“No police.”
“Security, then.”
I paused at the door. The night before, I had refused to call the police because I didn’t want to see my son led away in handcuffs. That was the last mercy I had given him. I wasn’t sure I had any left.
“Fine,” I said.
Outside, Houston traffic moved like a restless animal. I drove myself, because I always drove myself. The old sedan smelled of leather, dust, and the peppermints I
kept in the console. My face throbbed. My ribs ached where Trevor had shoved me into the table. At a red light, I looked at myself in the rearview mirror. One eye bruised. Lip swollen. Gray hair combed carefully, because habit survives humiliation.
“You old fool,” I whispered.
I didn’t mean it cruelly. I meant it accurately. I had mistaken provision for parenting, silence for patience, and Trevor’s comfort for his stability.
