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son some people need. I'll have him checked out. What about the people you work with?" |
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Chris pushed away from the dresser and took a short walk around the room. "My editor, my agent. That's all. They make too much money from my books to kill me off." |
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"No contract hassles lately?" |
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"Never. I write and draw; they buy. Everyone's happy." |
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"My, my, don't you have a gingerbread-house life, McCall. Everyone loves you and you love everyone. Except for your brother." She held up her hand, staving off his automatic denial. "Your foster brother. Sorry. What about your foster parents? You haven't mentioned them." |
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Chris stopped in his pacing. Mr. and Mrs. Rousseau. He had never thought of them as anything else. They had never asked him to call them Mom and Dadnot that he would have. Oh, sure, he could have called them Dave and Carol; in fact he had when he spoke of them to his teachers or friends. But to their faces and in his mind he always called them Mr. and Mrs. Rousseauthe people who had taken him in for the money. |
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D.J. waited for his answer. She stared at him, curiosity in her eyes. He had to say something. |
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"They took me in. Someone had to. I was grateful." |
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D.J. frowned at the lack of warmth in his tone. "Really? You don't sound grateful. You have no other relatives?" |
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Chris closed his eyes and leaned his head back, turning it from side to side to try to ease the sudden |
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