Robert Crais Quote

In the desert. How you looked at your father. Not looking to see him, but to see if he was paying attention. He was focused on Bud and his lawyer and me, so you would say something outrageous to get his attention. You needed to have him see you. She glanced out the window. I don’t care if he sees me or not. Not now maybe, but once. You wouldn’t need it so badly if you didn’t care. She looked back at him, and now the line between her brows had softened. And you can see all that by watching me? By seeing you. There’s a difference. And how is it you see so clearly? Pike thought about whether or not he wanted to answer. Pike was a private man. He never talked about himself, and didn’t care much for people who did, but he figured the girl had a right to ask. My folks and I would be watching TV, my mom and dad and me, or we’d be eating, and something would set him off. My old man would knock the hell out of me. Or her. I learned to watch for the signs. How his shoulders bunched, the way his lips pressed together, how much booze he poured. Half an inch more in the glass, he was ready to go. Little things tell you. You see them, you’re okay. You miss them, you go to the hospital. You learn to watch. She was silent, and when Pike glanced over, her face was sad.