Another of those drawn-out silences, then, “Since you insist, it was my father. But it wasn’t murder. It was self-defence.”
Charlotte’s jaw drops. She sits, her mouth opening and closing until, “How old were you?”
He squeezes his eyes closed, rubbing at his forehead, “Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Does it matter?”
“Why? Why did you do it?”
“It was him or me. He was beating me… going to kill me. I got him first.”
She stares at him. “Your father was a monster, and he turned you into a monster...”
He simply waits, less response than a stone.
At length, Charlotte says, “What about your mother?”
“She was gone long before that.”
“She left you?”
He hesitates. “She was gone.” His face sets.
Enough…
“I think we've talked enough today,” I say. James Hmmphs agreement.
Klempner raises weary ey
