Motherfucker.
Mom can read me like a book, so she sees on my face that I’m about to lose it and scoots closer to the window dividing us too. Her gaze flicks to the guard by the door one last time, then she looks back to me, her voice softening to a whisper.
“I hate this, Low. I hate it so much. But we have to just… have faith in the system. We have to believe that when the truth all comes out, they’ll know it wasn’t me. It has to be possible to prove that, because it’s the truth.”
“I know it is, but—”
My voice is ragged and too loud, and she cuts me off, putting her hand against the glass.
“It will be okay. The lawyer Samuel recommended is excellent; she really knows her stuff. I’ve got money saved up from my first few paychecks, and beyond that… well, we’ll figure it out.”
We’ll figure it out.
Loans, maybe. Credit cards.
My chest squeezes painfully, and I have to fight down the urge to yank the phone receiver from the wall and bash it against the glass until it breaks—the receiver, probably, not the glass. I’m sure the clear pane that separates us is made of some kind of unbreakable material.
But I don’t fucking care. I just want to break something.
We’ll figure it out.
My mom spent the past seven years digging herself out of the financial hole she went into trying to pay for my cancer treatments. She isn’t even all the way out yet, but her new job at the Black family’s house as their Executive Housekeeper was going to get her there. It was going to turn our fucking lives around.
Now it’s like someone cut the rope she was using to climb out of that hole and made the hole deeper while they were at it, leaving her to fall into a dark abyss that seems to have no bottom.
But what are her choices?
Take on more crushing debt, or go to prison—possibly for life—on a murder charge?
That’s a shitty list of options.
“I’m sorry, Mom.” I reach out and press my palm against hers, hating every atom of the plexiglass that keeps us from touching. “I’m so sorry.”
She smiles sadly and even huffs a soft breath of laughter. “Sweetheart, it’s not your fault. None of this is.”
She’s wrong about that.
I didn’t murder Iris, but I know who did. A man in black, who wore a black mask and moved like a predator.
I don’t know his name, but I know he exists. I know my mom didn’t do this. And if Lincoln, River, Dax, and Chase hadn’t betrayed me, maybe I could’ve convinced the detective to look for that man instead of arresting my mother.
The tears I always promise myself I won’t cry when I come see her slip down my cheeks, and I can see her brown eyes glisten in response. Quickly, I pull my hand away from the glass and wipe my eyes, sucking in a deep breath and forcing a smile to my face.
“I love you, Mom. You’re the most badass person I know. And—and you’re right. It’s all gonna be okay.”
We traded these kinds of empty promises and reassurances back and forth when I was going through chemo, and even though we both knew they were promises we couldn’t guarantee, I know how much it helps to hear the words.
There is power in believing. In holding onto hope.
And I won’t take that away from my mom, even if I can’t find my own hope right now.
Some of the strain leaves her face. Her hair, the same deep brown as mine, is pulled back from her face in a simple ponytail, and her complexion still seems too pale, like the blood never fully returned to her face after the shock of being arrested in the middle of Mr. and Mrs. Black’s cocktail party.
“Is there anything I can do for you? Anything to help?” I ask, chewing my lip.
She starts to shake her head, then stops, and my heart leaps with hope. I’m dying to do something, anything.
“You can go back to school.”
She arches a brow, and for a second, she looks just like she would if we were hanging out in her apartment in the service quarters over a pint of ice cream—for a second, I can almost forget that she’s locked behind bars.
When I start to glance away, she taps on the glass with her knuckles to get my attention back and shakes her head at me.
“I’m serious, Low. Samuel told me you haven’t gone all week. I know you’re worried, but you can visit me after classes let out, and you’re not doing me or yourself any good staying home.”
“It’s not my home,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
I sound like an ungrateful asshole, I know I do. Samuel Black has stepped up above and beyond what any employer could be expected to do—especially for an employee who’s worked for him for less than six months.
It’s not his fault I’m so pissed at his son that living under the same roof as him makes me want to punch a hole through a wall.
Mom’s face falls again, and I know that of all the things she hates about this situation, her biggest regret is having to leave me on my own, at the mercy of other people’s kindness.
I want to take that guilt away from her, so I blow out a breath and nod. “You’re right. I’ll start going to school tomorrow. But I’m still gonna come visit you as often as I can.”
Her breath hitches, and I hear the quiet noise through the phone receiver pressed to my ear.
“You better,” she murmurs softly.
We talk for a few more minutes, and I wish I could distract her with entertaining chitchat about other, mundane topics. But I can’t think about anything else. I can’t talk about anything else.
Four words beat against the inside of my skull, and they seem to drown out everything else, making every other aspect of my life
