"He is," I said. "On a technicality."
"But his name's not Cavanaugh, it's Kelly. That's Eight-Count Kelly."
"And Potatoes O'Grotin and Finbar McCollow and--wait: How do you know his name, anyway?" I said, popping two more aspirin into my mouth.
She didn't say anything.
Her chin began to quiver and my stomach did the same. "Tommy," she said, "please don't hate me."
"Hate you for what?"
"I had no way of knowing, Tommy, no way of knowing...."
"What is it, baby? Say it."
But she just fingered that page of Ring magazine, looking like she was about to cry.