Page 120 of Ghosts Don't Cry

“Well, you should.” Mom steps closer. “I’m told that boy has been nothing but trouble since he arrived in town. He’s probably been using you this whole time. Have you been giving him money?”

“He ishomeless!” The words explode from me. “He was sleeping in that factory because he had nowhere else to go, not so he could get high! He was starving, and cold, and no one cared!”

Silence falls, and they both stare at me.

“I took him food, and blankets, and I had to fight to make him accept even that.” My lips tremble, and I bite into the bottom one.

“How long?” The anger has left Dad’s voice, and the question is soft.

“Since he got here. Sometime in September.” My voice wavers. “He … he needed help, but he wouldn’t ask for it. It took me weeks just to get him to talk to me. Trusting me took even longer. He made me promise not to tell anyone. I knew if I broke that promise, he’d never speak to me again. And I needed to make sure he was okay … I couldn’t … I …” I blink rapidly, forcing the tears back.

“Oh, Lily.” Mom reaches out and touches my cheek. “You should have told us.”

“You wouldn’t have understood, and he would have run again. He … he just wanted to go to school, and learn, and read, and …” I dash the tears away. “You would have just seen what everyone else sees.”

“And what do you see?” There’s something in Dad’s voice that I can’t read.

“Someone who writes poetry, and reads everything he can get his hands on. Who …” More tears. More angry sniffing. “Someone who looked at me like I was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.”

Mom’s hand finds mine. “The court hearing is tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow? But that’s …”

“They’re pushing it through fast. The mayor wants to make him an example to anyone else who thinks they can get away with theft and drugs.”

Make an example of him?

“I need to be there.” I lift my chin, daring them to argue with me. “You can ground me after. Take away my car, stop me from seeing Cassidy. I don’t care. I’ll take whatever punishment you want. But I’m going to be there. He needs to know I haven’t deserted him.”

They exchange a look, then Dad nods. “We’ll all go.”

I don’t sleep that night.

The courthouse is packed the next morning. The entire town is here, watching, waiting, and whispering behind their hands. Amy sits with her mother, their matching pearl necklaces gleaming as they lean close to talk. Dan Hartman and his family are near the front, his father’s hand resting on his shoulder like he’s proud of his son being there to witness justice.

The doors open, and my stomach flips.

He looks wrong. Pale and thin, with dark circles shadowing his eyes. His hands are cuffed in front of him, and the orange jumpsuit hangs off him. He looks younger than his eighteen years somehow.

He doesn’t look up, or check his surroundings as he follows the officer who guides him across the room. His head stays lowered the entire time.

My fingers dig into my thighs as the prosecution talks about his drug use.

Drugs.

Have I been blind all this time? Did I miss the signs that he was using? Or had I only seen what I wanted to see?

The prosecutor’s voice carries through the courtroom as he talks about making examples, sending messages to the younger generation, and what happens to people who think they can take what isn’t theirs. He doesn’t mention that Ronan is homeless or that he’s sick. He doesn’t refer to anything that might make him seem anything other than a threat to the town.

Ronan’s attorney speaks next. He talks about Ronan’s circumstances, his homelessness, and how he’s a boy who needed help and found none. But the judge’s face remains impassive. It’s clear he’s already made his decision.

Five years.

Mom’s hand finds mine, squeezing tight. The room spins. Blood rushes in my ears, drowning out everything except those two words.

Somewhere behind me, someone whispers, “Good. It serves him right.”

I don’t look around to see who it is. It’s probably Beverly Walsh, or Amy’s mom, or any of the other people who’d rather lock him away than admit they failed him.