Free Rite of Wrongs by Mica Stone Page B

landscaped the green space behind his condo into a desert terrain.
    If a man have a stubborn and rebellious son, which will not obey the voice of his father, or the voice of his mother, and that, when they have chastened him, will not hearken unto them:
    Then shall his father and his mother lay hold on him, and bring him out unto the elders of his city, and unto the gate of his place;
    And they shall say unto the elders of his city, This our son is stubborn and rebellious, he will not obey our voice; he is a glutton, and a drunkard.
    And all the men of his city shall stone him with stones, that he die: so shalt thou put evil away from among you; and all Israel shall hear, and fear. Deuteronomy 21:18–21
    The passage could’ve been written with Franklin in mind. The second sentence of the final verse would serve as a fitting epitaph. Minus the part about Israel.
    Franklin would’ve argued the point, or laughed it off, saying one man’s evil was another’s practical joke, and anyone who hadn’t known he was joking needed to have their head examined.
    Easy enough to do with a huge, gaping hole in the middle of it.
    No more using those eyes for cutting glances. Or that mouth to smirk. The mocking had been relentless. The jokes had been cruel. Franklin hadn’t cared whom he had stepped on, or whom he had hurt. Instead, he’d made a game out of being spiteful.
    Now the joke was on him.
    Franklin paid a service weekly to clear his desert of weeds. Monday happened to be that day. And as beautifully as Monday had turned out for slitting Gina’s throat, it had been equally perfect for Franklin’s stoning.
    He only wished he’d chosen a better Scripture for Gina. One with instructions for doing away with her kind. One as perfect for her sins as Franklin’s was for his. But both of them were gone, and that was what mattered.
    Getting into the yard had been easy; on Mondays, Franklin left the gate unlocked for the wetbacks who did his dirty work, then locked up behind them just before lunch as he headed for the restaurant he and his pervert boyfriend owned.
    Even at noon, he’d reeked of alcohol.
    No doubt what he drank these days—or what he’d drunk when he still had a mouth—cost a lot more than the forties he’d paid bums to buy him in high school. It didn’t matter how many times he’d been punished for his drinking, or his love of boys.
    He would not obey.
    It was his own fault he’d have to have a closed casket. He’d turned into the rock just as it was coming down. His forehead had shattered, his eye socket, his cheekbone, his nose.
    Needing only the one rock rather defeated the purpose of the stoning, but Franklin was dead, and his evil had been put away at last.
    It should’ve been done a long time ago, but better late than never.
    And as vain as he’d always been, losing his pretty face added a bit of karma to the justice that had been so bloodily served.

F OURTEEN
    Monday, 12:00 p.m.
    “Detective Rome,” Vikram said, smiling as he held up a brown pastry bag Miriam feared contained her lunch. He dangled it as one might a carrot on a stick. “This blueberry muffin can be yours for the extremely reasonable price listed on the menu card, along with a ransom of five bucks thirty for last week.”
    With a roll of her eyes, Miriam dug into her crossbody for a ten and laid it on the counter. Then she set a five on top for good measure and used her index finger to push both toward her favorite barista. “Add a large coffee with room for cream, and keep the change for your trouble. Sorry about last week.”
    Vik handed her the bag and rang up her order, pocketing the change, then turning to fill her cup. “No yoga today?” he asked, looking back over his shoulder.
    Shaking her head, she glanced down at her belted and low-rise navy gabardine pants and blue-oxford button-down. She wasn’t about to give Judah a reason to write her up. She wiggled her toes in her boots. “I have to stop by the station, so I