Page 116 of We Are All Guilty Here

She said, “Hey, Adam.”

“Hey, Jude.” His lip snagged against the gap in his teeth. Father Nate’s gossip had clearly made its way around town. Adam hadn’t been surprised to see her alive. He’d been surprised to see her here. “You trying to help your baby sister put me back inside?”

She shrugged. “How would I do that?”

“Trick me into saying something stupid.”

“I don’t think you need to say anything at all with your DNA tying you to the rape over in Metter.”

He huffed a laugh. “That gal don’t remember shit. We were both drunk out of our minds.”

“You weren’t so drunk that you couldn’t rape her.” She saw his body tense, the ropey lines of his muscles straining in his arms. “Did I hit a sore spot?”

“You think I don’t know you’re some kind of agent with the FBI?”

Jude shrugged. “You got me.”

“Judy-Jude.” Adam’s grin had turned rancid. “I was watching your daddy hit the road round about this time yesterday morning. Your sister going batshit. Your nephew losing his damn mind.”

Jude said a silent prayer of thanks to Freddy Henley for honing inside her the unique skill to remain passive in the face of cruelty.

“Gerald’s blood’s still in the street. Drove over it on my way to work this morning.” He was watching her, hoping for a reaction. “That old fool knocked on my door and came into my house acting like he was just trying to clear up a misunderstanding, but I knew what he was doing there.”

“What was he doing?”

“Trying to put me back inside, same as you.” Adam jabbed his finger in her direction. “Think again, bitch. I ain’t going down for those two girls again, and I sure as shit ain’t going down for some stripper who changed her mind twelve years later and called it rape.”

“Barbara Jericho.” Jude watched his nostrils flare. “That’s the name of the woman you raped. Barbara Jericho.”

“I know that lying bitch’s name.” Adam’s eyes flicked down to the glass of whiskey. “I don’t have to listen to this shit.”

“Sure, but why not take this opportunity to talk to me?” Jude asked. “Tell me why you’re not guilty. Like you said, I’m with the FBI. I can point them in your direction, or you can persuade me to point them away.”

“Go fuck yourself. I’m not a goddam pedophile.”

“Really?” Jude asked. “I was only fifteen years old when you raped me in the back of this bar.”

He tensed again. Jude braced herself for rage, but he said nothing. His eye started to twitch. His hands clenched into fists. She mentally prepared herself to respond to a thrown punch or bottle or even a dive across the bar to choke her.

Adam did none of these things. His chest rose and fell as he worked to calm himself. Jude had seen thousands of cons perform the same exercise. They learned it during anger management therapy inside. Regulate your breathing. Think of something that makes you happy. Walk away.

He wasn’t walking away, but he took in another breath before saying, “I was eighteen, just a few years older than you.”

“You held me down. I bit your hand when you tried to cover my mouth.”

There was no scar, but Adam smoothed his thumb along the place where she’d bitten him.

She said, “I cried for help. I begged you to stop.”

He shook his head. “That’s not what happened.”

“You punched me in the stomach. I vomited down your back.”

He kept shaking his head. “You puked from drinking too much.”

“You still kept raping me.”

Adam couldn’t hold her gaze. He looked at the glass again. Jude recognized the hungry way he licked his lips.

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