Little Junie came over and put her chubby finger on the figure’s head. “Pretty cat, Wilum.”
I flicked away moisture in the corner of my eyes. “Yes, it is, sweetie. A pretty little kitten like you.”
“Ball.” She fingered the carved yarn.
I damned near started crying again. Nola came and got Junie to clean her up, leaving me to carve and try to recover my manhood. What was it the old man had called me? A pansy? That pretty well described William Greyhorse.
* * * *
Wednesday, I came home after school to find cop cars all over the place. There was an ambulance there too. Oh, God! Had something happened to the girls? If the old man had hurt them, so help me I’d kill him. Even as I made this silent pledge, they brought him out of the apartment in handcuffs and loaded him into a police cruise
