Page 197

I stop breathing. “He what?”

“Not hard.” The words are feeble, pathetic.

My thumb presses hard against the side of the weapon. “Say that again,” I demand.

She understands enough not to. Instead, she shakily says, “I recorded it from an angle where you couldn’t see Steven. So it looked like Kamden slipped.”

Every violent instinct I have wakes up at once.

I imagine Kamden at ten—already beaten, already hurt badly enough that Steven was worried about prison, and then he’s dragged outside and up the stairs only for Steven to push him down them, his mother standing at just the right fucking angle with a phone in her hand, watching it all, recording it to protect her boyfriend, not her son.

The barrel of the gun is a cold, black period at the center of Sherry’s forehead.

She starts crying, “Wait, wait, wait—”

I don’t hear her. I see Kamden’s face when the nail polish appeared. The way his whole body shook, the way he clung to me, his sobs rattling through me.

My finger tenses on the trigger.

Sherry makes a broken sound. “Please.”

I could do it. I could kill her.

The world would be a better place without her in it.

But Kamden would find out. Not tomorrow, maybe not for years, but he would. And I promised myself I wouldn’t make choices about her that belong to him.

Fuck.

I lower the gun. Her body sags against the wooden chair back like a cut rope.

“You are so fucking lucky,” I tell her, and her breath hitches on a sob. “You’re lucky because Kamden has already had enough people decide what happens to him without asking. Including me. And I won’t do it again.”

I put the gun away.

“So I’m leaving your life in his hands.” Her face crumples. “If he wants you prosecuted, I’ll make sure every photo, every hospital record, every lie lands exactly where it will hurt you most. And if he wants nothing from you at all, you’ll spend the rest of your miserable life knowing your son chose peace over ever seeing your face again.”

With that, I turn to leave.

“What am I supposed to do?” Sherry asks.

“Nothing.”

“What if he comes back?”

“He won’t.”

“Where is he?”

“Safe.”

“With you?”

I smile. “Yes.” I walk to the door, then stop, looking at her over my shoulder. “Oh, and if you call the police, Steven, one of your boyfriends, your neighbor, a fucking psychic—anyone—and tell them I was here, I’ll come back. You don’t want me to come back, Sherry.”

Her mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

18