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“I’ to look over your paperwork and initiate soot to her feet suddenly “Please don’t hu yourself before we can save your life”

And then she was gone

Chapter Seven

Angel tried not to think about Madelaine God knew, there were plenty of other things to think about, but she wouldn’t leave his mind

He squeezed his eyes shut, battlinginside him The problem was, there was so damned little inside him That had always been his problem Deep, deep inside, in the place where poets and el had nothing Ever since he was a kid, he’d known there was soht and wrong, of goodness He was selfish in a cold, ruthless way For years he’d tried to refashion that insight, telling himself he was simply a product of crappy parents, or the sleazy little house he’d grown up in, or the food that wasn’t on the table

But Francis had grown up in that trailer, too, hadn’t he? Gone to the same schools, listened to the same drunken lectures from parents who didn’t really care, and everyone knew that Francis had no puncture in his soul Hell, Francis had more soul than the saint he was named for

There had only been one ti about hiht maybe he had a chance

That summer The memories of that ti Camelot amidst the seedy taverns and dark holes he’d lived in since And like Caht more of myth than fact

Still, he remembered what it had felt like to have hope, however transitory When he’d looked into Madelaine’s eyes, felt the war to her body in the wet sand beneath the piers, he’d told hi worth fighting for, worth living for

But then he’d gone into that silent, sparkling house on the hill, and faced the dark night of his own soul He’d looked into Alexander Hillyard’s fatho truth They were the saly to the bone

Francis had known it, of course Don’t do it, man Don’t just run away Whatever it is, we can talk about it Figure out what to do

Ah, Angel thought, rubbing his teht Francis was always right That was one of the things that stuck in Angel’s craw, one of the things that kept hierbil stuck in Habitrail hell He was constantly trying to outrun the ghost of good old Francis

He’d thought success would do it, that finally he would coht He was a world-faing, lying slut of a huood enough person to feel regret at the way he’d wasted his life, and he knew that given the chance, he’d screw it up again

And Francis loved hih it all Through all Angel’s drunken harangues, the belligerent tauntings, the cruel jokes Angel made at his brother’s expense Francis had always known that he was the favored child in the family, their mother’s sole ticket to Heaven, and he’d always been ashael had never wanted to listen It hurt too ht home by the police, the loser He’d put up a brave, obnoxious front, hoping no one would notice his inner torment and pain, his sense of worthlessness, but Francis had noticed, of course, noticed and understood and forgiven Angel had seen the forgiveness ti ware back to brotherhood, could never reach out his hand and smile and say my brother, the way he wanted to Could never control his teize

And so he was alone