. And it gradually dawns on him that maybe Duke was involved.… Because didn’t Duke always say he would be watching? Didn’t Duke always say he would come after him if he screwed up?
Vanderholt chews his lip, feeling stung by the unfairness of it. When the cops showed up, he took all the blame. He led them inside, unlocked Tilly’s door, and said it was all his fault. And he kept his mouth shut about Duke, just like he promised.
But someone tried to kill him.
He settles down and tries to think about this.
What if Duke has connections inside?
What if everybody is calling him a perv and a kid-fucker?
He’s got to think things through. This is a really bad situation. Child molesters are a target, he knows that for sure.
He tries hard to concentrate, but pretty soon his stomach starts growling. His attention wavers, and he begins to worry that—goddamn!—maybe he slept so long that he missed Thanksgiving dinner.
ELEVEN
San Francisco
If it hadn’t been Thanksgiving Day, Reeve would have stayed in bed, snug in her nest of pillows. She has always dreaded social gatherings. And bad news sits at the back of her throat.
Still, the twin pulls of familial obligation and an outstanding meal are enough to get her dressed and out the door. She even manages to hit the street a bit early, which allows time for a detour to the park with the wild parrots.
She scans the treetops, listening for their distinctive noise. A pair swoops overhead, a squawking flash of green wings. They alight atop a streetlamp, and she cranes her neck to watch them preen. They seem enviably content.
She spots another pair, then several of the birds with their distinctive cherry-red heads. Sharp chatter flies overhead as she strolls beneath the trees, marveling that these South American parrots have escaped their cages to form this unlikely urban flock. She dawdles as long as she dares, watching them flit and glide, before trudging off to face her family.
Thanksgiving presents an unavoidable slog of emotions. She misses her mother. She loathes jolly questions about her nonexistent love life. And she is always treated like the damaged child, the weak link who is so in need of her family’s meddling.
But by the time Reeve finishes a plate of turkey with cranberry sauce and hot biscuits, she forgets to be cranky. She licks her fingers, relieved that the newest family member is now the center of attention.
The star guest, baby Tyler, sits in his high chair and shoves Cheerios into his mouth with chubby hands. Reeve’s new nephew is bracketed by her perfect older sister Rachel and her perfect brother-in-law Doug, who absently corrals stray Cheerios on Tyler’s tray.
Henri LeClaire, Reeve’s father, sits at the head of the table, smiling at his new girlfriend, Amanda, who has proven
He remembers being attacked from behind, knocked face-down on the concrete. Remembers rough hands lifting him off his feet, knotting something around his neck.
He rolls his tongue around the inside of his mouth, finds his teeth all in place, and decides that he was lucky. He has been through fights before, some pretty bad, during his four years at Folsom. But this is the first time anyone has seriously tried to kill him.
He struggles to sit up and realizes he can’t move. He thrashes against the restraints, and it takes him a long moment to figure out what this means. He must be under suicide watch, tied down so that he can’t try anything stupid with sheets or a stray pair of scissors.
This is a first, but it’s fine with him. He raises his head and looks around at the narrow cabinets, the plastic dish of cotton balls, the roll of paper towels mounted to the wall. Everything is neat and clean and white.
He’s glad to be safe and alone behind a locked door, but he wonders who attacked him. And it gradually dawns on him that maybe Duke was involved.… Because didn’t Duke always say he would be watching? Didn’t Duke always say he would come after him if he screwed up?
Vanderholt chews his lip, feeling stung by the unfairness of it. When the cops showed up, he took all the blame. He led them inside, unlocked Tilly’s door, and said it was all his fault. And he kept his mouth shut about Duke, just like he promised.
But someone tried to kill him.
He settles down and tries to think about this.
What if Duke has connections inside?
What if everybody is calling him a perv and a kid-fucker?
He’s got to think things through. This is a really bad situation. Child molesters are a target, he knows that for sure.
He tries hard to concentrate, but pretty soon his stomach starts growling. His attention wavers, and he begins to worry that—goddamn!—maybe he slept so long that he missed Thanksgiving dinner.
ELEVEN
San Francisco
If it hadn’t been Thanksgiving Day, Reeve would have stayed in bed, snug in her nest of pillows. She has always dreaded social gatherings. And bad news sits at the back of her throat.
Still, the twin pulls of familial obligation and an outstanding meal are enough to get her dressed and out the door. She even manages to hit the street a bit early, which allows time for a detour to the park with the wild parrots.
She scans the treetops, listening for their distinctive noise. A pair swoops overhead, a squawking flash of green wings. They alight atop a streetlamp, and she cranes her neck to watch them preen. They seem enviably content.
She spots another pair, then several of the birds with their distinctive cherry-red heads. Sharp chatter flies overhead as she strolls beneath the trees, marveling that these South American parrots have escaped their cages to form this unlikely urban flock. She dawdles as long as she dares, watching them flit and glide, before trudging off to face her family.
Thanksgiving presents an unavoidable slog of emotions. She misses her mother. She loathes jolly questions about her nonexistent love life. And she is always treated like the damaged child, the weak link who is so in need of her family’s meddling.
But by the time Reeve finishes a plate of turkey with cranberry sauce and hot biscuits, she forgets to be cranky. She licks her fingers, relieved that the newest family member is now the center of attention.
The star guest, baby Tyler, sits in his high chair and shoves Cheerios into his mouth with chubby hands. Reeve’s new nephew is bracketed by her perfect older sister Rachel and her perfect brother-in-law Doug, who absently corrals stray Cheerios on Tyler’s tray.
Henri LeClaire, Reeve’s father, sits at the head of the table, smiling at his new girlfriend, Amanda, who has proven
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