Chapter 9: After
Marcus called that evening.
"I heard," he said.
"Word travels fast."
"Gideon called me from the parking lot." A pause.
"He said the judge was biased.
That you manipulated the evidence."
"What do you think?"
A long silence.
"I think my brother left an eight-year-old boy alone for six days and told him not to call his mother." His voice was rough.
"I think I've been making excuses for him for a long time."
I didn't say anything.
"Roger and Camila are with their mother this week," Marcus said.
"She called me too.
She'd heard.
She's — she's not surprised, which is its own kind of terrible." He stopped.
"Is Leo okay?"
"He's getting there."
"Can I — would it be all right if I sent him something?
Not from Gideon.
From me.
He's a good kid.
He always was."
"You can send him something," I said.
"He'd like that."
After I hung up, I sat in the kitchen for a while.
The roses Gideon had brought were still on the counter.
I'd meant to throw them out.
I picked them up, looked at them for a moment — pink, my mother's favorite — and put them in a vase instead.
She would have liked that better.
Leo came downstairs in his pajamas at eight o'clock.
He stood in the kitchen doorway.
"How did it go?" he asked.
"We won," I said.
He nodded slowly, like he was processing it.
Then: "Does that mean Gideon can't tell me what to do anymore?"
"He won't be living here.
And anything else — that's for lawyers and judges to sort out.
Not you."
"Okay." He came into the kitchen and opened the fridge.
Stood there looking at it.
"Can I have the leftover pasta?"
"You can have whatever you want."
He got out the pasta.
Put it in the microwave.
Stood watching the timer count down.
"Mom?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you came home."
The microwave beeped.
He got out his bowl, found a fork, and sat down at the table.
I sat across from him.
Neither of us said anything else.
He ate his pasta.
I drank my tea.
Outside, it was dark.
Every light in the house was on.
Not because anyone was afraid.
Just because we were home.
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*A child who carries evidence in his pocket because he already knows he might need it — that kind of quiet bravery breaks something open in you.
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