Page 7

PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA

Shane O’Leary stretches his back as he shuffles through the front door. The house is dark, quiet. He kicks off his shoes, which are still damp from the boat, then walks through the overdecorated grand entrance, past the spiral stairwell, toward the kitchen.

He freezes when he passes the reading room and sees the outline of someone sitting in a chair near the tall bookshelves. He’s always imagined it would go down like this, like it did for his old man. Two in the back of the head. By a stranger. Or a friend. He doesn’t know which would be worse.

The lamp clicks on and he lets out a loud breath. “Gina, you scared the shit out of me. What are you doin’ sitting there in the dark?”

It’s then he sees that her eyes are red, swollen.

“What’s wrong, my girl?”

“It’s Anthony,” she says, like she’s trying to control her voice from shaking.

“What—?”

“He came home early from the party, upset,” Gina says. “He stormed up to his room.”

“What happened?”

“He says he doesn’t want to talk about it.”

O’Leary lures Gina out of the chair and gives her a hug. Her body shudders as he holds her.

“He’ll be okay. It just takes some time.”

“I shouldn’t have moved him to that school.”

O’Leary doesn’t say that Anthony was having trouble long before the new school. Some kids just don’t fit in. “Don’t you blame yourself…” He pauses, then adds, “Maybe we should get that therapist you were talking about.”

O’Leary doesn’t believe in shrinks and he’s resisted family counseling or a therapist for Anthony. But sometimes you gotta compromise.

“Really? You mean it? You’ll come and—”

“I’ll do whatever you need. Whatever he needs.”

This seems to perk her up. Gina likes to take action: She’s a fixer, a problem solver. But she’s met her match with their son.

“Should I go up and talk to him?” O’Leary asks.

Gina shakes her head. “Let’s give him some time. We can talk in the morning.”

O’Leary sighs. Two in the back of the head would be easier than parenting.

“I wanted to ask you something,” she says.

O’Leary nods for her to continue.

“The accountant. His daughter goes to the Academy. Maybe you could ask him to talk to her, see if she knows what’s going on.”

O’Leary grimaces. “I don’t know. I mean, the guy already helped me broker that donation for the gymnasium, was our reference to get in that school, I don’t know if I can—”

“Shane O’Leary,” Gina interrupts. Her tone is stern, scolding.

He steps back but is unable to pull away from her hard stare.

“You’re doing it again,” she says.

“Doing what?”

“You’re forgetting that you’re Shane Fucking O’Leary. These mutts should want to help you—it shouldn’t be a question.”

O’Leary instinctively stands up taller.

“Okay, my girl, I’ll talk to him.”

Gina’s right, of course. The accountant will do whatever O’Leary wants. It’s not that O’Leary thought otherwise. It’s that he’s worried that he’s not going to like what he hears about their son.