Family Ties A Person of Interest It’s All About the Moon When the Sun Ain’t Shining
Published by Dafina Books
Cry Me
a River
ERNEST HILL
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2003 by Ernest Hill
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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Dafina and the Dafina logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-6858-7
eISBN-10: 0-7582-6858-0
First hardcover printing: April 2003
First trade paperback printing: May 2004
First mass market printing: January 2011
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed in the United States of America
For my father, Charley Hill Jr. The ultimate dad
Contents
Also by Ernest Hill
Acknowledgment
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
A READING GROUP GUIDE
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Thanks to my agent, Frank Weimann;
my editor, Karen Thomas;
my family and friends;
and all of the dedicated souls who make
up the Kensington family.
Dazed and confused, Tyrone backed the truck out of the yard, pulled the lever into drive, depressed the accelerator, and sped toward the main highway. As the truck raced past the lake, he gripped the steering wheel with both hands and stared into the twilight. Though his eyes were clear and his vision was unobstructed, he saw nothing. Not the beautiful, orange July sun that had risen just above the east bank. Not the flock of wild birds dancing in the treetops. Not the stand of fresh honeysuckle that ran parallel to the still blue water and decorated the roadside well past the point at which he turned onto the highway leading into Brownsville.
No, he did not see because he could not see. And he could not see because he was remembering the sound of the soft leather soles of his sister’s slippers sliding across the surface of his mother’s old wooden porch. He was hearing again the soft, steady tapping of her bare knuckles against his closed bedroom door. He was seeing the pain in her wide, bloodshot eyes just before she asked the question: “You heard about your son?”
He had suspected that something was wrong even before she told him. He did not know why. Maybe it was the way she had averted her eyes before she spoke. Or the way she wrung her fingers in her hand. Or the way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Or maybe it was because in forty years of living he had learned that good news never came this early in the morning.
“No,” he said, alarmed but trying not to think the worst. “What about him?”
“He killed a white gal,” she said, immediately dropping her gaze again before adding, “So the law say.”
The meaning behind her words was clear. The impact instantaneous. He felt his knees buckle. His head became light. He opened his mouth to speak, but shock rendered him silent.
A space of time passed in which he tried to listen to her, but his mind could not focus. Too many thoughts came too quickly. She said a lot of things, but all he could remember was … “He killed her … He raped her … And they done set the date…. He gone die in eight days.”
A thousand times he had driven this route. Ten miles through the swamp … a left at the traffic light… right onto Hospital Road … a double curve … a stop sign … a sharp right turn … a half mile north on Highway 17… left across the tracks … a short drive through the projects …