{"product_id":"bad-love-isbn-9780345539021","title":"Bad Love","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES \u003c\/i\u003eBESTSELLER • The iconic thriller series that inspired the upcoming streaming show on Prime Video\u003ci\u003e, \u003c\/i\u003ein development now!\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt came in a plain brown wrapper, no return address—an audiocassette recording of a horrifying, soul-lacerating scream, followed by the sound of a childlike voice chanting: “Bad love. Bad love. Don’t give me the bad love.” For Alex Delaware the tape is the first intimation that he is about to enter a living nightmare. Others soon follow: disquieting laughter echoing over a phone line that suddenly goes dead, and a chilling act of trespass and vandalism. He has become the target of a carefully orchestrated campaign of vague threats and intimidation rapidly building to a crescendo as harassment turns to terror, mischief to madness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“A wonderful, roller-coaster ride . . . a guaranteed page-turner.”—\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith the help of his friend, LAPD detective Milo Sturgis, Alex uncovers a series of violent deaths that may follow a diabolical pattern. And if he fails to decipher the twisted logic of the stalker’s mind games, Alex will be the next to die.\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“\u003ci\u003eBad Love\u003c\/i\u003e will have you looking over your shoulder before you turn out the lights.”—\u003ci\u003eDetroit Free Press\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “By the end I was fairly racing through the pages.”—\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eJonathan Kellerman \u003c\/b\u003eis the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of more than forty crime novels, including the Alex Delaware series, \u003ci\u003eThe Butcher’s Theater, Billy Straight, The Conspiracy Club, Twisted, True Detectives, \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe Murderer’s Daughter\u003c\/i\u003e. With his wife, bestselling novelist Faye Kellerman, he co-authored\u003ci\u003e Double Homicide \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e Capital Crimes\u003c\/i\u003e. With his son, bestselling novelist Jesse Kellerman, he co-authored \u003ci\u003eA Measure of Darkness, Crime Scene, The Golem of Hollywood, \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe Golem of Paris\u003c\/i\u003e. He is also the author of two children’s books and numerous nonfiction works, including \u003ci\u003eSavage Spawn: Reflections on Violent Children \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e With Strings Attached: The Art and Beauty of Vintage Guitars\u003c\/i\u003e. He has won the Goldwyn, Edgar, and Anthony awards and the Lifetime Achievement Award from the American Psychological Association, and has been nominated for a Shamus Award. Jonathan and Faye Kellerman live in California and New Mexico.Chapter\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt came in a plain brown wrapper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePadded envelope, book rate, book-sized. I assumed it was an academic text I’d forgotten ordering.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt went on to the mail table, along with Monday’s bills and announcements of scholarly seminars in Hawaii and St. Croix. I returned to the library and tried to figure out what I was going to do in ten minutes when Tiffani and Chondra Wallace showed up for their second session.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA year ago their mother had been murdered by their father up on a ridge in the Angeles Crest Forest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe told it as a crime of passion and maybe he was right, in the very worst sense. I’d learned from court documents that absence of passion had never been a problem for Ruthanne and Donald Dell Wallace. She’d never been a strong-willed woman, and despite the ugliness of their divorce, she had held on to “love feelings” for Donald Dell. So no one had been surprised when he cajoled her into taking a night ride with sweet words, the promise of a lobster dinner, and good marijuana.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShortly after parking on a shaded crest overlooking the forest, the two of them got high, made love, talked, argued, fought, raged, and finally clawed at one another. Then Donald Dell took his buck knife to the woman who still bore his name, slashed and stabbed her thirty-three times, and kicked her corpse out of his pickup, leaving behind an Indian-silver clip stuffed with cash and his membership card in the Iron Priests motorcycle club.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA docket-clearing plea bargain landed him in Folsom Prison on a five to ten for second-degree murder. There he was free to hang out in the yard with his meth-cooking Aryan Brotherhood bunkmates, take an auto mechanics course he could have taught, accrue good behavior brownie points in the chapel, and bench press until his pectorals threatened to explode.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFour months into his sentence, he was ready to see his daughters.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe law said his paternal rights had to be considered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn L.A. family court judge named Stephen Huff—one of the better ones—asked me to evaluate. We met in his chambers on a September morning and he told me the details while drinking ginger ale and stroking his bald head. The room had beautiful old oak paneling and cheap country furniture. Pictures of his own children were all over the place.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Just when does he plan on seeing them, Steve?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Up at the prison, twice a month.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That’s a plane ride.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Friends will chip in for the fare.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What kind of friends?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Some idiocy called The Donald Dell Wallace Defense Fund.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Biker buddies?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Vroom vroom.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Meaning it’s probably amphetamine money.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis smile was weary and grudging. “Not the issue before us, Alex.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What’s next, Steve? Disability payments because he’s stressed out being a single parent?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“So it smells. So what else is new? Talk to the poor kids a few times, write up a report saying visitation’s injurious to their psyches, and we’ll bury the issue.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“For how long?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe put down the ginger ale and watched the glass raise wet circles on his blotter. “I can kibosh it for at least a year.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Then what?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“If he puts in another claim, the kids can be reevaluated and we’ll kibosh it again. Time’s on their side, right? They’ll be getting older and hopefully tougher.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In a year they’ll be ten and eleven, Steve.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe picked at his tie. “What can I tell you, Alex? I don’t want to see these kids screwed up, either. I’m asking you to evaluate because you’re tough-minded—for a shrink.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Meaning someone else might recommend visitation?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s possible. You should see some of the opinions your colleagues render. I had one the other day, said the fact that a mother was severely depressed was good for the kid—teach her the value of true emotions.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Okay,” I said. “But I want to do a real evaluation, not some rubber stamp. Something that may have some use for them in the future.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Therapy? Why not? Sure, do whatever you want. You are now shrink of record. Send your bill straight to me and I’ll see you get paid within fifteen working days.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Who’s paying, our leather-clad friends?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they pay up.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Just as long as they don’t try to deliver the check in person.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I wouldn’t worry about it, Alex. Those types shy away from insight.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e***\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe girls arrived right on time, just as they had last week, linked, like suitcases, to the arms of their grandmother.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Well, here they are,” Evelyn Rodriguez announced. She remained in the entry and pushed them forward.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Morning,” I said. “Hi, girls.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTiffani smiled uneasily. Her older sister looked away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Have an easy ride?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvelyn shrugged, twisted her lips and untwisted them. Maintaining her grip on the girls, she backed away. The girls allowed themselves to be tugged, but unwillingly, like nonviolent protesters. Feeling the burden, Evelyn let go. Crossing her arms over her chest, she coughed and looked away from me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRodriguez was her fourth husband. She was Anglo, stout, bottom-heavy, an old fifty-eight, with dimpled elbows and knuckles, nicotine skin, and lips as thin and straight as a surgical incision. Talk came hard for her and I was pretty sure it was a character trait that preceded her daughter’s murder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis morning she wore a sleeveless, formless blouse—a faded mauve and powder blue floral print that reminded me of a decorative tissue box. It billowed, untucked, over black stretch jeans piped with red. Her blue tennis shoes were speckled with bleach spots. Her hair was short and wavy, corn colored above dark roots. Earring slits creased her lobes but she wore no jewelry. Behind bifocals, her eyes continued to reject mine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe patted Chondra’s head, and the girl pressed her face against a thick, soft arm. Tiffani had walked into the living room and was staring at a picture on the wall, tapping one foot fast.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvelyn Rodriguez said, “Okay, then, I’ll just wait down in the car.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“If it gets too hot, feel free to come up.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The heat don’t bother me.” She raised a forearm and glanced at a too-small wristwatch. “How long we talking about this time?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Let’s aim for an hour, give or take.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Last time was twenty minutes.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’d like to try for a little longer today.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe frowned. “Okay . . . can I smoke down there?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Outside the house? Sure.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe muttered something.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Anything you’d like to tell me?” I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Me?” She freed one finger, poked a breast, and smiled. “Nah. Be good, girlies.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStepping out on the terrace, she closed the door. Tiffani kept examining the picture. Chondra touched the doorknob and licked her lips. She had on a white Snoopy T-shirt, red shorts, and sandals with no socks. A paper-wrapped Fruit Roll-Up extended from one pocket of the shorts. Her arms and legs were pasty and chubby, her face broad and puggish, topped by white-blond hair drawn into very long, very tight pigtails. The hair gleamed, almost metallic, incongruous above the plain face. Puberty might turn her pretty. I wondered what else it might bring.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe nibbled her lower lip. My smile went unnoticed or unbelieved.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“How are you, Chondra?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe shrugged again, kept her shoulders up, and looked at the floor. Ten months her sister’s senior, she was an inch shorter and seemed less mature. During the first session, she hadn’t said a word, content to sit with her hands in her lap as Tiffani talked on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Do anything fun this week?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe shook her head. I placed a hand on her shoulder and she went rigid until I removed it. The reaction made me wonder about some kind of abuse. How many layers of this family would I be able to peel back?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe file on my nightstand was my preliminary research. Before-bed reading for the strong stomached.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLegal jargon, police prose, unspeakable snapshots. Perfectly typed transcripts with impeccable margins.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRuthanne Wallace reduced to a coroner’s afternoon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWound depths, bone rills . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDonald Dell’s mug shot, wild-eyed, black-bearded, sweaty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“And then she got mean on me—she knew I didn’t handle mean but that didn’t stop her, no way. And then I just—you know—lost it. It shouldn’ta happened. What can I say?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI said, “Do you like to draw, Chondra?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sometimes.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Well, maybe we’ll find something you like in the playroom.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe shrugged and looked down at the carpet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTiffani was fingering the frame of the picture. A George Bellows boxing print. I’d bought it, impulsively, in the company of a woman I no longer saw.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Like the drawing?” I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe turned around and nodded, all cheekbones and nose and chin. Her mouth was very narrow and crowded with big, misaligned teeth that forced it open and made her look perpetually confused. Her hair was dishwater, cut institutionally short, the bangs hacked crookedly. Some kind of food stain specked her upper lip. Her nails were dirty, her eyes an unremarkable brown. Then she smiled and the look of confusion vanished. At that moment she could have modeled, sold anything.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yeah, it’s cool.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What do you especially like about it?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The fighting.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The fighting?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yeah,” she said, punching air. “Action. Like WWA.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“WWA,” I said. “World Wrestling?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe pantomimed an uppercut. “Pow poom.” Then she looked at her sister and scowled, as if expecting support.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChondra didn’t move.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Pow poom,” said Tiffani, advancing toward her. “Welcome to WWA fighting, I’m Crusher Creeper and this is the Red Viper in a grudge match of the century. Ding!” Bell-pull pantomime.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe laughed, nervously. Chondra chewed her lip and tried to smile.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Aar,” said Tiffani, coming closer. She pulled the imaginary cord again. “Ding. Pow poom.” Hooking her hands, she lurched forward with Frankenstein-monster unsteadiness. “Die, Viper! Aaar!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe grabbed Chondra and began tickling her arms. The older girl giggled and tickled back, clumsily. Tiffani broke free and began circling, punching air. Chondra started chewing her lip, again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI said, “C’mon, guys,” and took them to the library. Chondra sat immediately at the play table. Tiffani paced and shadowboxed, hugging the periphery of the room like a toy on a track, muttering and jabbing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChondra watched her, then plucked a sheet of paper off the top of a stack and picked up a crayon. I waited for her to draw, but she put the crayon down and watched her sister.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Do you guys watch wrestling at home?” I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Roddy does,” said Tiffani, without breaking step.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Roddy’s your grandmother’s husband?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNod. Jab. “He’s not our grampa. He’s Mexican.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“He likes wrestling?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Uh-huh. Pow poom.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI turned to Chondra. She hadn’t moved. “Do you watch wrestling on TV, too?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShake of the head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“She likes Surfriders,” said Tiffani. “I do, too, sometimes. And Millionaire’s Row.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChondra bit her lip.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Millionaire’s Row,” I said. “Is that the one where rich people have all sorts of problems?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“They die,” said Tiffani. “Sometimes. It’s really for real.” She put her arms down and stopped circling. Coming over to us, she said, “They die because money and materials are the roots of sins and when you lay down with Satan, your rest is never peaceful.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Do the rich people on Millionaire’s Row lay down with Satan?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sometimes.” She resumed her circuit, striking out at unseen enemies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“How’s school?” I asked Chondra.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe shook her head and looked away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We didn’t start yet,” said Tiffani.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“How come?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Gramma said we didn’t have to.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Do you miss seeing your friends?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHesitation. “Maybe.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Can I talk to Gramma about that?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe looked at Chondra. The older girl was peeling the paper wrapper off a crayon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTiffani nodded. Then: “Don’t do that. They’re his.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s okay,” I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You shouldn’t destroy other people’s stuff.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“True,” I said. “But some things are meant to be used up. Like crayons. And these crayons are here for you.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Who bought them?” said Tiffani.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I did.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Destroying’s Satan’s work,” said Tiffani, spreading her arms and rotating them in wide circles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI said, “Did you hear that in church?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe didn’t seem to hear. Punched the air. “He laid down with Satan.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Who?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Wallace.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChondra’s mouth dropped open. “Stop,” she said, very softly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTiffani came over and dropped her arm over her sister’s shoulder. “It’s okay. He’s not our dad anymore, remember? Satan turned him into a bad spirit and he got all his sins wrapped up like one. Like a big burrito.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChondra turned away from her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Come on,” said Tiffani, rubbing her sister’s back. “Don’t worry.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Wrapped up?” I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Like one,” she explained to me. “The Lord counts up all your good deeds and your sins and wraps them up. So when you die, He can look right away and know if you go up or down. He’s going down. When he gets there, the angels’ll look at the package and know all he done. And then he’ll burn.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe shrugged. “That’s the truth.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChondra’s eyes pooled with tears. She tried to remove Tiffani’s arm from her shoulder, but the younger girl held fast.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s okay,” said Tiffani. “You got to talk about the truth.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Stop,” said Chondra.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s okay,” Tiffani insisted. “You got to talk to him.” She looked at me. “So he’ll write a good book for the judge and he’ll never get out.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChondra looked at me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI said, “Actually, what I write won’t change how much time he spends in jail.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Maybe,” insisted Tiffani. “If your book tells the judge how evil he is, then maybe he could put him in longer.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Was he ever evil to you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo answer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChondra shook her head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTiffani said, “He hit us.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A lot?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sometimes.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“With his hand or something else?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“His hand.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Never a stick or a belt or something else?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnother headshake from Chondra. Tiffani’s was slower, reluctant.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Not a lot, but sometimes,” I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“When we were bad.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Bad?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Making a mess—going near his bike—he hit Mom more. Right?” Prodding Chondra. “He did.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChondra gave a tiny nod, grabbed the crayon, and started peeling again. Tiffani watched but didn’t stop her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That’s why we left him,” she said. “He hit her all the time. And then he came after her with lust and sin in his heart and killed her—tell the judge that, you’re rich, he’ll listen to you!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChondra began crying. Tiffani patted her and said, “It’s okay, we got to.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI got a tissue box. Tiffani took it from me and wiped her sister’s eyes. Chondra pressed the crayon to her lips.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t eat it,” said Tiffani. “It’s poison.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChondra let go and the crayon flew out of her hand and landed on the floor. Tiffani retrieved it and placed it neatly alongside the box.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChondra was licking her lips. Her eyes were closed and one soft hand was fisted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Actually,” I said, “it’s not poisonous, just wax with color in it. But it probably doesn’t taste too good.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChondra opened her eyes. I smiled and she tried to smile, producing only a small rise in one corner of her mouth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTiffani said, “Well, it’s not food.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No, it isn’t.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe paced some more. Boxed and muttered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI said, “Let me go over what I told you last week. You’re here because your father wants you to visit him in jail. My job is to find out how you feel about that, so I can tell the judge.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Why doesn’t the judge ask us?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“He will,” I said. “He’ll be talking to you, but first he wants me to—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Why?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Because that’s my job—talking to kids about their feelings. Finding out how they really—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We don’t want to see him,” said Tiffani. “He’s an insument of Satan.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An insument! He laid all down with Satan and became a sinful spirit. When he dies, he’s going to burn in hell, that’s for sure.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChondra’s hands flew to her face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Stop!” said Tiffani. She rushed over to her sister, but before she got there, Chondra stood and let out a single, deep sob. Then she ran for the door, swinging it open so hard it almost threw her off balance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe caught it, then she was out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTiffani watched her go, looking tiny and helpless.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You got to tell the truth,” she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI said, “Absolutely. But sometimes it’s hard.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe nodded. Now her eyes were wet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe paced some more.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI said, “Your sister’s older but it looks like you take care of her.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe stopped, faced me, gave a defiant stare, but seemed comforted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You take good care of her,” I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShrug.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That must get hard sometimes.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer eyes flickered. She put her hands on her hips and jutted her chin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s okay,” she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI smiled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“She’s my sister.” She stood there, knocking her hands against her legs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI patted her shoulder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe sniffed, then walked away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You got to tell the truth,” she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yes, you do.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePunch, jab. “Pow poom . . . I wanna go home.”#1 New York Times bestselling author; Author of Killer","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300728131813,"sku":"NP9780345539021","price":9.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780345539021.jpg?v=1767722110","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/bad-love-isbn-9780345539021","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}