“No, John, you won’t understand. His voice propelled her to cry even harder, so hard that she began to laugh behind her tears. Michelle had charitably taken to sitting with Lucy during Lunch Period, where she assumed a station at the outer edges of the Cafeteria, the crowd diffusing in concentric orbits, the middle tables reserved for only the most prestigious castes. It was an impulse. She had found the location of his firm on the internet on a library computer, tracing him to this place in New York where he practiced criminal law. The entrance of Shoe Lane, and the whole line of the wall of St. Sheppard—becomes entitled to the estates; which eventually—provided he escaped the gallows—would descend to her son. This time she tried to kill me with a dagger.
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