Red

Dear Reader,

If you know me through my thrillers, Red may surprise you. Red is a reissue of the 1995 novel that launched my career. Although this novel doesn’t contain my trademark mystery and high body count, it does offer readers other hallmarks of a Spindler novel: lots of drama and a fast-paced plot, characters you love—and love to hate—complex relationships and an emotional edge. I hope you find Red the novel I intended it to be: a big, fun, juicy read.

As always, I love to hear from my readers. You may contact me at P.O. Box 8556, Mandeville, LA 70470 or through my Web site, www.ericaspindler.com. In addition, visit my Web site to read my blog, learn about special promotions, freebies and to enter my monthly contest.

Thanks again and best wishes,

Red
Erica Spindler

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Nathan, my husband, my friend and my love.

For always being there,

for weathering every emotional storm with calm,

reason and love.

I couldn’t do it without you.

Contents

Book One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Book Two

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Book Three

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Book Four

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Book Five

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Book One

1

Bend, Mississippi

1984

No place in the world smelled quite like the Mississippi Delta in July. Overripe, like fruit left too long in the sun. Pungent, like a drunk’s breath at the edge of a whiskey binge. Like sweat.

And it smelled of dirt. Sometimes so dry it coated the mouth and throat, but most times so wet it permeated everything, even the skin. Becky Lynn Lee lifted her hair off the back of her neck, sticky with a combination of perspiration and dust from the unpaved road. Most folks around Bend didn’t think much about the smell of things, but she did. She fantasized about a place scented of exotic flowers and rare perfumes, a beautiful world populated by people wearing fine, silky fabrics and welcoming smiles.

She knew that place existed; she’d seen it in the magazines she poured over whenever she could, the ones the women at Opal’s snickered at her interest in, the ones her father raged at her about.

None of that mattered. She had promised herself that someday, somehow, she would live in that world.

Becky Lynn picked her way across the railroad tracks used not only to ship rice, cotton and soybeans out of Bend, but to divide the good side of town from the bad, the respectable folk from the poor white trash.

She was poor white trash. The label had hurt, way back the first time she’d heard herself referred to by those words; it still hurt, when she thought about it. And she thought about it a lot. That’s the kind of town Bend was.

Becky Lynn lifted her face to the flat blue sky, squinting against the harsh light, wishing for cloud cover to temper the heat. Poor white trash. Becky Lynn had been three the first time she’d realized she was different, that she and her family were less than; she still remembered the moment vividly. It had been a day like this one, hot and blue. She’d been standing in line at the market with her mother and her brother, Randy. Becky Lynn remembered clinging to her brother’s hand and looking down at her feet, bare and dirty from their walk into town, then lifting her gaze to find the other mothers’ eyes upon them, their stares filled with a combination of pity and loathing. In that moment, she’d realized that there were others in the world and that they judged. She had felt strange, self-conscious. For the first time in her young life, she’d felt vulnerable. She had wanted to hide behind her mother’s legs, had wanted her mother to tell the other women to stop looking at them that way.

Becky Lynn supposed that had been back before her daddy had turned really mean, back when she still thought her mother to be an angel with magical, protective powers.

But maybe she had already realized that her mother wasn’t an angel, that her mother didn’t have the ability—or the strength—to make everything all right, because she hadn’t said anything. And the women had kept staring, and Becky Lynn had kept on feeling as if she had done something wrong, something ugly and bad.

Most times now, the respectable folks, even the customers she shampooed down at Opal’s Cut ‘n Curl, looked right through her. Oh, while she shampooed them they talked to her, but mostly because they liked to hear the sound of themselves and because they knew she was paid to listen and agree with them—something their husbands almost never did. But when they came face-to-face with her on the street, they looked right through her. She wasn’t sure if they pretended they didn’t see her because she was one of Randall Lee’s brood or if they truly didn’t recognize her ‘cause they’d never really looked at her in the first place.

But whichever, she’d decided being invisible suited her just fine. In fact, she preferred it that way. She felt less different when she was invisible. She felt…safer.

Becky Lynn took a deep breath as she cleared the railroad tracks. The air always seemed a bit sweeter this side of the tracks, the breeze a degree or two cooler. She stepped up her pace, hoping to get to the shop early enough to spend a few minutes looking over the Bazaar that had come the day before.

Up ahead, Becky Lynn caught sight of a fire-engine red pickup truck barreling past the square, coming in her direction, a cloud of dust in its wake. Tommy Fischer and his jock gang, she thought, her heart beginning to rap against the wall of her chest. Probably on their way to pick up her brother. She darted a glance to either side of the road, to the fields thick with cotton, knowing there was no place to hide but searching for one, anyway. Sighing, she folded her arms across her middle, jerked her chin up and kept on walking.

The group of boys began to howl the moment they saw her. “Hey, Becky Lynn,” one of the teenagers called, “how about a date?” In response, the other three boys began to hoot in amusement. “Yeah, looking good, Becky Lynn. My dad’s Labrador retriever’s been lonely lately.”

That brought a fresh burst of amusement from the boys, and she tightened her fingers into fists, but kept walking, never glancing their way. Even if it killed her, she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of knowing how much their comments hurt.

Tommy slowed the truck more, swerving to the road’s dusty shoulder. “Hey, baby…check it out.” From the corner of her eyes she saw the two boys in the back of the pickup unzip their flies and pull out their penises. “If you weren’t so ugly,” taunted Ricky, the meanest of the group, “I’d even let you touch it. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, baby?”

The urge to run, as fast and far as she could, screamed through her. She fought the urge back, compressing her lips to keep from making a sound of revulsion and fear.

Ricky leaned over the side of the truck and made a lewd grab for her, forcing her to step off the shoulder and into the muddy field. Tommy gunned the engine and tore off, spitting up gravel and dirt, the boys’ laughter ringing in her ears.

Becky Lynn ran then, the gravel road biting the bottoms of her feet through her tattered sneakers, the bile of panic nearly choking her. She ran until she reached the safety of Bend’s town square.

Drawing in deep, shuddering breaths, Becky Lynn leaned against the outside wall of the Five and Dime, the corner building on the railroad side of the square. She pressed the flat of her hand to her pitching stomach and squeezed her eyes shut. Sweat beaded her upper lip and underarms; it trickled between her shoulder blades. The image of the boys, holding their penises and taunting her, filled her head, and her stomach rolled again. They’d never done anything like that before. She was used to their taunts, their obscene suggestions, but not…this.

Today they’d scared her.

Becky Lynn hugged herself hard. She was safe, she told herself. It was getting toward the end of summer, the boys were bored and got off on seeing her squirm. In a month they would start football practice and wouldn’t have the time or energy to seek her out.

Then she would have to face their jeers at school.

She fought against the tears that flooded her eyes, fought against the despair that filled every other part of her. She had nobody. Not one person in Bend she could turn to for help or support. Alone. She was alone.

Even as fatigue and hopelessness clutched at her, Becky Lynn curled her fingers into fists. She wouldn’t give up like her mother had. She wouldn’t. And someday, she promised herself, she would show Tommy and Ricky and everybody else in this two-bit town. She didn’t know how, but someday they would wish they’d been nice to her.

2

Becky Lynn managed to avoid Tommy Fischer and his gang for an entire week. It hadn’t been easy, they had seemed to be everywhere, just cruising, looking for trouble. Looking for something to ease their boredom, she supposed. She had made up her mind it wouldn’t be her.

Darting a quick, uneasy glance behind her, she stepped onto the square and started for the Cut ‘n Curl, moving as fast as she could without running. Bend, named for its location at a bend in the Tallahatchie River between Greenwood and Greenville, had been built around a town square. The civic and commercial center of town, the courthouse, police station and mayor’s office were all located here, as well as the two best dress shops in town—the nearest mall being in either Greenwood or Greenville, the nearest real city Memphis. Shaded by magnolia and mimosa trees, sprinkled with azalea and oleander bushes, the square was the closest Bend, Mississippi, got to the places Becky Lynn saw in her magazines.

But not close enough, she thought, hearing familiar laughter and the gun of an engine behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and her heart flew to her throat. Tommy Fischer had decided to take a swing around the square.

The Cut ‘n Curl in sight now, she started to run, reaching the shop in moments. She pushed through the door with such force that the brass bell hanging above it snapped against the glass.

Miss Opal stood at the first hair station, adding another coat of spray to her platinum blond beehive. She set down the can of spray and turned to Becky Lynn. “What’s the rush, child? You look like you’ve seen the devil himself.”

Driving a bright red pickup. Becky Lynn sucked in a deep breath and forced a smile. “No, ma’am. I just didn’t want to be late.”

Miss Opal smiled. “You’re never late, Becky Lynn. And I want you to know, I do appreciate it.”

Heat stung Becky Lynn’s cheeks, and she folded her arms self-consciously across her chest. “You want me to start straightening up?”

Miss Opal tilted her head and drew her eyebrows together in concern. “You okay today, Becky Lynn? You look a little pale.”

“Yes, ma’am. Fine.”

As if unconvinced, Miss Opal slid her gaze over her, eyes narrowed behind her rhinestone-studded cat glasses. She stopped on Becky Lynn’s feet. “Did you eat this morning?”

Certain the woman could see her toes poking against the too-tight canvas sneakers, Becky Lynn shifted, propping one foot self-consciously on top of the other. “Well…no. But I wasn’t hungry.”

Miss Opal shook her head, which was as close to critical as she ever got. Becky Lynn had long ago decided that the hairdresser had about the biggest heart in Bend. Rumor around town held that Miss Opal came from trash herself, from over in Yazoo City. Rumor also told that she had managed to escape by cracking her daddy over the head with an iron skillet and emptying his pockets of his pay. Becky Lynn didn’t believe any of it, Miss Opal seemed way too nice to have done any of those things. And if she had, Becky Lynn figured her daddy had deserved it.

“You’d better run right over to the Tastee Creme. Marianne Abernathy is our first appointment and if the doughnuts aren’t here, I’ll never hear the end of it.” Miss Opal made a clucking sound with her tongue. “Ever since Doc Tyson put her on a diet, Ed counts each bite she puts in her mouth. I reckon she’s been looking forward to getting her hair done all week.”

She opened the cash drawer, took out a five and handed it to Becky Lynn. “Go on now and get those doughnuts. And don’t forget the ones with the strawberry jam.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Becky Lynn hesitated at the door, thinking of Tommy and his pickup full of boys. What if they were out there waiting for her? She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and looked hopefully at her boss. “You sure you don’t want me to straighten up first? It would only take a few minutes. I’d be happy to do it.”

The woman frowned and shifted her gaze from Becky Lynn to the bright day beyond. She returned her gaze to Becky Lynn, looking her straight in the eye. “You’re sure nothing’s wrong, child? Because if there is, I want you to feel you can come to me.”

Becky Lynn stared at the older woman a moment, a lump in her throat. Could she go to Miss Opal? If she told her what the boys had done, what would she say? Would she believe her? Becky Lynn gazed into the woman’s kind eyes and thought that maybe she would.

She wanted to tell, so badly the words trembled on the tip of her tongue, begging to jump off. She wanted to be assured that everything was going to be all right, that Tommy and his jock gang wouldn’t bother her again. That they would be punished for what they’d done to her.

Right. And purple pigs flew around the town square. Becky Lynn squeezed her fingers into fists, crumpling the bill. Even if Miss Opal believed her, nothing would change. Boys like Tommy and Ricky, from families like theirs, would never be held accountable. Not when the offense had been committed against the likes of her. That wasn’t the way things worked in Bend, Mississippi.

She swallowed past the lump and shook her head. “No, ma’am. Everything’s fine. I was just wondering…has the mail come yet?”

Miss Opal made a sound of amusement, looking relieved. “Becky Lynn Lee, you know as well as I do, the postman doesn’t come till almost noon. Now go on and get those pastries.”

Becky Lynn made it to and from the Tastee Creme in record time.

And without a sign of Tommy Fischer’s truck. Fayrene and Dixie, the other two hairdressers—stylists, they liked to be called—arrived just as Becky Lynn got back with the box of doughnuts.

Fayrene breezed by in a suffocating cloud of the Chanel No. 5 her boyfriend had given her for her birthday the week before, and Dixie stomped in complaining of her husband’s latest get-rich-quick scheme, something about raising catfish in their back pond.

As the morning passed, their conversations buzzed around Becky Lynn—that tacky Janelle Peters was cheating on her husband again; Lulie Carter had gotten herself engaged to a professor from the college over in Cleveland and those bad Birch boys (poor white trash) had been caught smoking marijuana.

She let them talk, keeping half an ear trained on the door, waiting for the postman’s cheery greeting and praying today would be the day the new Vogue came. She liked all the glossy magazines, Bazaar and Cosmopolitan and Elle, but Vogue was her favorite.

Becky Lynn didn’t know if everyone could see that Vogue was the best, but to her it practically shouted its superiority. (After all, didn’t cream always rise to the top?) And from her reading, she knew that only the best photographers shot for Vogue, that the top models fought for the covers. Production quality was, to her admittedly untrained eyes, flawless.

She didn’t just look at the photographs—she studied them, their angles and locations, the way colors, values and textures were combined, and the mood created by using the various elements together. And she studied the models, their positioning and expressions, their hair and makeup and clothes.

Although she would never have the courage to admit it out loud, she figured she’d gotten pretty good at recognizing which pictures were the best. They were all good, but some…just seemed to have something special. A magic. Or sparkle. Just the way some of the models had something that made them stand out from all the others.

She wished, just once, she could find out if she was right. It would be fun to—

“Ouch! Becky Lynn Lee, that water is too hot.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Baxter,” she murmured, adjusting the temperature. “How’s that?”

“Better.” The woman shifted her considerable weight and glared up at her. “You need to get your head out of the clouds and pay better attention to your job. You’re lucky to have it.”

After all, you are poor white trash. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I swear, you people just don’t take anything seriously. Why, just last night, I was saying to my Bubba…”

And so the morning went. Finally, just after twelve, the postman arrived. And her prayers were answered. The August Vogue. She held the magazine almost reverently. Isabella Rossellini graced the cover. Again. She’d held that top spot in June, too. July had been Kim Alexis. They were two of fashion’s best.

Opal gave Becky Lynn permission to take her lunch break, and hugging the magazine to her chest, she grabbed a leftover doughnut and headed back to the storeroom. Although she could have taken a seat in the waiting area out front, or at one of the unoccupied stations, she preferred to be alone.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she gazed at the cover with a mixture of admiration and envy. Isabella’s eyes, dark, velvety and inviting, practically jumped off the page; the model’s lips, curved into a provocative half smile, were full and tinted a deep rose. The photographer had closed in on the model’s face, focusing on the eyes and lips, creating an image that was at once fresh and sophisticated.

What must it feel like to be so beautiful? she wondered, taking a bite of the doughnut. Powdered sugar from the pastry sprinkled onto the glossy photo, and she brushed it carefully away. What must it be like to be so admired, so sought after? To be so beautiful?

What must it be like to be loved?

Longing, so sharp it stung, curled through her. It must be wonderful, she thought, taking another bite. It must be like living a dream.

“What do you see in those things, anyway?”

Startled, Becky Lynn looked up. Fayrene stood in the doorway, studying her over the tip of her lit cigarette. Rarely did anyone inquire after her thoughts, and never had Fayrene, the self-appointed queen of the Cut ‘n Curl. She swallowed. “Pardon?”

“Those magazines.” The blonde gestured with the cigarette and her bracelets jangled. “The way you study them.” She shook her head and exhaled a long stream of smoke. “If you ask me, it’s weird.”

“Leave the girl alone,” Opal called from around the corner in the mixing room. “She’s on break, and she’s not hurting anybody.”

Fayrene pouted. “I wasn’t trying to be a smartass or anything. I really want to know. I mean, I like to look at the pictures, too. But not like that.” She turned back to Becky Lynn, arching a neatly penciled eyebrow in question.

Cheeks on fire, Becky Lynn lowered her gaze to the glossy image before her. How did she explain something she felt so deeply? How did she voice dreams that were so close to her heart yet so far from reality? And if she found a way, would the other woman understand—or laugh?

Her hands began to shake, her palms to sweat. She cleared her throat, then met Fayrene’s gaze once more. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “It’s just that the models are all so…beautiful…so sophisticated, and all. I just look at them and think—”

“Becky Lynn,” Fayrene interrupted, waving the cigarette again. “Wake up! I mean, I like to look at those gals and dream once and a while, too. But you can’t dream your life away.” She shook her head and her bleached-blond mane tumbled across her right shoulder. “As I always say, no sense reaching for a star, you’re never going to catch one. Besides, even if you did manage to, it’d only burn your fingers.”

With this obvious attempt at cleverness, Fayrene paused, waiting for a response. When Becky Lynn didn’t give her one, she made a sound of irritation. “Work with what you have. You’re tall as most men and have a face that…well, let’s be honest, girl, you’re never going to be prom queen. I mean, your features alone are all nice, but put together, they…”

Fayrene hesitated as if really looking at her for the first time. A strange expression crossed her face, then she shook her head. “But you do have good eyes and teeth, and if you would just give me a couple hours with your hair and a bottle of bleach, we could change that carrot top of yours to a sensational-looking blon—”

“Fayrene,” Dixie interrupted, “Bitsy’s timer went off a couple minutes ago. If you frizz her hair again, she’s going to pitch a fit.”

Fayrene swore and started back out into the shop. She stopped and looked back at Becky Lynn. “Think about what I said, girl. Not everybody can be somebody special.”

Becky Lynn slumped back against the wall, the other woman’s words having sucked the pleasure out of the moment. She looked down at the photo of Isabella Rossellini, the image blurring with her tears. Fayrene had missed the point. Sure, she dreamed of being as beautiful and self-confident as the women in the magazines, but she wasn’t an idiot. And she didn’t want to be prom queen.

Her love of the glossies wasn’t about being beautiful. It was about dreaming of a wonderful place nothing like Bend, a place where boys didn’t expose themselves to girls who hadn’t done anything more than be born poor and ugly. It was about being accepted, about being loved.

“Fayrene gets a bit caught up in herself sometimes,” Miss Opal said from the doorway. “She wasn’t trying to be mean.”

But she was, anyway. Becky Lynn swiped at a tear, horrified at the show of emotion. After a moment, she looked up at the other woman. “Isn’t it all right to dream, Miss Opal? Is it so wrong to wish for something you know you can’t possibly—” Her throat closed over the words, and she shook her head.

Opal crossed the room, stopping before her. She laid a hand on Becky Lynn’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “No, child. It’s not wrong. Now, come on. I need you to do a shampoo.”

Becky Lynn stopped at the end of the dirt driveway and gazed at the small, square house before her. Home. She hugged the magazines Opal had given her tightly to her chest. In the fading light, its once-white exterior, now chipped and gray, looked even more dismal, more beaten—as if even the house had given up hope of something better. The picket fence that circled the property, once, she supposed, white and jaunty, was now dingy and broken.

She started up the driveway, dragging her feet. Funny how fast the hours at Miss Opal’s passed, and how slow the ones here did. Time had a way of doing that, she thought. Of standing still for misery.

Becky Lynn smelled the whiskey the moment she stepped onto the sagging front porch. She hated the sweetly sour smell. Sometimes she would wake in the night and feel as if she were being suffocated by it. It permeated everything, her clothes, the furniture and bedding, her father’s skin.

Her life.

Becky Lynn couldn’t remember a time before the reek of whiskey.

Until that moment, she’d managed to forget today was Friday. The day her father got his pay. The day he drank the best, Jim Beam sour mash. He bought a fifth on the way home from the foundry, and he drank until the bottle was empty or he passed out, whichever came first. The rest of the week he settled for the best he could afford. Most times on Thursdays he couldn’t afford anything, so he slept. Becky Lynn looked forward to Thursdays almost as much as she did the arrival of the new glossies. Almost.

Through the tattered screen door she heard “The Family Feud’s” closing music. Why her father loved that show so much, she couldn’t fathom. He never laughed. He never tried to predict the highest scoring answers. Other than an occasional grunt, he just stared at the television screen. And drank. And drank.

Considering the time, her father had no doubt been at that very thing for a couple of hours now, just long enough to have gotten stinking mean, just long enough to be spoiling for a fight. If she had been just a few minutes earlier, if she had arrived in the middle of the lightning round, she would have had a much better chance getting inside without her father noticing.

Cursing her own timing, she slipped quietly through the door. She knew exactly where to place her hands so the door wouldn’t squeak, knew precisely how far to push it in before it scraped the floor.

She held her breath. Her father’s back was to her as he stared at the TV, and pressing herself against the wall, she inched toward the kitchen. If she was lucky, she would avoid his ire tonight. If she was lucky, she would be able to ease by him and—

“Where do you think you’re goin’, girl?”

Becky Lynn stopped, recognizing his tone, the slurring of his words, from a hundred times before. Her stomach turned over; the breath shuddered past her lips. So much for luck.

She swung toward him, forcing a tiny, stiff smile. “Nowhere, Daddy. I just thought I’d see if Mama needed a hand in the kitchen.”

He grunted, and raked his bloodshot gaze over her. A shiver rippled through her as he stared at the apex of her thighs. When he met her eyes again, his were narrowed with suspicion. “You been out whoring around?”

“No, sir.” She shook her head. “I had to stay late at Opal’s. We were busy today, even for a Friday.”

“What d’you got there?”

She tightened her arms on the magazines. “Nothing, Daddy.”

“Don’t tell me ‘nothing,’ girl!” He lurched to his feet and crossing to her, ripped the magazines from her folded arms. She bit back a sound of dismay, knowing the best way to avoid the full brunt of Randall Lee’s fury was to be as quiet, as agreeable, as possible.

He stared at the magazines a moment, spittle collecting at the corners of his slightly open mouth. Then he swore. Wheeling back, almost losing his balance, he threw the magazines. Becky Lynn jerked as they slammed against the wall. “How many times I told you I don’t want you readin’ this shit. How many times I told you not to spend money on—”

“I didn’t!” she said quickly, breathlessly. “These are the old issues. Miss Opal gave them to me. If you’d check the mailing labels, you’d see—”

“You tellin’ me what to do, girl? You sayin’ I’m dumb?” He took a menacing step toward her, his fists clenched.

“No, sir.” Becky Lynn shook her head vigorously, knowing that she had somehow, once again, crossed the invisible line. But then, it had always been like this with her father. She’d never had to do anything in particular to set him off.

Her mother appeared at the kitchen door, her face pinched and pale, her eyes anxious. “Becky Lynn, baby, why don’t you come in here and help me with the supper.”

A ripple of relief moved over Becky Lynn, and she sent her mother a look of gratitude. Randall Lee didn’t like interference and he wasn’t averse to turning his rage onto his wife. And it was an awesome rage. But then, her father, at six foot four inches tall and as big as a tree trunk, was an awesome man.

“I’d better help Mama,” she whispered, taking a step toward the kitchen.

Her father grabbed her arm, his big hand a vise on her flesh. She winced in pain but didn’t try to jerk away.

“How much you make today?”

“Twelve dollars.” Seventeen, counting the five she’d tucked into her shoe.

He narrowed his eyes. “You’d better not be lying to me.”

She straightened and looked him right in the eye. “No, sir.”

“Empty your pockets.” He dropped his hand and stepped away from her, weaving slightly.

She did as he asked, handing him the money. He looked suspiciously at her, counted it, then handed her two dollars back. She stared at the crumpled bills, thinking of the heads she’d washed that day, of the hair she’d swept off the floor. And of the fact that there would probably be enough money for her father to drink Thursday night.

Bitterness welled inside her, souring in her mouth. She supposed she should be happy, she thought. Most times, he took it all.

Her brother, Randy, came in then, the screen door slapping shut behind him, and her father’s attention momentarily shifted. He swung toward his oldest child. At eighteen, Randy, who had been held back in the third grade, was already as big as his father. And almost as mean. His disposition on—and off—the field had moved his fellow football players to nickname him Madman Lee. “Where’ve you been, boy?”

Randy shrugged. “Out with the guys.”

Randall Lee opened his mouth as if to comment, then just snorted with disgust and turned back to her.

Randy shot her a cocky glance and ambled toward the kitchen. Frustration welled up inside her. Her father rarely attacked Randy. Not Randy, star tackle on the Bend High School football team. Because he was a jock, and because he had the right friends, boys like Tommy Fischer.