So let me assure you now that we are not accusing you of a crime. “When did you look up my mother’s records at the Joliet library, Michelle?” Lucy asked, trying not to incriminate herself by sounding confrontational. She leaned back in the corner of the cab with a little sigh of relief. After that night she made it a habit. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. The likelihood is that I shan’t see the wench again. If he took a fancy to you, he invited you to the house for tea, bitter and yellow and served in little cups without handles.
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