Page 32 of Justice

“Mm. Okay. He cute?”

“He’s cute enough.” She turned from the window, and she seemed to warm up, ease open a crack.

“What’s your favorite subject in school?” I pried a little more since she seemed like she was ready to open to me. I can understand that I felt like a threat. A new woman living in her house. But I was just there to do a good job with Rita and manage the house. Nothing more.

Mehar had picked Rita up hours ago because she wanted to take her to get her nails done.

“History.” She looked out the window. “Everybody thinks it’s just dead people and dates. But it’s not. It’s cause and effect. Somebody does something, and it doesn’t just go away when they want it to. It follows. Twenty years later, thirty, thousands, and it’s still shaping people who weren’t even born when it happened.” A small pause. “That’s the part I like. Nothing really stays buried. The truth always finds its way back up and it always repeats itself.”

“That’s deep for a Saturday morning.” And it was. For a second I forgot to be wary of her, because a girl who talks like that has a real mind in her, and I’ve always had a soft spot for a real mind. “What do you want to be when you grow up? You’re very intelligent.”

“A lawyer.” She said it easy, watching me. “A defense attorney, actually. For criminals.”

Everything in me went tight, but I kept my face pleasant, curious. “Oh yeah?”

“Everybody deserves a defense, right? Even the worst person you can think of. Especially them.” She tilted her head at me. “The law says you get somebody in your corner no matter what you did. Because everyone deserves a fair trial. Everyone deserves the chance to clear their name. So somebody’s got to be willing to stand next to the guilty ones and fight like they’re innocent. Don’t you agree?”

My chest pulled tight, and I didn’t let it show on my face, because letting things show on my face was a luxury I’d given up years ago. I’ve had too much taken from me because of showing emotion.

“Of course,” I said, smooth. “Everybody’s entitled to a defense. It’s not about guilt or innocence, it’s about the process being fair for all of us. That’s a civil right. That’s the spine the country’s supposed to stand on.”

“Exactly.” Her eyes stayed on me, bright and interested. A little too interested. “See, you get it. That’s what I keep saying. So I think I want to go to law school. For undergrad I’m working on getting in to an Ivy. I have a 4.0 and I plan on taking AP and IB classes next year.” A little pause. “But what do you think I should major in? I was thinking criminal justice.” Another pause, lighter than air. “Did you go to college?”

And there it was, the question sliding in soft, and I felt the trap even if I couldn’t see the shape of it.

“No,” I lied. “College wasn’t in the cards for me.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Storie turned back to her window. Her voice went light, pleasant, and absolutely lethal. “You wouldn’t be a booty-wiper and a babysitter if you’d gone to college, would you.”

The car went quiet.

Lord, this child. This nasty little girl. I felt the old me rise up in my throat, the one who ate people alive across a courtroom for a living. I set my hand on my chest and pushed her right back down where she lived now. I kept both eyes on the road and my voice pure honey.

“Taking care of people is just as important as defending them.” I said. “Maybe more. Anybody can debate. Not everybody can love on folks when they’re at their lowest and can’t do a thing for you back. That takes a different kind of strong.”

“If you say so.” Bored. Dismissive. A queen waving off a servant.

I let it go. But under the honey, under the caregiver, under the soft harmless woman I wore like a coat, something cold uncurled in me and paid close attention. Because that wasn’t a bratty teenager talking. Brats lash out. This was aimed. Every question placed careful, every word set down like a hand of cards she’d already looked at. I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d just been walked through a conversation this child had planned before she ever got in my car, and I could not for the life of me figure out what she’d been fishing for.

I told myself I was tired. I told myself she was fifteen, grieving and mean, like Aubrey said.

I did not believe one word of it.

The Castle rose up ahead of us, stone towers against a bright blue sky, and Dream lost her entire mind in the backseat.

“We’re HERE! Miss Skye, we’re HERE!”

“We sure are, baby. But you gotta wait right here for your daddy, remember? He has a surprise.”

I parked. Storie was out the door before I got the car in park good, done with me, done with all of it. She marched off a few steps ahead, and that was when Dream’s little voice piped up behind me, helpful as a fire alarm.

“Storie. You got red on your dress.”

Storie stopped cold. Reached back. And I watched it hit her the same second her hand found it, that warm damp bloom spread across the back of her white dress, right where a girl never wants it. Her period had come and announced itself at the worst possible moment. White dress. Little sister’s birthday party. A whole lot of people about to pull up.

For one second the mask cracked clean off her face. Pure teenage horror flooded in behind it, because whatever else that child was, right then she was just fifteen and mortified by her own body doing body things in public.

“Oh my God.” Her voice came out small and panicked, nothing like the girl who’d sliced me up in the car. Her eyes filled fast. “Oh my God, oh my God, is it bad, how bad is it⁠—”