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“Tell me.”

“He fell,” she whispers.

“Don’t lie.”

“He did!”

I raise the gun, pointing it at her head. “What happened?”

Her breathing gets faster, a frantic, shallow rhythm that fills the space between us. A vein pulses at her temple. It doesn’t take long for her to break down, shouting, “Steven hit him!”

My vision goes red at the edges.

I already knew that, but hearing her say it still does something different.

“How long?”

“I don’t know.”

“How. Long.”

“A while.”

“Minutes?”

“I don’t know!” She jumps as I slam my fist down on the table.

“Did you stop him?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Did. You. Stop. Him.”

“No,” she says, a shameful exhale.

I draw a slow breath in through my nose. “So what’s with the video?”

Her eyes squeeze closed. “Steven freaked out afterward.”

“Why?”

“He thought Kamden looked bad.”

A sound almost escaped me—not laughter, something darker.

Looked bad.

“He was afraid he’d go to jail?”

“Yes.”

“So?”

“We needed it to look like an accident.”

My fingers grip the gun tighter. “What did you do?”

Sherry’s eyes fill—not out of guilt and sadness for her son, but out of fear for herself. “Steven pushed him down the outside stairs.”