enjoying some strange thrill at being this close to a blood relative of the woman
the newspapers still occasionally referred to, all these years later, as the pretty face of evil.
I watched her eyes run over my scars. Her mouth hung slightly open,
and it became apparent that the suit and the bob were an inadequate disguise for this particular slack-jawed yokel.
“I could probably dig out a photograph, if you’d like one,” I said.
She blinked twice and blushed, then busied herself by grappling with the bulging file, trying to sort all the loose papers into a tidy pile.
I noticed a single sheet flutter down and land under the coffee table.
She hadn’t seen it make its escape, and I pondered whether or not to tell her.
It was about me, after all, so wasn’t it technically mine? I’d return it at the next visit, of course —I’m not a thief.
I imagined Mummy’s voice, whispering, telling me I was quite right, that social workers were busybodies, do-gooders, nosy parkers.
June Mullen snapped the elastic band around the file, and the moment to mention the sheet of paper had passed.
“I... is there anything else you’d like to discuss with me today?” she asked.
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