‘That’s not what I was implying.’ He shakes his head. ‘Just excuse the minor spaz-out. The answer to your question is no. I don’t think saving someone’s life cancels out killing someone else.’

He casts his eyes downward after he says this; a sure sign that he’s lying or he’s hiding something. ‘Have you ever killed anyone?’

Chapter 7: CRUSH – 11 years ago

The book in Grandpa Hugh’s hands is so old it looks like it could be from dinosaur times. When he told me he had a surprise for me in his study, I thought he was gonna give me a new guitar or a BB gun. Or maybe even those boxing gloves he promised me – the ones signed by Muhammad Ali. I guess a book isn’t so bad, if it’s new. I don’t want some old book written in weird words I can’t understand. I’m only ten years old. And I haven’t even read that book of poems Grandpa got me last year.

‘Take it,’ Grandpa says, holding the book out to me, his knotty, wrinkled hands shaking with the weight of the book. ‘Come on, son.’

I take the small book from his hands and I’m surprised that the mint-green cloth covering the book is soft. Usually the cloth on hardcover books is rough. The book feels loose, like Jell-O. It just wants to fall apart or fall out of my hands. It can’t decide. Just like I can’t decide if I should tell Grandpa I’d rather take a trip to his workshop in the basement to see his gun collection. That would be more fun then trying to hold this book together.

‘Black Box,’ I say, reading the title on the cover. ‘Is this a kids’ story?’

‘It’s okay for smart kids like you. It’s about war and family and . . . well, you’ll just have to read it to find out. You’ll like it, I hope.’

Grandpa leans forward in his giant leather chair, as if he’s waiting for me to open the book and start reading. So I do. And I’m really surprised when I find I can’t stop. I don’t know how long I’ve been reading, but my arms start to cramp up from holding the book in front of me. Taking a seat on the sofa across from Grandpa’s chair, I continue reading.

Herman always spoke highly of his mother in the company of others, but as soon as he was alone with her, he became a tyrant, throwing one tantrum after another. When Polly attempted to discipline her six-year-old son, he only retaliated with more violence and vile language. He was a very bad boy with a heart as black as soot. That’s what his mother always told him. Finally, Polly decided she had no choice but to place Herman in an orphanage.

Herman cried and acted out for weeks, but he soon realized that he didn’t want to be thrown away again. And the nuns refused to adhere to Herman’s outrage. Within months, he was as mild-mannered as the young girls who had been born in the orphanage. For ten years, he ate his vegetables and wasted not even a crumb of bread. He said good morning and good evening and never forgot a please or thank you. He helped the nuns with the wash and the milking of their one cow and four goats. He did well in his classes and always offered to read aloud during weekly mass.

But deep inside the soft curves of his soul, Herman knew that the prickly tyrant he left in Winchester with Polly was waiting.

Now sixteen years old, Herman decided it was time for him to take up a hobby or involve himself in some great cause; something that would keep the tyrant at bay. On the morning of December fifth, Herman pulled on his gray coat and rain boots and set off for a long walk to the town square to enlist in the United States Army.

‘How could his mom do that to him?’ I asked Grandpa. ‘Is that legal?’

Grandpa lets out a raspy laugh then he sits back in his big chair and folds his hands over his belly. The leather patches on the elbows of his maroon sweater squeak a little against the leather arms of the chair.

‘It was legal then and it’s still legal now, son, so you’d better behave,’ he replies with a wink.

I smile as I glance at the page again. ‘Is Herman going to war?’

‘He sure is, but there’s lots more story that comes before that. You just keep reading and tell me what you think when you’re done.’

I pull the red ribbon bookmark between the pages to mark my place, then I close the book. ‘Why is it called Black Box?’

‘You’ll find that out too, but I’ll give you a hint. There’s a little blackness inside all of us.’

There’s a little blackness inside all of us.

‘Don’t worry, son, not all stories have happy endings; but that doesn’t mean they’re not worth the read.’

Chapter 8: CRUSH – January 3rd

Staring into Mikki’s green eyes, I swear I’m looking into my own. She’s hiding something from me that I haven’t quite figured out yet, but I’m positive it has to do with her trip to L.A. There has to be a reason someone as skittish as her decided to have coffee with me rather than go home when her flight was canceled. And there’s definitely a reason greater than curiosity for the question she just asked me.

If it weren’t her asking, this would be the point in our conversation where I begin to suspect her of being an undercover cop or journalist. But it is Mikki. And something about this girl tells me she’s not here to find out what happened in a dark parking lot three years ago.

‘That’s a trick question,’ I reply. ‘If I tell you I’ve never killed anyone, then you’ll think I’m a good guy and you’ll stay, because even though it’s not a very exciting answer, it means you’re safe. But if I tell you I’ve killed someone, you may find it intriguing or frightening. Either way, intrigued or scared, you’ll probably try to get the fuck away from me, and I don’t think I’m ready for that.’

She smiles as she looks down at her fingers, which she’s tapping on the surface of the bar. ‘That’s a real suave way to dodge the question. It also sounds like something a murderer would say.’

‘Really?’

She looks up and meets my gaze again. ‘Who did you kill?’

I pause for a moment as I try to figure out where she’s going with this conversation. Then it hits me. ‘Do you want to die?’

‘What?’ she asks, shaking her head far too adamantly. ‘That’s . . . that’s a stupid question.’

‘Why is it a stupid question?’

‘Because,’ she snaps at me. ‘It’s just stupid. I don’t want to die.’

She continues to look down at her hands, which are still trembling as she fidgets with her silver thumb-ring. I get an urge to grab her hand again, to stop the trembling and fidgeting, but I don’t.

‘I’m sorry. I guess that was kind of a stupid question. I was just wondering why a pretty girl like you would hang out with me when you could be at home in your warm bed with your pjs on. Or out with your friends . . . or your boyfriend.’

She finally chuckles. ‘So, accusing me of wanting to die is your way of avoiding my question or is it just a really messed-up way of asking me if I have a boyfriend?’

‘It’s just me being a total dick. And . . . do you have a boyfriend?’

‘No.’ She looks up and fixes me with a steely glare. ‘Most guys don’t appreciate a girl who’s crazy and also doesn’t put out.’

I’m not quite sure how to respond to this statement. It’s probably best to change the subject or reach for a joke. ‘Yeah, I know how you feel. Most girls don’t appreciate a guy who can cite Shakespeare and won’t put out. Actually, I think that’s a line from Macbeth.’

Her glare melts into a reluctant smile. ‘You’re not a total dick.’

‘Still not putting out.’

Jimmy, the bartender, arrives a few minutes later and Mikki retreats into herself again in his presence. Jimmy’s a cool guy, like me, but he can seem a bit intimidating. At six-foot-three with nineteen-inch biceps, he doesn’t have to work hard to keep the rowdy customers in check. But I want Mikki to feel relaxed. And I can see, by the way she’s fidgeting with her thumb-ring and her hair, not adding a single word to our conversation, that she’s pretty uncomfortable.

‘You want to head out of here? We can go get a drink somewhere else.’

She looks up at me, slightly confused. ‘Why would we go somewhere else? We haven’t even finished our first drink yet.’

I nod and ask Jimmy to get another round of dirty martinis ready. ‘How do you like that martini?’

She picks up the martini glass and guzzles down the rest of the drink, leaving the olive at the bottom. ‘Delicious.’ She grabs the other glass that Jimmy just set down in front of her and takes another long swig. ‘Definitely the best martini I’ve ever had in Boston.’

‘Have you ever had a martini in Boston?’ I ask, then I guzzle the rest of my first martini so I can keep up with her.

‘Not nice, young lady.’ Jimmy chides her and she lifts her martini glass to him.

‘Still the best,’ she declares, then she finishes martini number two.

Jimmy throws me a brief glance that probably means, Where’d you find this one? or, Am I gonna have to eighty-six her at eleven a.m.?

‘Maybe you should eat a little something before you transform into a walking dirty martini. All you had was half a muffin.’

‘The bottom,’ she clarifies, looking at Jimmy. ‘I’m not hungry.’

‘I make a pretty mean green olive and maraschino cherry kabob,’ I reply, and Jimmy lifts the condiment tray onto the bar.

I grab a toothpick and stack two olives and two cherries, then I hold it out to her. Her face looks a little gray as she shoots my concoction a look of disgust.

‘I said I’m not hungry. You eat it.’

I pop the toothpick into my mouth and pull it out clean. The bitter brine of the olives hits me first, then the cloying sweetness of the cherries. I take my first chew and it all explodes into a squishy mess in my mouth.

‘That’s disgusting,’ she remarks.

I gulp down the rest of my shit-kabob and Jimmy shakes his head as he sets a glass of ice water on the bar for me to wash it down. ‘Yeah, but it got you to stop jonesin’ for a martini for two minutes.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘I’m more of a beer girl, anyway.’

‘You and I are going to get along very well.’

‘I thought we were already getting along pretty well.’

I successfully manage to get her to slow her downward slide into Crunksville by asking Jimmy to switch us to tap beer, which he cuts with a little club soda. Then I keep her talking to keep her mouth busy. Soon, three hours have passed and we’ve only had three more beers. Unfortunately, with the lack of food, she’s looking pretty loose as she leans over the bar with the side of her head propped up on her fist.

‘And that’s the tragic story of why my dad gave Bradley away when I was six.’

She’s just spent the past twenty minutes telling me the story of her dog Bradley Snickers, a chocolate Labrador Retriever. The only pet she ever had.

‘You took your dog for a walk on thin ice to see if it would hold you both?’

‘I’m not saying it wasn’t a stupid thing to do, but I was only six years old. I think my dad may have overreacted just a little.’ She guzzles the dregs of beer in her glass and looks up at me, her eyes unfocused and a bit teary. ‘I loved that fucking dog. It was the only thing I ever loved. I would never have purposely hurt him.’ I reach up to brush a piece of hair away from her eyes and she smacks my hand away. ‘Don’t touch me. I didn’t say you could touch me!’

‘Sorry. I – I’m sorry.’

‘You don’t have to be sorry, just don’t do it.’ She chuckles a little after she says this. ‘That’s what my mom used to say to me when I got in trouble and I tried to apologize for being bad. She’d say, “Don’t apologize; just don’t do it.” Like it’s that easy to always do the right thing.’