Page 105 of Dirty Judge

“Shut the fuck up talking to me.” I sounded just like my father. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

“Um, Nurse!” he yelled. “Nurse?”

“I don’t need the fucking nurse to translate bullshit when I hear it.” I lowered my voice. “That guy is trying to buy his way out of jail, but guess what?”

“What?”

“He can’t afford it.”

“These are very generous terms, Little Liam.”

“Don’t call me that. You’re not my friend.”

“Right…Well, regardless of what you decide, the funeral and your parents’ mortgage have already been covered verygenerously by Mr. Jenkins. And he’s paid me for over four hundred hours so?—”

“So, you’ll run and tell him everything I’m thinking and saying?” I asked, now sounding like my mother. “Just because I live in a small town doesn’t mean I have a small fucking brain.”

“Liam, listen to me.” He looked into my eyes. “I don’t think you’re aware of just how much power Trevor Jenkins has. He’s no longer even listed in the police report, so it’s almost like this didn’t happen.”

“So, my parents were killed by a ghost?”

“By the time his lawyers get through everything—it might look like that.”

“I don’t want your help.” I knew a scumbag when I saw one, and my dad would’ve told me to take a long hot shower to wash away all the bullshit the guy had exposed me to.

“You need to sign off on paperwork that says you won’t hold Mr. Jenkins liable for?—”

“I’m a minor.” I shrugged. “I’m not signing shit.”

“We also have to discuss foster care,” he said. “Perhaps you and Little Ryan can be placed together?”

“What part of ‘I don’t want your help’ did you not understand?”

“If you don’t work with me, you’ll have to work with some random, overworked person in the department of children’s services.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Perhaps you should take some time to?—”

“I said I’ll take my fucking chances.” I hissed. “Get away from me…Now.”

He sighed and stood to his feet. He pulled a business card from his pocket and left it on my side table.

“In case you change your mind…” He gave me one final look of sympathy before disappearing.

The next several months were an ugly, tragic blur.

I couldn’t sleep in my own bed without thinking about my parents. Every element in the house reminded me of them, and everyone at school looked at me like something was wrong.

I had nowhere to go, though.

No place else to be.

My new foster parents—young lawyers who loved their jobs a little too much—sold off my parents’ home and moved me to Manhattan.

To make us feel “more like a family,” they legally changed my last name.

I wasn’t Little Liam or Liam Hines Jr. anymore.