Willow nods. But then her smile fades and she picks at the Velcro back of the new doll. “He said he was sorry. He didn’t meanto, so he took me out for ice cream and wanted me to be his pretty princess.”
I really, really don’t want to ask. But I need to know. Why I need to know is up for debate. “What was he sorry for?”
She steals a quick little glance at me. Her words come out mumbled. “He hit me.”
And just like that, Martin has a death warrant.
I catch Bambi freezing in the corner of my eye. She’s never had a taste for the kind of violence I dole out to traitors andassholes, but the fire in her eyes at those three tiny words tells me she may be rethinking her policy.
“He hit you?” she asks the kid as gently as possible. I can still hear it in her voice, thoug
