"Did you really kill the horses?"
The kid gawking at him wasn't more than five years old.
Standing on the left bank of the Medina River, Jake stuffed his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, his stomach churning like the river below. Fifteen years later, the accusation was still alive.
"My gramma says you burned the barn and the horses died." The boy's eyes sparkled, his excitement over the idea chilling.
"Get back here, Peter." The middle aged woman grabbed the boy's arm and yanked him to her side. "He'll get mad and then you'll be sorry."
The child made a face as he squeezed himself between the woman's big legs and clutched the fabric of her baggy pants in his fist.
She turned, then snatched up their fishing gear. "C'mon, Peter. We're not staying here any longer."
"But we didn't catch any fish yet."
Ignoring the boy's protests, the woman dragged him up the riverbank to the road, hustled him into her car and drove away.
A sharp winter gust whipped at Jake' ...
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