Badlands

“I know.”

Byrne looked coldcocked. “You know?”

“I talk to Do

“You talk to my wife?”

“Well, technically, she’s your ex-wife. But yeah. Now and then. I mean, we don’t coffee klatch, Kevin. We’re not swapping Rachael Ray recipes.”

Byrne drew a long, rhythmic breath.

“What the hell was that?” Jessica asked.

“What was what?”

“That breath. That was yoga breathing.”

“Yoga? I don’t think so.”

“I took yoga classes after Sophie was born. I know yoga breathing.”

Byrne said nothing.

Jessica shook her head. “Kevin Byrne doing yoga.”

Byrne looked at her. “How much do you want?”

“A thousand dollars. Tens and twenties.”

“Okay.”

Jessica’s phone rang. She answered, took down the information. “We’re up,” she said. “We have a job. The boss wants us in.”

Byrne glanced at his watch, back. “You go on ahead. I have a stop to make.”

“Okay,” she said. “See you at the house.”

ONE HUNDRED NINE

THE MAN STOOD next to the ruin. He seemed thi

It was certainly no loss for North Philly. For Robert O’Riordan it was another story.

Byrne wondered how long the man would haunt this place, how long it would be until Caitlin said it was okay for him to go home. Everyone said it gets easier with time, Byrne knew. It never gets easier, it just gets later.

Byrne got out of his car, crossed the road. Robert O’Riordan saw him. At first, Byrne didn’t know how O’Riordan was going to react. After a few moments O’Riordan looked at the broken building, then back at Byrne. He nodded.

Byrne walked up next to the man, stood with him, shoulder to shoulder. He didn’t know if Robert O’Riordan was a religious man, but Byrne handed him something, a prayer card from Eve Galvez’s service. O’Riordan took it. He held it in two hands.

Although they had never met in life, Robert O’Riordan and Eve Galvez were bound by something that would forever transcend this place, something that memory and time could erode, but never erase. Something found in the very heart of mercy.

And so Byrne and he stood, in silence, as the winds gathered leaves in vacant lots. Neither man spoke.

Sometimes words were not enough, Kevin Byrne thought.

Sometimes they were not even needed.

About The Author

RICHARD MONTANARI is a novelist, screenwriter, and essayist. His work has appeared in the Chicago Tribune, Detroit Free Press, Cleveland Plain Dealer, and scores of other national and regional publications. He is the OLMA-wi

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