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“What kind of shit?”

His mouth hardens. “You’ve seen how he is. All soft. Kid likes pretty shit. Always has. Dresses up, paints things. Makes these cute little outfits for his toys out of fucking paper towels and rubber bands and whatever else he can find.” A faint smile touches his mouth. “Last Christmas, he spent two hours wrapping himself in the curtain because he was trying to make a dress out of it.”

I laugh quietly. “Is he talented?”

“It was a curtain.”

“So no.”

“He looked fucking fabulous,” John says affectionately. But then his smile disappears. “Sherry hates it. She calls him names. Makes fun of him. Says he embarrasses her.” John’s fingers close tightly around his own wrist. “And there’s always some fucking guy around. It’s like she doesn’t even care who’s around him.”

I frown, a cold feeling in my gut. “You think somebody touched him?”

His head snaps toward me. “God, no. Not like that.”

“All right.”

“At least I don’t think so.”

The fact that he has to add that sits badly between us.

“He’d tell me,” he insists. “That’s… that’s different than his mom doing shit and him protecting her. He’d tell me.”

Would he? I don’t say it. John knows enough to hear it anyway.

“He would,” he repeats.

“Okay.”

But his eyes drop. “He had bruises on his arm last month, though.”

My stomach tightens. “What did he say?”

“Fell.”

“You believe him?”

“No.”

“You document them?”

“Yeah.”

“Lawyer?”

“Has pictures.”

“That’s good, right? You can use those?”

“Attorney says there’s not enough evidence there to make much of a difference.”

“Okay. Get more, then,” I suggest stupidly.

“You think I don’t know that?” The anger is there suddenly, bright and helpless, and because it’s John, I let him have it. He looks away first, then says softly, “Sorry.”

“You’re good, man. I’m sorry too.”

John sighs, shaking his head. “I fucking hate being here.”