Seconds Away Read Free

“Mickey?”
    “What?”
    “About the photograph.”
    “Yes?”
    She took her time before she said, “I don’t think you’re crazy.”
    I waited for her to say more. She didn’t.
    “So what then?” I asked. “If I’m not crazy, what am I? Falsely hopeful?”
    Ema considered that. “Probably. But there is another side to this whole thing.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Maybe I’m crazy too,” she said, “but I believe you.”
    I stood and walked toward her. I’m six-four, so I towered over her. We made, I’m sure, an odd pair.
    She looked up at me and said, “I don’t know how or why, and, yeah, I know all the arguments against it. But I believe you.”
    I was so grateful, I wanted to cry.
    “The question is, what are we going to do about it?” Ema asked.
    I arched an eyebrow. “We?”
    “Sure.”
    “Not this time, Ema. I’ve put you in enough danger.”
    She frowned again. “Could you be more patronizing?”
    “I have to handle this on my own.”
    “No, Mickey, you don’t. Whatever this is, whatever is going on here with you and the Bat Lady, I’m part of it.”
    I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I settled for, “Let’s sleep on it and talk in the morning, okay?”
    She turned and started back through the yard. “You know what’s funny?”
    “What?”
    “This all started with a crazy old lady telling you that your father was still alive. But now, well, I’m not so sure she’s crazy.”
    Ema disappeared into the night. I picked up the basketball, lost in the—and, yes, I know how this will sound—Zen-like quality of shooting. After all that had happened, I longed for a little peace and quiet.
    But I wouldn’t get it.
    I thought that it was bad then, but soon I would learn just how bad it could get.

CHAPTER 3
    I was just about to take a jump shot when I heard Uncle Myron’s car pull up.
    Myron Bolitar was something of a sports legend in this town. He held every basketball scoring record, won two NCAA Final Four titles in college, and was drafted in the first round by the Boston Celtics. A sudden knee injury ended his NBA career before it really began.
    I’d always heard my dad—Myron’s younger brother—talk about how devastating that had been for my uncle. My dad had loved and hero-worshipped Myron—until my mother became pregnant with me. To put it mildly, Myron did not approve of my mother. He let that fact be known with, I guess, very colorful language. The two brothers fought over it, leading to Myron actually punching my father in the face.
    They never saw or spoke to each other again.
    Now, of course, it was too late.
    I know Myron feels bad about this. I know that it breaks his heart and that he wants to make amends through me. What he doesn’t get is, it isn’t my place to forgive him. In my eyes, he was the guy who pushed my parents down a road that would eventually lead to Dad’s death and Mom’s drug addiction.
    “Hey,” Myron said.
    “Hey.”
    “Did you get something to eat?” he asked me.
    I nodded and took a shot. Myron grabbed the rebound and threw the ball back to me. The basketball court meant a lot to both of us. We both got that. It was neutral territory, a no-fight zone, our own small land of truce. I took another shot and winced. Myron spotted it.
    “Tryouts are in two weeks, right?” he asked.
    He was talking about the high school basketball team. My hope, I confess, was that I’d break those old records of his.
    I shook my head. “They were moved up.”
    “So when are they?”
    “Monday.”
    “Whoa, soon. Are you excited?”
    I was, of course. Very. But I just shrugged and took another shot.
    “You’re only a sophomore,” Myron said. “They don’t take many sophomores on the varsity.”
    “You started as a sophomore, didn’t you?”
    “Touché.” Myron threw me another pass and changed the subject. “Still sore from last night?” he asked.
    “Yes.”
    “Anything more than that?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I’m wondering