Shakespeare’s Counselor

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My thanks to Laura Lippman, Phil Gates, Susan McBride, and Officer Kelly Blair, who all were kind enough to answer more or less peculiar questions.

I connected with a hard blow to the nose, rolled on top of him, gripped his neck, and started to squeeze. After the pain, the unfathomable humiliation, this rage was completely pure and good. His hands gripped my wrists, struggled to pull my fingers away. He was making noises, hoarse and pleading, and I gradually realized he was saying my name.

That wasn’t part of the memory.

And I wasn’t back in that shack in the cotton fields. I was on a firm wide bed, not a sagging cot.

“Lily! Stop!” The grip on my wrists increased.

I wasn’t in the right place-or rather, the wrong place.

“Lily!”

This wasn’t the right man… the wrong man.

I released my grip and scrambled off the bed, backing into a corner of the bedroom. My breath was coming in ragged pants, and my heart thudded way too close to my ears.

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