Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

be like this. It was Tuesday night. Grilled hamburger and rice for dinner. Followed by
Jeopardy!,
the
Real Housewives,
and to bed. This wasn’t supposed to be a night with an apologetic phone call from the Manchester police followed by a frantic drive to the hospital, and facing all of this . . .
    She took the tissue away. “All right. You said there’s two streets —”
    “Avenues,” he corrected.
    “Avenues,” she repeated, face warm, “available to us. What’s the second one?”
    He said, “One that I, if I were in your place, would find much more attractive. The senator’s son is a very troubled young man. I admit it; the senator admits it. And the senator is devastated at what happened to your daughter. You’re looking for justice, and the senator understands that. What we propose is this: If you and your daughter ask the proper authorities not to file formal and public charges against the senator’s son, we will immediately place Clay in a secure mental-health facility, where he will no longer pose a danger to anyone.”
    “He gets away, then,” Beth said sharply. “And your senator boss doesn’t have to answer embarrassing questions.”
    “The senator isn’t afraid of questions, Mrs. Mooney. And his son, no, he doesn’t get away with anything. He gets the treatment he needs, in a secure place that is quite similar to a prison facility, with locked rooms, few privileges, and lots of discipline and treatment. And while the senator’s son is treated, your daughter will be treated as well. Whatever insurance you have won’t be billed. The senator will take care of it all, for as long as your daughter needs it. The very best in care . . . for life, if necessary, though I believe she’ll make a full recovery in time. All future educational expenses as well. And since you, Mrs. Mooney, would no doubt have to take time off to be with your daughter, the senator is prepared to offer a generous monthly stipend to assist you.”
    “To keep my goddamn mouth shut, you mean.”
    Henry’s face was impassive. “The senator wants to do right by you and your daughter. But by doing this, the senator would expect some . . . consideration from both of you. I’m sure you recognize, Mrs. Mooney, the delicacy of the situation.”
    “All I want is justice for my girl,” she said.
    “And I’m here to make sure justice is done. Among other things.”
    She sat and thought, and then pushed the wad of soaked tissue back into her purse.
    “I want to see my girl, Janice,” Beth said. “It’s going to be up to her.”

    H ER DAUGHTER WAS now in a two-patient room, with the curtain drawn to separate her from a young blond girl, who apparently had a broken foot and who was watching the wall-mounted television while chewing gum and texting on her cell phone at the same time. Beth sat down and looked at her Janice, feeling flashes of cold and heat race through her. Tubes ran out of both of Janice’s slim wrists, and there was an oxygen tube beneath her nose. Her face was bruised; her left eye was nearly swollen shut; and her lower lip was split. She looked better than she had when Beth first saw her in the ER; now she was in a hospital gown and her face had been washed.
    Henry walked in and said, “I’ll leave you be for a while,” and then he strolled out.
    She clutched Janice’s hand, and Janice squeezed back. Beth said, keeping her voice soft and low, “Honey, can I talk to you for a minute?”
    And Beth told her what the man from the senator’s staff had said and offered, and when she was done, Beth thought her little girl had fallen asleep. But no, she was thinking, with that mind that was so sharp and bright. She whispered back, “Mom . . . take the deal . . . okay? I’m so tired . . .”
    “Janice, are you sure?”
    Her voice, barely a whisper. “Mom, I’m really tired . . .”

    H ENRY CAME IN after a half an hour and Beth said, “We’ll do it. The second . . . whatever it was. Choice. Option.”
    “Avenue,” he said. “Mrs. Mooney, trust me, you won’t regret it. Give me a few minutes and I’ll have the necessary agreements prepared. All right?”
    Beth turned to her girl, who was sleeping. “You know . . . what I’m really thinking . . . I wish I could spend the night here with my little girl. But I know the hospital won’t allow it.”
    “Is that what you want, Mrs. Mooney? To spend the night here, in this room?”
    Beth said, “Yes . . . of course. But there’s no