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The explosive quality of his realization startled him. Perhaps to disguise his quiet shock, John rubbed a hand over his chin, which felt bristly.
“You didn’t, did you?” She was too damned perceptive.
“I went through a stretch when I was scared to death at night. The cops never arrested the guy who shot my dad. Did I ever tell you that? Every night I’d imagine he was breaking into that crummy apartment we rented. The building creaked and whimpered all night long. I was old enough to know the locks were flimsy. If he’d been able to kill my dad, who seemed huge and strong to me, what could I do?” He shook his head. “I never told my mother how scared I was. What could she have done? She had to work. As it was, she went without anything for herself to make sure three boys growing by half-foot leaps had enough on the table, decent clothes and the chance to play sports like our friends.”
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