A Kind of Justice Read Online Free

it?
    â€œWhere did
you
go after that, Bobbi?” Cecelia’s voice is sharp. We stare at each other in silence for several long beats. She isn’t asking a question. She’s making a statement.
    â€œI heard that detective is back on the case,” she says. “If he asks me, I’ll tell him I went home after I left you. But, Bobbi, none of us wants to know where the others were that night. We all went home after we left the bar. What if someone told you they killed Strand? What would you do with that information? If you talk about it with anyone, you could ruin that person’s reputation. If you tell the police, you could get that person arrested. If you just eat it, what’s the point? Nothing good can come of it.”
    My thoughts exactly. Sometimes I just forget myself and blurt things out. Like when I asked Strand if he murdered my friend Mandy. A stupid thing to do. It told him point-blank what I was up to. Of course, it also produced my first glimpse of the malice that boiled just below his amiable facade. Up to that moment he had been seductively charming, but as the question rolled from my lips, a shadow passed over his face, and I could see the demons of hell in his eyes. Just for amoment. I wish now I had given more credence to my instincts that night and just walked away from the whole thing—Strand, the murder investigation, everything. Strand would still be alive and terrorizing people, but I would have avoided a horrific conflict, and I’d still be able to sleep like the innocent today.
    â€œDo you understand what I’m saying, Bobbi?” Cecelia knows I zone out sometimes. She wants to make sure I’m in the here and now for this message.
    â€œYes, Cecelia.” I nod my head in the affirmative. But my question dangles unanswered in my consciousness like an itch you can’t scratch. Might I someday be locked away in a place worse than death for something she did? Would I be able to live with that?
    *    *    *
    F RIDAY , J UNE 20
    Don Richards stands and smiles as Betsy shows me into his home office. He is a decent guy. He’s good to Betsy, almost everything I would want in a man for the woman I have loved both as a husband and a sister. He’s not quite tender, but he’s considerate. And kind. And reliable. He will always be there for her, and for my niece, little Robbie.
    He had already won my respect when he and Betsy married, but he cemented it when Betsy miscarried the first child they conceived. Betsy was devastated, not only from the loss but also from feelings of guilt that she must have done something wrong. Don felt the loss, too, I could see it in him, but he put his pain in the background and invested himself in nursing Betsy’s shattered soul back to health. To me, that’s courage, love, and decency—most of the good things I can say about anyone.
    The other thing about Don is that he has allowed Betsy and me tocontinue our relationship. We who were once man and wife became sister and sister. Betsy was the prime mover in our reunification. We had drifted apart after the divorce, mainly because I was ashamed of who I was. I felt that I’d betrayed her, not being the man she thought she had married. She reconnected with me when I started my transition and insisted we do things together. We shopped, had coffee, I did her hair, she and Don had me over for dinner.
    Don went along with all that, even when most men wouldn’t, even when it probably gave him the creeps, seeing his wife’s ex-husband as a transsexual woman. Because of all that, I can forgive him for being a Republican. And for having to pretend that he likes me instead of actually liking me.
    Don is a pleasant-looking man. Neat, well kept, a hint of middle-age spread. More scholarly than athletic. Serious. I can’t imagine him telling a joke. The computer screen behind him is filled with spreadsheet data, glowing like a beacon