"It works," Luke said. The syllables overlapped with April's; they echoed strangely in the dim light: one warped voice out of two throats. It had taken a few weeks for their synchronicity to come back -- to look exactly as it had before -- but now that everything in Sing Sing was falling apart, here it was. As if they'd never been apart.
You're the only one that understands me.
It was probably true. True today, anyway. True yesterday.
Lately George's words -- all her words -- were blurring at the forefront of Luke's mind. He'd tried to ignore the conversation they'd had, the disagreement about right and wrong, cults, glass houses. It was hard to define what hurt, but it hurt enough. He couldn't pretend not to care.
Maybe I'm just tired. But what did it mean, anyway, if he would kill anyone he needed to? He'd killed someone before. The thought of it made him pause at the threshold of the room, still clutching the bat in his bruised hands. He'd killed someone before, and it had never made a difference in his life. In his thoughts. In his heart. It had never changed a thing about him.
Maybe it was like that other part of Luke's mind, the one that fought and made things difficult. Then again, calling it other implied that there was anything else.
It was easier not to think about it.
Instead Luke pictured so many faceless people, like the blurred features of the man wearing David's shirt in Ossining. He'd been far enough away to be anonymous, to be nothing, like every human Luke didn't love. It was easy to imagine him standing here, leering. Dead man walking.
Luke drew the bat back suddenly, smashing it hard into a nearby lamp. The shattering sound jolted him into laughter.
Fine. Everything is fine, and I don't care about any of it.