Page 80 of Thick as Thieves

“Then what would you call it?”

“Common sense,” she shouted. “You would have gone ballistic. I was afraid of what you would do to him.”

“I’d have killed him.”

“Exactly! Given the choice again, I still wouldn’t tell you. I’d rather prevent you from doing something rash and stupid.”

“Like I did to your rapist stepbrother? Would you rather I hadn’t interceded and let the abuse continue?”

She looked as though he’d struck her.

He pushed himself up, turned away from her, hung his head, and put his fingers to his temple. “Shit, I’m sorry, Crystal. I’m sorry. That was an awful, terrible thing to say.”

“Never mind it. You’re upset.”

“I am, yeah.” He faced her again. “But that’s no excuse.”

She gave him a gentle smile. “I forgive you, okay? Tell me why you’re upset. Why are we arguing over this? It happened a long, long time ago. You, me, Rusty, we’re different people now.”

“You and I, maybe. Not Rusty.”

He sat down in the center of the sofa, planted his elbows on his wide-spread knees, bowed his head, and shoved all ten fingers up through his hair. “I’m angry over not knowing about this sooner because Rusty’s whereabouts and actions that night could be significant. Only tonight, in the last few minutes, have I realized how hugely significant they could be.”

“Significant to whom?”

“Not only to you and me.”

“Joe Maxwell’s daughter?”

He kept his hands on his head but turned it toward her. She was fiddling with the fringe on a chenille throw, winding strands of it around her index finger meticulously, keeping her eyes on the needless twining instead of looking at him.

When she did peer over at him, she said, “One of my beauticians saw you at the hardware store. You had a roll of architectural drawings with you. The clerk you were consulting about paint colors remarked that the front elevation of the house looked like the Maxwell—”

“Okay. No need to go on.” He lowered his hands from his head and laid it back against the cushions, as he’d done when he’d first arrived.

Crystal said, “Is she cute?”

“Cute” wasn’t the right word.

“More than cute?”

Arden didn’t have the perkiness that “cute” connoted. She was more serious and often looked sad. She was intriguing and infuriating, and there should be some kind of prize awarded for the sacrificial self-discipline he had exercised tonight by leaving her.

Goddamn. Why did life have to be so complicated?

“No comment?”

Crystal’s question served as a prod away from thoughts of Arden and back to Rusty’s actions that night. “You said it was later confirmed that Rusty’s arm had been broken. When was that?”

“The swelling and discoloration got worse by the hour. I warned him that if he didn’t have it seen to, he might get gangrene. I don’t know if that’s medically correct, but it scared him into agreeing to go to the emergency room. I don’t know exactly what time it was when he left, but it was still dark, before dawn. I led him through the house and out the front door. Half-heartedly I offered to drive him, but he told me he’d left his car half a block away and that he could manage.

“A few days later—you were still in jail—Mom and I were at a gas station. He saw us, pulled in, and showed us the cast on his arm. He teased Mom into signing it.” Scornfully, she added, “When he left, she remarked on what a nice, friendly young man he was.”

All seriousness, she said, “That’s the sum total of what I know about that night, Ledge. Since then, on the rare occasions that I’ve crossed paths with Rusty, he’s never mentioned it, even in a subtle way that only I would catch the meaning of.”

“But he keeps a close watch on you.”

She made a gesture of dismissal. “I’m the one who got away. He can’t get over that.”