One day he’d seen Crystal rushing out of the cafeteria during lunch period, obviously upset. On impulse, he’d left his unfinished lunch and went after her, following her out of the building and off campus.

He’d stayed at a distance behind her, until he saw her leave the sidewalk and slip-slide down a steep ravine. He’d run to catch up and discovered her sitting in a concrete culvert, her back to the damp, curved wall, head bent over her raised knees, crying so hard her body shook.

When he spoke her name, she’d jumped and was about to scramble to her feet. He’d put out his hand in a steadying gesture. “Go ahead and cry if you need to. I’ll just sit here with you. Okay?”

Slowly, he lowered himself into a crouch in front of her. She watched him with wariness, but when he didn’t make a move to touch her, she’d replaced her head on her knees and cried herself out.

When she finally had run dry, she raised her head and wiped tears off her bloated, splotchy face. “Go away. You’ll only make it worse by being here.”

“Make what worse?”

“The things they say about me.”

“Who says?”

“Everybody.”

“Screw them.”

She gave a bitter laugh. “They say I do.” Settling her forehead on her knees again, she’d spoken softly, but stressfully. “I don’t do those things they say. Why would I want to? I hate it. It’s awful. It hurts.”

The words seeped into Ledge like a vile and oily venom. He thought about her strict isolation, and the maroon pickup truck that transported her to and from school, remembered clearly her saying with a tremor in her child’s voice, I’m not supposed to talk to boys.

“What hurts, Crystal?”

Though her head still rested on her knees, she gave a negative shake. “I can’t tell.”

“You can tell me.”

“So you can blab it to everybody else.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

She raised her head and looked at him skeptically.

He said, “I swear I’ll never tell anything you ask me not to. Who hurts you?”

Her eyes filled to overflowing with fresh tears, and, in a raw voice, she whispered, “My stepbrother.”

A surge of red-hot rage consumed him. “He abuses you? Like, touches you?”

“It started out that way. Now…” She couldn’t go on, but her expression had spoken volumes.

Ledge settled back on his rump and didn’t take his eyes off her face as she’d told him the whole sordid story.

It had started when her stepfather died. His son continued to live with Crystal and her mother. Her mother was aware of his molestation, but she was too afraid of him to do anything about it. They lived in terror of him. His name was Morg Young.

Morg Young was a regular at the bar, one who Henry and Don had just as soon do his carousing someplace else. He picked fights, was generally disorderly, and, once, Henry had tossed him out for harassing a woman who had neither invited nor welcomed his attention. Ledge would never have connected that redneck lowlife to Crystal, who had a different last name.

Now, Ledge reached across to the corner of the sofa and covered her knee with his hand. “To this day, I wish I had killed him.”

“You very nearly did.”

He had been too young to serve liquor, but often, after he had finished his dinner and homework, he’d helped out in the bar by sweeping, washing glasses, unloading cases of product, anything that needed doing.

That night around ten o’clock, Morg Young had come in alone and, after getting a beer from Don, had sauntered over to the billiards area and asked those standing around the tables which one of them was ready to lose some money. He’d played several games and stayed until closing. He had been one of the last customers to leave.

Unnoticed by his uncle and Don, Ledge had gone into the stockroom, then slipped out the back door. He caught up with Crystal’s abuser just as he was about to climb into his truck.

Five minutes later, Ledge was again pushing the broom across the barroom floor. A customer who had bid everyone a good night and left rushed back inside, breathless. “Guess Morg spouted off to the wrong man tonight. He’s lying out there by his truck, beat to a pulp.”

Henry rushed outside to assess the situation. Don called 911. As in the wake of all violent emergencies, the next half hour had been eventful. In the midst of it, Don had noticed Ledge’s bloody, swollen knuckles and had looked at him with alarm.

Ledge mumbled, “He had it coming.”

Don had held his gaze for a moment, glanced over at Henry and, particularly, at the pair of sheriff’s deputies who were questioning him about who Morg had been playing pool with. Coming back to Ledge, Don said querulously, “Aren’t you supposed to be studying for an algebra test?”

Taking the hint, Ledge had gone to his room and lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling for almost an hour before Henry came in. He’d sat down heavily on the foot of the bed, and looked at Ledge’s bruised hands.

“How’d you get crosswise with that horse’s ass?”

“I didn’t.”

“Then why’d you send him to the hospital?”

“There’s this girl in my grade. Crystal. She’s his stepsister. Today, I caught her crying. She talked to me. Personal like.” He stared hard into Henry’s eyes, and what he had sworn to Crystal not to tell, he compelled his uncle to interpret.

“Morg messes with her?”

Ledge didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to.

“Jesus.” Henry had dragged his hand down his face and contemplated the gravity of the situation. “The girl’s name is Crystal?”

“Ivers.”

Henry repeated her name as though committing it to memory. “Is she your girlfriend?”

“Not like that.”

“This wasn’t secondhand information? She told you herself?”

Ledge just looked at him.

“Are you sure she’s telling the truth?”

The question had so angered Ledge, he’d glared at his uncle.

“Okay, okay.” Henry had tugged on his chin thoughtfully. “Could he point you out as the guy who attacked him?”

“I made sure he didn’t see me.”

“Did anybody?”

“I don’t think so.”