The father was a madman. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. “And you must please not look at me as though I were an executioner,” she declared lightly. My sister was scarcely likely to make a mistake. “When did you look up my mother’s records at the Joliet library, Michelle?” Lucy asked, trying not to incriminate herself by sounding confrontational. I wanted to have something to give up. “How will you live?” she appealed.
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