Page 4 of The White Picket Fence

“That you were in jail,” she said dryly. “You and that Cliff Gargano. Always getting into scrapes.”

“Never illegal ones, though. Mostly,” he amended when she just looked at him. He sighed. “I should have come to visit you.”

“Probably. But I get why you didn’t. It was awkward.”

“I guess that’s one word for it.” Heart-wrenching was another. To visit her, either at school or at her home, when all it did was bring back memories of Charlotte? “I’m here now, though. And I’m mad as hell at whoever did this to you.”

She grimaced. “So am I. So I guess we should get started so that you can be on your way. I’m sure you have other responsibilities.”

“Not today. I have all the time in the world for you.”

“Well, I don’t have all the time in the world before my next pain pill, so...”

He chuckled again. “I missed you.”

Another attempt at a smile was followed by another wince. “And I you. You’ve done well for yourself?”

“I make a living. Mostly work for cops and PIs, but I do portraits occasionally. I own a house with my brother Gino out in Mount Airy. We do okay.”

“A bachelor pad.”

“Less than you’d think. We clean and everything.” He opened his sketchbook. “So. Let’s get started so you can have another pain pill. And don’t worry. Now that I know you’re here, I’m going to be here every day. You’ll get better and be discharged just to be rid of me.”

“You’re still cheeky.”

“Some things don’t change.”

Mrs. Johnson glanced down at her niece. “Some things do. Should I tell her you were here if she doesn’t wake up before you’re gone?”

“Yes.”I think.“Of course. I hope she’s been happy.”

Mrs. Johnson hesitated. “I don’t know. She feels guilty about what happened to me and I don’t know why.”

Tino frowned. “Guilty how? Like because she wasn’t there at the time?”

“I don’t know. You should ask her.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I will. Now, what can you remember about the man who hurt you?”

“He was tall,” she began. “Bald. Big fists. Brown eyes. Like amber.”

Tino began to sketch.

* * *

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Tuesday, March 29, 10:40 a.m.

“He was tall.Bald. Big fists. Brown eyes. Like amber.”

Charlotte Walsh blinked at the sound of her aunt’s voice, wincing as her head throbbed and her neck ached.

She’d started to lift her head when it all came rushing back.

Dottie.Aunt Dottie was here, in the hospital. In the ICU. Because someone had beaten her almost to death.

Charlotte had found her, had thought her dead, even after she’d checked for a pulse. Dottie’s had been so weak that Charlotte had missed it. The medics had arrived quickly, had been so kind.

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