Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

West Side kids like Dylan had nannies and European vacations and summer camp, and kids in Astoria didn’t.
    “You want to help me pour the juice?” I asked.
    “I wanna build a galley,” Dylan said.
    I wasn’t sure what a galley was, but I let that go and unscrewed the top of the juice bottle. “Sure, go build whatever you want. I’m sure the other kids will let you play with them.”
    “I wanna do it myself.”
    I sharpened my tone. “Dylan, we all have to play together here. But if you ask nicely —”
    Clearly Dylan had no intention of asking, nicely or otherwise. He was already headed right for the play area, and by the time I’d put down the apple juice and gotten over to him, it was too late. He had stomped right through there, blocks tumbling down and flying every which way.
    Amber — one of the block builders — threw up her hands, showing off the Band-Aids stuck to each of her elbows. It was lucky the falling blocks had missed her because she always seemed to be getting hurt. “He knocked down our house.”
    “That’s not very nice,” I said, pointing a finger at Dylan.
    At first, he looked defiant, and then his face crumpled and tears appeared. “They said I couldn’t play with them.”
    “Now, that’s not true,” I said. “You just went right over and —”
    “Enough,” Rebecca said from behind me. I turned around. She looked sharply at me and then put on a smile, her mood changing as abruptly as Dylan’s. “It’s cleanup time, everyone.”
    The kids grumbled, but then Rebecca held up a bag of sugar cookies, and that got them motivated. “Maybe you should finish pouring the juice now,” she said to me, using the same tone she had with the kids. I grabbed the juice bottle and glanced over at the doorway.
    Britta was there. Her big blue eyes were aimed at me, and I smiled, but she missed it and focused on Dylan, who watched the other kids clean up while he stood by, doing nothing. Britta turned from him, her expression hard to read. It was only when she wheeled the stroller away that I recognized the emotion.
    It was relief.

    T HE S UNSHINE S UMMER Camp was housed on the top two floors of a private elementary school on Central Park West and Seventy-Fourth Street. We had everything an urban camp for little rich kids needed: a rooftop swimming pool, an indoor playground, and classrooms chock-full of educational toys and games. A far cry from the Boys’ Club camps where I’d spent the summers of my early years, and a relatively easy way to make some cash before I headed back to Binghamton in the fall.
    Or at least it had been, until Dylan showed up.
    My next run-in with him happened during afternoon nap time. All the kids gathered their blankets from their cubbies and spread them out through the classroom while I stood watch. Rebecca had gone to lunch.
    The kids were supposed to lie down without talking or moving, which of course isn’t easy when you’re five. Unlike Rebecca, I tried to be understanding when they began to stir. First Amber raised her Band-Aided elbow and said, “I’m thirsty.” Then Michael, who would wear only green socks, complained that Royce had kicked him. No surprise there. Royce never stopped moving, even when he was flat on a blanket half asleep.
    After settling everyone down, I put on a CD,
Peter and the Wolf
. As the gentle music filled the room, the children seemed to relax. I did too. I pulled out my cell phone to check my e-mail — a no-no with Rebecca around, but she wasn’t there — and I saw a movement from the corner of my eye. Dylan was upright, gathering a stack of blocks from the shelf beside him.
    The other children watched, wide-eyed. Royce leaped up, eager to get in on the action. “Can I play too?”
    “Nobody’s playing,” I said, storming over to Dylan’s blanket.
    But he didn’t seem to hear me. He continued to pile up the blocks, one after the other, making a tower as high as the table beside him. Then he added a long block and balanced it across the top, the tower threatening to topple.
    I snatched away this last block and glared. “Put these back.”
    “I don’t want to.” There was no anger, just a simple declaration.
    “If you don’t, you’re going to have a time-out.”
    This was a punishment the kids dreaded as much as losing pool time. But Dylan was unfazed. He reached out to the shelf and found another block the same length as the one I had just taken away. He added it to the top of his column of blocks