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she asked after she’d given him his pill. “Should I ask Mrs. White to come and sit with you?”
    â€œI don’t need fussing over,” he muttered. His thin shoulders lifted and fell. “Where did I fail your father, Becky?” he asked miserably. “And where did I fail Clay? My son and my grandson in trouble with the law, and that Kilpatrick man won’t stop until he’s got them both in jail. I’ve heard all about him. He’s a barracuda.”
    â€œHe’s a prosecuting attorney,” she corrected. “And he’s only doing his job. He just does it passionately, that’s all. Mr. Malcolm likes him.”
    Her grandfather narrowed one eye and looked up at her. “Do you?”
    She stood up. “Don’t be silly. He’s the enemy.”
    â€œYou remember that,” he said firmly, his stubborn chin jutting. “Don’t go getting soft on him. He’s no friend to this family. He did everything in his power to put Scott away.”
    â€œYou knew about that?” she asked.
    He sat up straighter. “I knew. Saw no reason to tell you or the boys. It wouldn’t have helped things. Anyway, Scott beat the rap. The witness changed his mind.”
    â€œDid he change it—or did Dad change it for him?”
    He wouldn’t look at her. “Scott wasn’t a bad boy. He was just different; had a different way of looking at things. It wasn’t his fault that the law kept hounding him, no more than it’s Clay’s. That Kilpatrick man has it in for us.”
    Becky started to speak and stopped. Granddad couldn’t admit that he’d made a mistake with Scott, so he certainly wasn’t going to admit that he’d made one with Clay. It wouldn’t do any good to have an argument with him over it, but it left her holding the bag and Clay’s future in her own hands. She could see that she’d get little help from Granddad now.
    â€œBecky, whatever your father did or didn’t do, he’s still my son,” he said suddenly, clenching the chair hard with his lean old hands. “I love him. I love Clay, too.”
    â€œI know that,” she said gently. She bent down and kissed his leathery cheek. “We’ll take care of Clay. They’re going to give him some counseling and help him,” she said, hoping she could make Clay go to the sessions without too much browbeating. “He’ll come through. He’s a Cullen.”
    â€œThat’s right. He’s a Cullen.” He smiled up at her. “You’re one, yourself. Have I ever told you how proud I am of you?”
    â€œFrequently,” she said, and grinned. “When I get rich and famous, I’ll remember you.”
    â€œWe’ll never get rich, and Clay’s likely to be the only famous one of us—infamous, most likely.” He sighed. “But you’re the heart of the whole outfit. Don’t let this get you down. Life can get hard sometimes. But if you see through your troubles, think past them to better times, it helps. Always helped me.”
    â€œI’ll remember that. I’d better get to work,” she added. “Be good. I’ll see you later.”
    She drove to the office, inwardly cringing at the thought of the ordeal ahead. She had to talk to Kilpatrick. What Clay had said about Kilpatrick trying to put him in reform school frightened her. Kilpatrick might decide to pursue it, and she had to stop him from doing that. She was going to have to bury her pride and tell him the real situation at home, and she dreaded it.
    Her boss gave her an hour off. She phoned the district attorney’s office on the seventh floor and asked to see the man himself. She was told that he was on his way down, to meet him at the elevator and they could talk while he got his coffee in the drugstore.
    Elated that he’d deigned to at least speak to her, she grabbed her purse, straightened her flowery