He laughed. “Alma’s daughter. She’s a psychic.”
Abigail started to explain how doubtful it was that the lady with the gorgeous rosebushes had psychic ability, but Brooks was already continuing the story.
“I will admit my reflexes might have been just a tad slow pulling Ty off the pissant, due to all the yelling and lecturing.”
Her head might’ve been spinning a little, but she followed well enough. “You let your prisoner choke his lawyer, and found it satisfying, as you’d have liked to choke him yourself.”
Brooks gave her arm a swing and grinned at her. “Though it doesn’t reflect well on me, that’s about the truth of it. The pissant quit then and there—and Ty’s sentiments toward him, delivered at the top of his lungs as said pissant retreated, were suggestions of self-gratification I don’t believe the pissant can manage. Missy ran out after the pissant, screaming and sobbing. And as a result of drama and distress, I’m taking half an hour with a pretty woman.”
“I believe there are people who think the rules, or the law, shouldn’t apply to their particular situation because they’re poor or they’re rich, they’re sad or sick or sorry. Or whatever justification most fits their individual makeup and circumstance.”
“I can’t argue with that.”
“But the court system often gives credence to that attitude by making deals with those who’ve broken the rules and the law for just those reasons.”
“I can’t argue that, either, but the law, and the system, have to breathe some.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Law needs some room, some flexibility, to consider the human factor, the circumstances.” At the toot-toot of a horn, he glanced toward the street, waved at a man with a huge black beard driving a rusty pickup. “The man who steals aloaf of bread,” Brooks continued without missing a beat, “because he’s starving and desperate shouldn’t be treated the same as the one who steals it planning to sell it at a profit.”
“Perhaps. But if the law had more uniformity, those who steal for profit would have fewer opportunities to repeat the offense.”
He grinned down at her in a way that made her wonder if she’d said something charming or foolish. “Ever think about being a cop?”
“Not exactly. I really should go back and—”
“Brooks! Bring that girl on over here.”
With a jolt, Abigail swung around, stared at the house with the dragons and mermaids and fairies. And saw Brooks’s mother climbing down a run of scaffolding. She wore paint-splattered bib overalls and paint-splattered sneakers. A bright red kerchief covered her hair.
The minute her feet hit the ground, the puppy who’d begun to yip and dance at her voice leaped so high he executed a midair flip before he tumbled into a sprawl.
The woman laughed, scooped him up as she unsnapped his lead.
“Come on!” she called again. “Come on and introduce Abigail to your little brother.”
“Her favorite son right now, too,” Brooks told Abigail. “Let’s say hey.”
“I really should get back to the market.”
“Haven’t I been yelled at and lectured to enough for one day?” He sent Abigail a pitiful, pained look. “Have some pity, will you?”
She couldn’t be invisible if people noticed her, she thought, and it was worse if she made it obvious that she wanted to be invisible. Though she wished Brooks would let go of her hand—it seemed too intimate—she crossed the short distance to the yard of what she thought of as the magic house.
“I was hoping you’d drop by for a visit,” Sunny said to Abigail.
“Actually, I was—”
“I talked her into a walk before she did her marketing.”
“No point wasting a day like this indoors. Meet Plato.”
“He’s very handsome.”
“And a rascal. I do love a rascal,” Sunny said, nuzzling the puppy, then Brooks. “He’s smart, too.”
“Me or the dog?”
