“Tell him to drive—anywhere,” she exclaimed. What about your real mother? Wasn’t she also a foster child? Michelle told me that she was suspected of murder, some people named McFerrin, McDougal. The walls were pristine white and unmarked except for two sconces and a rather colorless Monet poster that had been framed in an expensive oak surround. They even talked about friendship. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. I am a man—of a sort of experience. Lucy could smell that Michelle was the body type that easily became cancerous, and fast.
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