Page 66 of Letters From A Stalker

“I respect his professional opinion.”

“You have a concerning relationship with disrespect.”

“Only when it’s directed at you.”

The conversation is easy because it has been repeated in different forms for years. She asks about the safe house while she pours wine, and I tell her the roof is apparently attempting to bankrupt me. She reminds me that I inherited enough money to survive the emotional devastation of roof replacement, then listens more seriously when I mention that one of the rooms is being converted so a mother with limited mobility can stay there comfortably with her children. Mara knows what the place means. She also knows better than to turn it into something sentimental simply because she understands.

Connor finally appears by the time we sit down. I hear him before I see him, a sequence of dramatic thumps from the hallway followed by the unmistakable sound of a child deliberately making breathing noises louder than any human respiratory system requires. Then Spider-Man rounds the corner or, more accurately, Connor wearing Spider-Man pajamas and a plastic mask that sits slightly crooked across his face because one elastic strap appears to have lost the will to live. He plants himself beside my chair with both hands on his hips.

I look at him for a moment. “You seem shorter than the last Spider-Man.”

Behind him, Mara mutters something about not encouraging him.

Connor pushes the mask onto the top of his head, revealing hair flattened against his forehead and the deeply serious expression he reserves for conversations he considers important.

“You wear a mask too.”

“I do?” My eyebrow rises.

“When you ride your motorcycle.”

Understanding arrives. “The helmet.”

“Yeah, but you can’t see your face when you wear it, so that’s basically a mask.” He climbs into the chair he was standing next to. “Does yours have powers?”

I glance at Mara. She is very deliberately concentrating on carving chicken, shoulders already moving with silent laughter. Traitor.

“No. Unfortunately, motorcycle helmets come with considerably fewer superpowers than advertised.” I tell him, propping my elbow against the table.

Connor considers this with the solemn disappointment of someone discovering fraud. “But it makes you look like a superhero.”

“It makes me look like a man with an appropriate concern for head trauma.”

He stares at me.

Mara finally laughs. “He’s seven, Kai. You’re going to have to translate that out of psychiatrist language.”

I reach for my water. “It means helmets stop your brain from becoming mashed potatoes if you fall.”

Connor’s eyes widen behind the mask he has pulled halfway down again. “Cool.”

“That was not supposed to make falling sound cool.” I sigh.

“It did, though,” Mara says as she carries the platter to the table. “Excellent parenting assistance. Thank you.”

“I’m not his parent.”

“No, which is why he listens to you.”

Connor has already moved on. He pulls the Spider-Man mask completely over his face, then turns toward me. “You should get one like this and wear it under your helmet.”

“I’m fairly certain that would interfere with peripheral vision.”

“You can see.” Connor points out.

“Not particularly well.” I shake my head, feeling my lips pull into a smile.

“You just have to use your spider sense.”