Chapter 6: Pie and a Plan

The diner on Halsted stayed open until two in the morning, and Samson said it had the only pie in Chicago worth a night shift.

Macy had gone home with a promise to keep her phone on.

Samson had changed out of his scrubs into jeans and a gray sweater, and he'd put his glasses on to read the menu.

They gave him a scholarly, unshakeable calm.

I knew better, because I'd seen his jaw.

"Cherry or apple," the waitress said.

"Both," Samson said. "And she wants decaf tea."

"I can order for myself."

"I know. I'm showing off that I remembered."

I ordered the apple.

When the pie came, he cut his in half and pushed the smaller piece onto a plate for me.

He did it without asking, as if we'd shared food for years.

I didn't know what to do with how normal that felt.

"Okay," he said. "Let's say it in plain words, so I'm not guessing. What do you want?"

"I want them to stop treating me like I'm the one who made a mess."

"Good. What else?"

"I want my home. It's mine. My grandmother's name is still on the mailbox."

"What else?"

I looked down at the pie.

"I want Ethan to stand up in front of people who know him and say what he did. I don't want a private apology. He's had five years of those."

"And Bernice?"

"I'd like her to say it to my face, in front of her friends. 'Quinn is family.' I'd like her to say that again with an audience."

He nodded.

"That's very specific."

"I've been thinking about it since Saturday."