H Y S T E R I A
5
dragged her home got her two full weeks. I ran when the cops showed. I always ran. This punishment was going on six weeks. Six weeks for one lie. Such a waste. No matter what she told the police, I wasn’t going to be charged. That’s what my lawyer said anyway. He’d been here the week before, when the knife block was still on the counter and my parents still left their bedroom door unlocked. John Defano or Defarlo or something. He was tanning-bed dark with slicked-back hair, bleached teeth, and a gold chain that was visible if his collar was unbuttoned (which it was)—and he was, unfortunately, as sleazy as he looked. “Mallory Murphy,” he’d said, scanning my tanned legs resting on the coffee table. “Just rolls off the tongue.” “So does Lolita,” I mumbled, picking at a nearly invisible speck on the sofa. But then I stopped digging at the couch cushion and stared at him, at his unnaturally white teeth smiling at me. The lawyer had never spoken to me before. It was always, “Keep her inside,” or “Don’t let her talk to anyone,” with a thumb jutting in my general direction. And now he was talking to me. And smiling. Even my parents could sense it. They leaned forward in their seats, practically salivating for the news.