General (see Also Headings Under Social Themes)
El policía se sacó algo del bolsillo. Era una fotografía.
—¿Lo reconoces, Josh?"
No podía creerlo. Me la quedé mirando fijimente.
Andrew también la miró. Después de unos segundos dijo:
—Parece el garrote que papá te dio.
—¿No son ésas tus iniciales, Josh? —preguntó la mujer policía.
Contesté que sí con la cabenza.
—Fue con esto con lo que golpearon a Scott. Lo tenemos en la estación de policía, Josh. Además de tus iniciales, tiene tus huellas digitales.
"All through dinner a silent rage courses through me. Judaism says I am an abomination, yet God and His commandments are supposed to be good. Mrs. Lowenstein says I can change, but I've tried and it didn't work. Neshama says God is just an idea made up by stupid men who say women can't love other women. What is God anyway? Some big guy in the sky? The creator? Creator of what? I know dinosaur bones are older than the Torah."
Tracie crumples and falls to the ground. My dad twists around to look at her. He bellows. He lunges at the man again.
Blam!
Blam!
A second person falls to the ground.
Only my dad is left standing.
Mark pulled out his phone. "Her name's Casey. She's almost four." He looked at the image on the screen for a long moment, his mouth twisted into a crooked smile. "Your half sister."
I took the phone from him and stared at the photo. A round-faced girl, smiling, with short dark hair and big eyes. My stomach was full of something much squirmier than butterflies, and my throat was getting all tight.
"Must be hard to be away from her," Mom said.
"It is," Mark said. His voice sounded funny, like he really meant it. Like he could hardly stand to be away from his precious little girl.
I sucked on my bottom lip. He'd been away from me, his other daughter, for my whole life and he hadn't cared at all.
"Mark was my firstborn son," my father says, reading the words he has written. "He was a good boy and a hard worker. His mother and I were so proud of him"
But that didn't stop someone from killing him.
The guys huddle closer and murmur; the girls' heads incline together and they whisper. They're all talking about me. I'll bet if they were naked I could see their tattoos. They've been taken. They're waiting for me to be taken too.
I force myself to walk past them, even though I have the overpowering urge to run. Or scream, tell them I know all about their plans. Why me? I'd like to ask them that. I hesitate. Maybe I should ask them. Maybe there's some shred of humanity left in one of them and they'll help me escape.
