Thomas never squealed on me—never told Ray that it was I, not he, who had smuggled the candy into Mass. And I never confessed—never picked up the heavy end of what had really happened that morning. That was the irony of it, the bitter pill I’ve swallowed my whole life since: that I was the guilty one, the one who deserved Ray’s wrath. But it was always Thomas he kept in his rifle sight. It was always Thomas who Ray went after.
