He squeezes his eyes shut, as if this might block out the memory of Patrick turning away abruptly when Nina put her arms around Caleb. That, in and of itself, wasn't disturbing-Caleb could list a hundred times that Nina touched him or smiled at him in the other man's presence that unsettled Patrick in some way . . . even if Nina never seemed to see. In fact, there have been times Caleb's even felt sorry for Patrick, for the blatant jealousy on his face the moment before he masks it.
Today, though, it wasn't envy in Patrick's eyes. It was grief. And that is why Caleb cannot pull away from the incident; cannot stop picking the moment apart like a carrion vulture going for the bone.
Envy, after all, comes from wanting something that isn't yours.
But grief comes from losing something you've already had.
Nathaniel hates this stupid playroom with its stupid book corner and its stupid bald dolls and its stupid crayon box that doesn't even have a yellow. He hates the way the tables smell like a hospital and the floor is cold under his socks. He hates Monica, whose smile reminds Nathaniel of the time he took an orange wedge at the Chinese restaurant and stuffed it into his mouth, rind out, in a silly, fake grin. Most of all he hates knowing that his mom and dad are just twenty-two stairs up but Nathaniel isn't allowed to join them.
"Nathaniel," Monica says, "why don't we finish this tower?" It is made of blocks; they built it all afternoon yesterday and put a special sign on overnight, asking the janitors to leave it until this morning. "How high do you think we can go?"
It is already taller than Nathaniel; Monica has brought over a chair so that he can keep building. She has a small stack of blocks ready to go.
"Be careful," she warns as he climbs onto the chair.
He places the first block at the top, and the whole structure wobbles. The second time, it seems certain to fall over-and then doesn't. "That was close," Monica says.
He imagines that this is New York City, and he is a giant. A Tyrannosaurus rex. Or King Kong. He eats buildings this big like they are carrot sticks. With a great swipe of his enormous paw, Nathaniel swings at the top of the tower.
It falls in a great, clattering heap.
Monica looks so sad that for just the slightest moment, Nathaniel feels awful. "Oh," she sighs. "Why'd you do that?"
Satisfaction curls the corners of his mouth, blooming from a root inside. But Nathaniel doesn't tell her what he's thinking: Because I could.
Joseph Toro looks nervous to be in a courtroom, and I can't blame him. The last time I saw the man he was cowering beside the bench, covered with his own client's blood and brain matter.
"Had you met with Glen Szyszynski before you came to court that day?" Quentin asks.
"Yes," the attorney says timidly. "In jail, pending the arraignment."
"What did he say about the alleged crime?"
"He categorically denied it."
"Objection," Fisher calls out. "Relevance?"
"Sustained."
Quentin reconsiders. "What was Father Szyszynski's demeanor the morning of October thirtieth?"
"Objection." Fisher stands this time. "Same grounds."
Judge Neal looks at the witness. "I'd like to hear this."
"He was scared to death," Toro murmurs. "He was resigned. Praying. He read to me aloud, from the book of Matthew. The part where Christ keeps saying 'My God, why bast thou forsaken me?'"
"What happened when they brought your client in?" Quentin asks.
"They walked him to the defense table where I was sitting."
"And where was Mrs. Frost at the time?"
"Sitting behind us, and to the left."
"Had you spoken with Mrs. Frost that morning?"
"No," Toro answers. "I'd never even met her."
