"I don't care about no blood tests," Lavonn said.

"Your sister would have wanted-"

"I don't care about no blood tests!" she yelled, and jerked up her hands. There was a gun in them. It was pointed at Micky.

"No!" I rasped the word, and she swung the weapon toward me like a laser.

Terror squeezed my throat shut. I stumbled back a step.

"How'd you say you know Jamel?" she asked.

For a moment my voice failed me entirely. "I just ..." It squeaked. "I'm his teacher."

"You're a liar!" She spat the words and took a step toward me, arms shaking as she snapped her head toward Micky. "You his ho, ain't you?"

I didn't dare glance away.

"Ain't you!"

"Listen ..." The situation was spinning out of control. And I had been using my shrink voice. I was keeping my "dear G.o.d, don't let me die" voice in reserve.

"No!" She shook her head. "I ain't gonna listen. I been listening to him." She turned the gun toward Micky. "Says he's Jamel's poppa. Says Kaneasha woulda wanted him to have 'im. But why didn't she never tell me about the two of 'em?"

Micky was shaking his head.

"'Cuz he's a liar, too. That's why," she said, and squeezed the trigger.

The bullet whined through the house like a banshee seeking souls. I screamed. Micky swore. Then someone spoke, her voice as firm and solid as the floor beneath our feet.

"Lavonn Amelia Blount!"

We jerked in unison toward the woman standing in the doorway. She was a hundred years old if she was a day. Her skin was black and wrinkled, her eyes as sharp as switchblades, her voice gravelly. "What in the good Lord's name do you think you're doing?"

"Grams!" Micky rasped.

Lavonn's face twitched. "What are you doing here?"

"I keep tabs on folks from the old neighborhood," she said. "What's going on?"

Lavonn's hands were wobbling, placing her aim somewhere between Micky's knee and his clavicle. "Your boy shot Jackson."

The old woman stared at her for a long eternity, then turned creakily toward Micky, completely ignoring the figure propped limp and motionless against the pristine wall. "Is that the gospel truth, Michael?"

"He-"

She stomped her cane against the rosewood flooring. "I asked if that was so!"

"Yes, ma'am."

All oxygen seemed to have left the building.

"How come?"

No one spoke. The old woman's brows lowered, and in that moment she looked far more dangerous than the crazy gal with the gun.

"I thought he'd hurt Jamel," Micky said.

My eyes darted from one to the other.

"Who?" Grams asked, but in that moment a boy stepped into view. He was half-shadowed by the hallway but still you could make out his wide eyes, his protruding ears.

The room fell into silence as Grams turned to the child. A muscle jerked in her pemmican face, but then she straightened painfully to her full garden gnome stature. Her expression became flinty as the facts clicked together in her head. "Least my girl had sense enough to tape down your daddy's ears before he was old as you," she said.

The boy scowled. She watched him, eyes as bright as flares before she pulled in a hard breath and pursed her lips. "You'll be coming home with me, boy."

He shook his head. "I don't wanna-"

The cane slammed to the floor again. "You want more of this?" She skimmed her eyes disdainfully about the elegant room: Jackson, Lavonn, the bloodstained floor, the tattered lives.

The boy looked, too, then shook his head, slowly, as if he wasn't sure, or at least wasn't sure he should admit it.

Grams nodded once, sharp and succinct. "Come," she said, and he did, following her slow movements out the door and into the night with barely a backward glance.

The rest of us remained as we were, like marionettes without direction. Micky and I were frozen. Lavonn's arms were still trembling, but she didn't lower the gun.

"Put it down, Lavonn," Micky said.

"How come my sister didn't never tell me about you and her?" she asked again.

Micky's mouth was tense, his body stiff. "She was young." He winced and I prayed to G.o.d he would lie. There may be a time for absolute honesty, but so far I hadn't found it. "Maybe she was embarra.s.sed."

"Embarra.s.sed." She snorted. The pistol jumped. "She was always talkin' about how cute you was. How hot you was. How she was gonna rock your world. Then she does and she don't tell me?"

He glanced out the window. Self-loathing shone in his eyes. I was breathlessly grateful he wasn't the one holding the gun because he was unlikely to miss if he aimed for himself. "Where are those f.u.c.kin' paramedics?" he asked.

"Why didn't she tell me?" Lavonn asked again. Her voice was becoming strident and Micky was weakening. I could see the truth trembling on the tip of his conscience.

"Because I r-" he began, and in that moment I launched myself at her. I may have yelled at the same time. I may have raved like a lunatic. Or I may still have been singing "It's Too Late." My shoulder hit her square in the chest. We went down together. Me on top. The gun exploded in my ear. I jerked, but if I was hurt I was too revved up to feel it, and in a moment Micky was there. He wrestled the pistol from her fingers. Still, she didn't give up. She squirmed beneath me like a wild animal, knees, elbows, hands, fingernails. Hitting, sc.r.a.ping, kicking.

But finally she went limp. She was crying by the time I wedged myself to my feet.

Micky was standing there, pistol hanging loose by his thigh. "I don't think I pay you enough," he said, but I was beyond humor. In fact, I was a little p.i.s.sed. Go figure.

"That Jackson's gun?" I asked.

He raised it the slightest degree. "Yeah."

"Maybe I should have been more specific about where to put it when I told you to put it down."

"I didn't want Jamel to get his hands on it."

"So you gave it to her her?"

"Not exactly," he said, and almost smiled. It's funny how some people think it's funny when I'm p.i.s.sed as h.e.l.l.

I took a deep breath and tried to see the humor in the situation. Nothing yet.

"Where are Lavonn's kids?" I asked.

"With their dad." The amus.e.m.e.nt was already gone from his face, evaporated from his tone.

Our gazes met.

"They have have a dad," he said. a dad," he said.

"Don't start," I warned.

"What the h.e.l.l have I-"

"Micky!" I stepped up to him. Maybe I was past past p.i.s.sed at this point. "Give me the gun." p.i.s.sed at this point. "Give me the gun."

A muscle bunched mutinously in his lean jaw, but I had seen him bow to his grandmother, and although I would never be the intimidating little gremlin she was, I was willing to do my dominatrix best.

"Give me the gun or I'll b.i.t.c.h slap you from here to ... Easter," I said.

"Easter?" One eyebrow c.o.c.ked up and for a moment a spark of laughter returned to his eyes.

We heard the sirens almost instantaneously.

Our gazes were sucked toward the window. I shifted my attention back to Micky. There was anger in his eyes now. Anger and angst and terror swirling in one toxic blend.

"Please," I said and after a lifetime of h.e.l.l, he handed me the gun.

Everything seemed to happen at once then. Someone pounded on the door. Someone announced the arrival of the police. I was the one who answered, saying one man was injured but no one was hostile.

They came in guns drawn, nevertheless. Fast and low. All dressed in black, flak jackets in place. I had my hands above my head, pistol drooping from my fingers.

"Put the gun down." The officer who gave the order had his face half hidden behind his uplifted arms.

"I ..." I began, but he barked at me.

"Put it down!"

I did so, already sullen. Chrissy McMullen, sleep deprived.

Another officer s.n.a.t.c.hed up the gun and jerked his head toward Jackson. "He been shot?"

"Yes," I said.

"You shoot him?" asked the first cop. I could see his face now. It was a good one, like a young Errol Flynn.

"I did." Micky didn't step forward when he spoke. I noticed that he had his hands up, too, but his expression was haughty, his eyes hard. I prayed for the longevity of martyrs and fools.

"That right?" asked Hot Cop.

I gave Micky a look. "Mr. Goldenstone would prefer to save his comments for later."

"Would he?"

"Yes." Chrissy McMullen. Haughty. And maybe a little protective. Micky had already been through purgatory and come out looking pretty good. Why risk h.e.l.l?

"You his counsel?"

Counsel? "In a manner of speaking," I said.

"Yeah?"

Behind Cop Two, paramedics were rushing into the room. One felt for a pulse. He nodded. Three others hurried over, carrying equipment I couldn't readily identify. They squatted by Jackson, pushing Lavonn aside. She moved away, teary-eyed and sullen.

"What manner of counsel?" asked Hot Cop.

I dragged my attention back to him.

I raised my chin. "I'm Mr. Goldenstone's psychologist."

Hot Cop's brows had risen. "His psychologist."

If he smirked I was pretty sure I could take him down. I didn't care if he did look like Captain Blood.

"Yes."

"What's your name?"

"Christina McMullen ... Ph.D."

Cop Two, shorter and stouter, glanced my way. His gaze swept my bare legs for a nanosecond, but he kept his pistol trained on Micky. "McMullen?"

I pursed my lips and gave him my best scowl. "Christina "Christina McMullen." McMullen."

The corner of his mouth jacked up the slightest degree. "Rivera's squeeze?" he asked, and I believe I cursed.

4.