Suitable for Framing Read Online Free Page B

lacked was conscience. Look in their eyes. All you can see are MTV, rap music, and violent movie fantasies.
    A public outcry would fuel the investigation and assure justice. The family would not stand alone in its grief. Someday a little girl would read about this violent afternoon from a yellowed news clipping with my byline on it and understand exactly what happened to her and her mother and the brother she never knew. So why did I feel like such a ghoul?
    He stared at the photo through watery eyes, then handed it to me. Jennifer Carey’s hair, tied back today, had been carefully curled. She wore blue and a warm smile as she held the baby, all ruffles and satin ribbons. Her husband, Jason on his knee, rested a protective hand on his son’s shoulder, the other arm around his wife. Perfect.
    â€œWe had it taken for her parents’ anniversary in July…” His voice trailed off. The baby’s name was Eileen. I promised to return it.
    â€œHow could anybody just drive away and leave them?” he burst out. “They must be animals!”
    â€œThey’ll catch them. The police put out a BOLO, and tomorrow half a million readers will want them in jail. I’ll do the best I can,” I promised.
    I did not mention that if they were juveniles, too young for adult court, punishment would probably be no more than a minor inconvenience.
    I went back to find Lottie. Rakestraw, wrapping up his work, echoed my unspoken thoughts. “Hope to hell they’re not juveniles,” he muttered.
    Lottie and I drove back to the office in a far more quiet and subdued mood than when we had set out. “Remember,” she whispered, “just before it happened? I was wanting to trade places with her.”
    The lighthearted spirit and the golden afternoon were gone.
    I worked late on the story for the final, long after Lottie had delivered her photos to the city desk and gone home. Luckily, Trish was on duty in the library. She printed out hit-and-run statistics and even unearthed sports clips from Jason Carey’s high school record as a forward on the all-city team.
    She watched over my shoulder as I worked. I object vociferously when editors do that, but I didn’t mind Trish at all.
    â€œThink you could use a breakdown on crime in that shopping center?” She sounded thoughtful. “You know there’s a push now to ban juveniles from some malls until after six P . M . on school days.”
    â€œIf you could dig up some stax on the mall—especially auto theft figures—it would be great. You think like a reporter, Trish.”
    â€œI know,” she murmured, her tone curious. I looked up, but she was on her way back to the library.
    I wrote about Jennifer Carey’s career as a speech therapist, put on hold until her children were older, the irony of her only sister’s work as a counselor for troubled teens; and the young couple’s plans for a future, now uncertain. She was still in surgery when I checked with the hospital.
    Gretchen wouldn’t be able to edit my story for another twenty minutes and I wouldn’t go home without watching the process, so I returned the clips to the library. Trish sprang up from a desk where she’d been nibbling a sandwich.
    â€œNeed something else?”
    â€œNah, just bringing these back.” I dropped them in the in-basket and leaned across the counter.
    She seemed to want to say something but just stood there. The latest economy kick at the paper is to use as few lights as possible at night, when the building is largely unoccupied. The features section, on the other side of the library’s glass wall, was dark. Her perfect skin luminous, she looked young and vulnerable in the chilly cavernous room filled with looming shelves and shadows. It was probably safe, but it sure looked spooky.
    â€œYou’re all alone back here?”
    â€œYep, the only one working tonight. But I don’t mind. In fact I’m