Page 37 of Sting
“We followed you around town. Waited while you got your manicure. Parked down the street from your house.”
“Spying on me.”
“Not so much spying as plotting how we were gonna…you know.”
“You were formulating plan A. What was plan A?”
“Doesn’t matter. It got scrubbed. Back to your brother—what was life like when you two were kids?”
“Why do you care?”
“Stop answering every question with a question.”
“Then stop asking me questions.”
“You don’t like my questions?”
“I don’t like your prying. Or is delving into the background of your victims part of your MO?”
“My MO?” That amused him. “I guess you watch some TV, too.”
He came as close to smiling as she’d seen, but it didn’t soften his mouth or any other feature. If anything, it emphasized the harsh angularity of his face.
Nor did the semismile last. It faded as he tilted his head to one side and studied her, then said, “I’ve had an idea. But before I advance it, I want to know why the subject of your brother makes you twitchy and defensive.”
“It doesn’t.”
He merely looked at her with an unflinching, I-know-better gaze.
After an interminable length of time, she relented, ran her hand around the back of her neck, stretched it, released a long sigh. “There was nothing extraordinary about our family life. We were typical. Middle class. There was Mom, Dad, me the big sister, Josh the younger brother.”
“Did you watch out for him?”
“More or less. Like older siblings do.”
“Which was it? More or less?”
“If I must pick, I’d say more.”
“Why?”
She caught herself shifting her weight—twitching—and stopped. “Every family has a unique dynamic.”
“Those are words that don’t mean shit.”
“In our family they meant that I, as the older child, had an implied responsibility to protect my younger brother.” Actually her responsibility to safeguard Josh had been more than implied. Daily she’d been reminded of it, if not with a verbal admonishment then with sighs of disappointment or looks of reproof which were equally, if not even more, effective.
“To protect him from what?”
“Normal, everyday childhood hazards.”
“Hmm.”
With impatience, she added, “Like stepping on a rusty nail. Tripping down the stairs. Running with scissors.”
“Tiresome and thankless job for a kid,” he said, to which she didn’t respond. “Did your protective tendencies carry over into adulthood?”
“No. We both grew up.”
