Free Loss of Innocence by Richard North Patterson

mean.”
    Clarice glanced at her curiously. “She was drunker than I’ve ever seen her, if that’s what you’re asking. Even looped she’s kind of a phenomenon, and at first impression she’s pretty electric. But I’d guess that she wears guys out.”
    “That’s what Peter thinks.”
    “Really,” Clarice said in a tone of muted surprise. “I guess it’s pretty obvious.”
    “Not to my parents.”
    “They don’t want to see it, Whitney.” Looking at her sideways, Clarice continued, “I don’t know what you’re contemplating, but whatever it is, your mom won’t hear of it. Questioning Janine is like attacking
her
.”
    With this, Whitney grasped that—however flawed his perceptions of Janine—her father understood Clarice quite well. At the core she was a careful woman, who knew when to speak and whatto withhold, absorbing far more than she revealed. Though this was not a new thought, it seemed clearer now, illuminated by Charles’s praise of Clarice the night before.
    “I’m sure you’re right,” Whitney responded, and chose to say nothing more.
    For minutes, the two friends walked in silence beside the lulling surf, content with each other’s presence on such a terrible morning. At this hour the beach was almost empty—as if, for Whitney, the shooting of Robert Kennedy signaled the end of civilization. All she saw were three guys in faded shorts and T-shirts gazing out at the Vineyard Sound. They had brownish hair and beards in various stages of growth, and were passing around a joint with casual heedlessness. Looking vaguely up at Whitney and Clarice, the short one with glasses kept on talking.
    “It’s a sick country,” he pronounced. But his voice was passionless, as though discussing a planet far away.
    His squat friend nodded sagely. “They’ve taken over—the frat boys and beer drinkers and preppies with rich dads. Time to bail out, live in a world of our own invention. No point in caring about this shit.”
    Angry at their self-absorption, Whitney stood in front of them. “Don’t you give a damn about Robert Kennedy?”
    Unruffled, the boy said flatly, “Oh, he’s gone—that’s what those fascists do. I don’t want them to kill me, that’s all.”
    The third boy laughed harshly. “That’s what Canada’s for. One guy I know told the witch doctors at the draft board he loved penises, and asked to see theirs. But he had the lisp down, and walked like a ballerina. I’m not that good an actor.”
    “I thought you loved my penis,” the first guy trilled.
    “Fuck you, Steve—and that’s a figure of speech, okay? Better Canada than you.”
    Her mood rancid with disgust, Whitney told Clarice, “Let’s go back.”
    Clarice turned the way they had come. Indifferent to being overheard, she said, “What losers. The world really
must
be ending.”
    “Oh, no,” Whitney corrected. “They’re creating a world of their own.”
    “So very tempting,” Clarice answered. “But maybe you should go find Peter. He’ll be rising any hour now, wanting to be with you. Especially when he learns what happened to Bobby.”
    It was a measure of her gloom, Whitney realized, that she had not thought of her fiancé. “I should have woken him up this morning,” she confessed. “But when you appeared, I was just so glad to see you.”
    Clarice gave her a faint but affectionate smile. “Me, too. After all, you’re the first person I ever slept with. Back when we were four.”

Ten
    For Whitney, the hours and days that followed were a blur.
    Returning to the house, she checked the television and learned that Robert Kennedy still lived. Headed to her bathroom to splash water on her face, she encountered Janine coming down the stairs.
    Without makeup, her sister looked wan and tired. Giving Whitney a brief guarded look, she began chattering as though nothing had happened. Before Whitney could break in, the private phone line in Janine’s bedroom started ringing. Flustered, she ran to pick it