Blind Rage [antikvár]

Prologue THE HOUSE WAS FILLED WITH THE WARM AROMAS OF CHILI powder and fried ground beef, the only leftovers from taco night. In the white kitchen a boy sat at the table with his hands folded atop the white linen as if immersed in a postmeal prayer. He was dressed in a parochial school uniform: light blue oxford shirt, navy necktie, navy slacks, thick-soled black shoes. Without being given any instructions, he'd already wiped down the stovetop, cleared the table, scraped the plates, and loaded the dishwasher. The racket of the rinse cycle rumbled under the counter, but it was the noise overhead that made his eyes cloud with terror. The tub was running. In any other home, the musical drum of water hitting the porcelain would mean it was bath time. In this house the sound was a dirge. Though his body was immobile with fear, his mind was convulsing with questions and answers: What did I do? I didn't do shit. . . Mid-quarter grades are coming out. Did I get a B in anything? No fucking way . . . Did the nuns bug Dad at the office over some bullshit, something I did during lunch or gym or mass? No. I'd know. School would have hauled me into the office before calling him . . . Did Mom find something in my room? Hell no. Nothing there to find . . . What is it, then? What did I do?