Trevor stepped out of his car when he saw me. His suit was wrinkled, his hair disordered. There was a red mark on his neck, maybe from scratching, maybe from Kristen. He looked ten years older than he had at his birthday dinner.
I stopped on my side of the gate. Iron bars between us. It felt appropriate.
He looked at my bruised face and flinched. For one second, shame crossed his face so plainly that I nearly believed it might
save him.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “For last night. For all of it. I shouldn’t have touched you.”
“No. You shouldn’t have.”
“Can I come in?”
“No.”
His face twisted. “Mom, please. Those people, Kessler, they’re serious.”
“I know.”
“They’re going to destroy me.”
“You’ve been helping.”
He gripped the bars. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
“You could have told the truth.”
