Jonathan Kellerman - Bad Love

"Do anything fun this week?"

She shook her head. I placed a hand on her shoulder and she went rigid until I removed it. The reaction made me wonder about some kind of abuse. How many layers of this family would I be able to peel back?

The file on my nightstand was my preliminary research. Before-bed reading for the strong stomached.

Legal jargon, police prose, unspeakable snapshots. Perfectly typed transcripts with impeccable margins.

Ruthanne Wallace reduced to a coroner's afternoon.

Wound depths, bone rills…

Donald Dell's mug shot, wild-eyed, black-bearded, sweaty.

"And then she got mean on me- she knew I didn't handle mean but that didn't stop her, no way. And then I just- you know- lost it. It shouldn'ta happened. What can I say?"

I said, "Do you like to draw, Chondra?"

"Sometimes."

"Well, maybe we'll find something you like in the playroom."

She shrugged and looked down at the carpet.

Tiffani was fingering the frame of the picture. A George Bellows boxing print. I'd bought it, impulsively, in the company of a woman I no longer saw.

"Like the drawing?" I said.

She turned around and nodded, all cheekbones and nose and chin. Her mouth was very narrow and crowded with big, misaligned teeth that forced it open and made her look perpetually confused. Her hair was dishwater, cut institutionally short, the bangs hacked crookedly. Some kind of food stain specked her upper lip. Her nails were dirty, her eyes an unremarkable brown. Then she smiled and the look of confusion vanished. At that moment she could have modeled, sold anything.

"Yeah, it's cool."

"What do you especially like about it?"

"The fighting."

"The fighting?"

"Yeah," she said, punching air. "Action. Like WWA."

"WWA," I said. "World Wrestling?"

She pantomimed an uppercut. "Pow poom." Then she looked at her sister and scowled, as if expecting support.

Chondra didn't move.

"Pow poom," said Tiffani, advancing toward her. "Welcome to WWA fighting, I'm Crusher Creeper and this is the Red Viper in a grudge match of the century. Ding!" Bell-pull pantomime.

She laughed, nervously. Chondra chewed her lip and tried to smile.

" Aar," said Tiffani, coming closer. She pulled the imaginary cord again. "Ding. Pow poom." Hooking her hands, she lurched forward with Frankenstein-monster unsteadiness. "Die, Viper! Aaar!"

She grabbed Chondra and began tickling her arms. The older girl giggled and tickled back, clumsily. Tiffani broke free and began circling, punching air. Chondra started chewing her lip, again.

I said, "C'mon, guys," and took them to the library. Chondra sat immediately at the play table. Tiffani paced and shadowboxed, hugging the periphery of the room like a toy on a track, muttering and jabbing.

Chondra watched her, then plucked a sheet of paper off the top of a stack and picked up a crayon. I waited for her to draw, but she put the crayon down and watched her sister.

"Do you guys watch wrestling at home?" I said.

"Roddy does," said Tiffani, without breaking step.

"Roddy's your grandmother's husband?"

Nod. Jab. "He's not our grampa. He's Mexican."

"He likes wrestling?"

"Uh-huh. Pow poom."

I turned to Chondra. She hadn't moved. "Do you watch wrestling on TV, too?"

Shake of the head.

"She likes Surfriders," said Tiffani. "I do, too, sometimes. And Millionaire's Row."

Chondra bit her lip.

"Millionaire's Row," I said. "Is that the one where rich people have all sorts of problems?"

"They die," said Tiffani. "Sometimes. It's really for real." She put her arms down and stopped circling. Coming over to us, she said, "They die because money and materials are the roots of sins and when you lay down with Satan, your rest is never peaceful."

"Do the rich people on Millionaire's Row lay down with Satan?"

"Sometimes." She resumed her circuit, striking out at unseen enemies.

"How's school?" I asked Chondra.

She shook her head and looked away.

"We didn't start yet," said Tiffani.

"How come?"

"Gramma said we didn't have to."

"Do you miss seeing your friends?"

Hesitation. "Maybe."

"Can I talk to Gramma about that?"

She looked at Chondra. The older girl was peeling the paper wrapper off a crayon.

Tiffani nodded. Then: "Don't do that. They're his."

"It's okay," I said.

"You shouldn't destroy other people's stuff."

"True," I said. "But some things are meant to be used up. Like crayons. And these crayons are here for you."

"Who bought them?" said Tiffani.

"I did."

"Destroying's Satan's work," said Tiffani, spreading her arms and rotating them in wide circles.

I said, "Did you hear that in church?"

She didn't seem to hear. Punched the air. "He laid down with Satan."

"Who?"

"Wallace."

Chondra's mouth dropped open. "Stop," she said, very softly.

Tiffani came over and dropped her arm over her sister's shoulder. "It's okay. He's not our dad anymore, remember? Satan turned him into a bad spirit and he got all his sins wrapped up like one. Like a big burrito."

Chondra turned away from her.

"Come on," said Tiffani, rubbing her sister's back. "Don't worry."

"Wrapped up?" I said.

"Like one," she explained to me. "The Lord counts up all your good deeds and your sins and wraps them up. So when you die, He can look right away and know if you go up or down. He's going down. When he gets there, the angels'll look at the package and know all he done. And then he'll burn."

She shrugged. "That's the truth."

Chondra's eyes pooled with tears. She tried to remove Tiffani's arm from her shoulder, but the younger girl held fast.

"It's okay," said Tiffani. "You got to talk about the truth."

"Stop," said Chondra.

"It's okay," Tiffani insisted. "You got to talk to him." She looked at me. "So he'll write a good book for the judge and he'll never get out."

Chondra looked at me.

I said, "Actually, what I write won't change how much time he spends in jail."

"Maybe," insisted Tiffani. "If your book tells the judge how evil he is, then maybe he could put him in longer."

"Was he ever evil to you?"

No answer.

Chondra shook her head.

Tiffani said, "He hit us."

"A lot?"

"Sometimes."

"With his hand or something else?"

"His hand."

"Never a stick or a belt or something else?"

Another headshake from Chondra. Tiffani's was slower, reluctant.

"Not a lot, but sometimes," I said.

"When we were bad."

"Bad?"

"Making a mess- going near his bike- he hit Mom more. Right?" Prodding Chondra. "He did."

Chondra gave a tiny nod, grabbed the crayon, and started peeling again. Tiffani watched but didn't stop her.

"That's why we left him," she said. "He hit her all the time. And then he came after her with lust and sin in his heart and killed her- tell the judge that, you're rich, he'll listen to you!"

Chondra began crying. Tiffani patted her and said, "It's okay, we got to."

I got a tissue box. Tiffani took it from me and wiped her sister's eyes. Chondra pressed the crayon to her lips.

"Don't eat it," said Tiffani. "It's poison."

Chondra let go and the crayon flew out of her hand and landed on the floor. Tiffani retrieved it and placed it neatly alongside the box.

Chondra was licking her lips. Her eyes were closed and one soft hand was fisted.

"Actually," I said, "it's not poisonous, just wax with color in it. But it probably doesn't taste too good."

Chondra opened her eyes. I smiled and she tried to smile, producing only a small rise in one corner of her mouth.