“She does now.”
My son’s face tightened.
“You people don’t know anything about our family.”
“Then explain it,” David said.
My son turned toward him.
“Explain what?”
David nodded toward the folder.
“Start with the monthly payments.”
I felt Sloan stiffen.
David had spent part of the night organizing the transfers I sent him.
He had not accused anyone of stealing.
He had simply done what he had always been good at: putting numbers in order and asking why they moved the way they did.
For six months, I had transferred money to my son every month because he told me it was my fair share of groceries, utilities, and household expenses.
I had never challenged the amount.
I had been grateful for a roof.
David had compared the dates with messages saved on my phone and highlighted every time my son increased the amount or requested extra money with little explanation.
“Your mother has records,” he said.
“That means from this point forward, every financial discussion involving her needs to be documented.”
My son laughed again, but there was no humor in it.
“So now I’m some kind of criminal because my mother helped with bills?”
“Nobody said that,” Marcus replied.
“You did.”
Sloan folded her arms.
“This is ridiculous.
She’s been unhappy since she got here.
Nothing is ever good enough.”
I looked at her.
The cigarette dish from yesterday was still beside the sink.
She followed my eyes to it.
“I asked you not to smoke inside,” I said.
“And I told you—”
“No,” Marcus interrupted.
“Loretta is speaking.”
Sloan actually looked offended.
I almost smiled.
Not because anything was funny, but because I suddenly remembered how long it had been since someone allowed me to finish a sentence in that house.
“I asked you not to smoke indoors because my lungs are damaged,” I continued.
“My son hit me for asking.
Then both of you left for dinner.”
My son stepped forward.
“I barely touched you.”
Every person in the room became still.
He realized what he had admitted a second too late.
Sloan turned toward him.
“Don’t say anything else.”
Marcus’s eyes never left my son’s face.
“That would probably be wise.”
My son pointed at my cheek.
“She bruises easily.
She’s seventy-three.”
There it was.
Not remorse.
Not denial.
An explanation for why the evidence should not matter.
Elena pulled a small notebook from her bag, then stopped herself before writing.
“Loretta,” she said, “I’m here as your friend today.
