“Shea, you with us?”
She looked out on a sea of faces, strangers sitting on wooden benches, hungry for salacious bits of drama. In front, Ralph sat at a table. The man in the expensive suit stood nearby with a smile on his face that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Mama picked up the frying pan,” Shea said, trembling and trying not to remember Mama’s blood-smeared face and the blood streaming between her fingers.
“The cast-iron pan?” asked the man in the suit.
“Yes, sir. The real heavy one.” She glanced up at the judge wearing a robe the color of death. Would he figure it out?
“And what’d she do with the heavy pan?”
Shea looked at Ralph, then at the man in the suit. “Um . . .” Her chest tightened. The air felt thin. She gulped for a breath and held it as if she’d never get another one. She wa
