“No.”
“Did you know anyone with a vendetta against the boy, anyone you could see he disliked or feared?”
“Yes, I think…” He groaned. “No more. My head is pounding.”
Even though she drank as much if not more than he did, Conchita rose from her chair, steady as a rock, and hand-washed the glassware without a single mishap while Milo could barely stagger up the stairs. That was two years ago and Conchita had not let up since.
He purchased Liam’s new CD and played it constantly, while Conchita made braying noises and pantomimed floppy ears and a tail, muttering jackass under her breath. Milo could hear Liam’s journey through his music. It felt as if someone sucker-punched him in the gut. Had he been that cruel, that mean? In his more honest moments, he admitted he had.
Milo never asked Co
