The Way They Were by Mary Campisi

said they might.”
    “Hmmm.”
    “But no one’s come here except you.”
    “So your lawyer’s theory may not be exactly accurate.”
    “It could still happen. Don’t you think?”
    His gray gaze darkened. “It could.”
    “I’d spot them in a minute.”
    “You think they’ll wear a big G for Guilty on their foreheads? They could look just like you or me.”
    “No.” She shook her head with new-found certainty. “I would absolutely know.”

 
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 11
    “ You knew my mother.”—Julia Maden
     
    Journal entry—May 4, 2001
    I graduated from Montpelier Community College last Saturday. Magna Cum Laude. Not bad for a mother with a five year old. Julia was there, sitting in the third row with Clay and his family. Clay’s father has emphysema and has to wear one of those oxygen masks and carry that little cart around with him everywhere he goes. They don’t expect him to be here next Christmas.
    You must have graduated by now, too. Princeton? Or did you change your mind and head to Dartmouth? I have absolutely no clue where you are or what you are doing, other than making a huge success of yourself.
    I always knew you would go places, but there was a time I thought I’d be going there with you.
    ***
    He’d been watching the girl for ten minutes, captivated by her tumble of black hair and the intense concentration blanketing her small face as she bent over a sketch pad. Aside from the obligatory christenings and random birthday parties of his clients’ offspring, Rourke avoided children. Abbie was the first one he’d actually conversed with and only out of necessity, if one could call her monosyllabic responses peppered with sighs, a conversation.
    The girl with the black hair appeared to be about the same age as Abbie, but taller, thinner, quieter. He’d come upon her during a morning jog when he’d stopped at the stone fountain for a drink of water. He’d spotted her hunched against a monstrous oak, oblivious to the passing cars and shrieking children on the nearby swings. He’d behaved the same way at her age. His mother once said the whole world could collapse around him when he was sketching his buildings and he’d never notice.
    Just then, an ambulance whizzed past, its siren and horns blasting through the morning din, but the girl with the black hair didn’t flinch. Curious, Rourke jogged toward her and stopped a few feet away. “What are you drawing?” The girl didn’t respond, not even a change of expression. Was she deaf? Is that why a siren screaming down the street didn’t bother her? He moved closer until his shadow passed over her Nike tennis shoes. She jerked her head up and her slate gray eyes sent a jolt through him. He managed to find his voice and rasp out, “Who are you?”
    The gray eyes widened as the girl clutched her sketchpad and inched away. “Get away,” she snarled, “or I’ll scream.”
    “I’m not going to hurt you.” He stepped back, repeated in what he thought was a calmer voice, “What’s your name?”She didn’t answer. Clearly, she thought he was some psycho-sexual pervert come to attack her. “Look, I’m new in town. I used to sketch all the time when I was a kid. I just wanted to see what you were drawing. That’s all. Really.”
    She wasn’t impressed. No doubt she’d pinned him for a serial rapist and this was his standard line. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
    “Like what?”
    Those gray eyes narrowed to silver slits. “Like you’re some kind of psycho,” she bit out.
    “You’ve watched too many episodes of CSI.” Now he was getting annoyed. No female had ever accused him of behaving as less than a gentleman, unless of course, they asked him not to behave as such.
    “Get away, right now, or I swear I’ll scream and I know the police chief personally.”
    “Look, just relax, okay?” She opened her mouth. Rourke hesitated. Children were like hieroglyphics—he’d never understand them. And teenagers?