Only Flesh and Bones Read Online Free Page A

Shrugged. “I guess so.” Her voice took on an earnest tone. “It truly sucks, not knowing.”
    “Because you’d like to know who killed her.”
    She looked up, confused. “Well, yeah, but also because I usually have such a good memory. I mean, here I was an honor student, you know? And I can’t remember what happened in a whole week!”
     
    We went on talking like that for half an hour or so, getting nowhere, and for longer during dinner. Her reactions to my questions quickly wore a circular groove in the conversation, looping around what should have been her major concerns—the loss of her mother and a desire to avenge her death—and reconnecting again and again to seemingly minor ones. It was like chipping solid frost out of an old-fashioned icebox, lots of effort for frustratingly little gain, and all the time worrying that I’m going to stab the wrong thing with the pick and ruin the mechanism.
    The effort to guide Cecelia’s train of thought onto a cogent track got worse when her father entered the conversation over dinner. He served grilled venison steaks, which he
sliced into with carnivorous glee. “Go ahead, Cecelia dear,” he urged, “tell Emily what you can remember. You can trust her.”
    Cecelia set her jaw in refusal.
    After enormous bowls of double-chocolate ice cream, we moved into the living room and Menken prodded her again. “Really now, Cecelia dear, barring this therapist woman, you’ve been without the companionship of an older female for over half a year. Let Emily help.”
    This time, Cecelia gave him a smoldering glare.
    The cumulative fatigue of too many miles and too many emotional turns in one day moved me toward the door. “You know, I think it’s time for me to call it a day,” I said.
    “Let me walk you to your truck,” Menken said, turning a smile on me that seemed a degree or two too warm.
    I grabbed Cecelia by one skinny arm. “Let Cecelia walk me out, J. C.; we got more girl talking to do,” and as I backed out through the doorway, I added, “I’ll give you a call soon and we’ll talk job contacts, okay?”
    “Anytime.” He beamed.
     
    Taking one last stab with the mental ice pick before I climbed into my truck, I asked Cecelia, “So what does this therapist you’re seeing think is going on with you? Or have you asked her?”
    Shrug.
    “I thought so. You just go because you father takes you, right?”
    Shrug. “The headmistress said I should go. Dad just agreed.”
    “So who takes you?”
    “I go by bus.” She whimpered, craning her neck to lay her head down on my shoulder once again.
    I reached up and stroked her hair, stirred by the weight of her need. Stopping to turn toward her, I put my arms around her and held her close, imagining briefly that if she had been my child, I would have taken such good care of
her that she would not be needing some hired gun to straighten her out. It wasn’t hard to see why this therapy wasn’t getting anywhere. It had to be a cold, lonely ride downtown to a psychotherapist’s office when you’re sixteen, almost seventeen, gawky, your mother is dead, and you don’t want to be there in the first place.
    Cecelia clung to me like a limpet. “I hate going to her, Em. Why can’t I just come live with you?”
    So much for maternal fantasies. The truth was I could barely look after myself, and I didn’t want to give that fact a whole lot of contemplation. “Do you go at the end of the day?” I asked, keeping the conversation on matters I thought I could handle.
    “They let me out of study hall and gym class for it. I go twice a week.” Shrug. “It sucks big time. It’s this little bitch on spike heels who looks like she wants a cigarette more than she wants to talk to me. And all the other girls at school are jealous that I get off so much.”
    “Oh, that’s great. So your classmates know you’re going and everything.”
    Cecelia hung her head. “I tell them I’m going to the orthodontist.” At this, she