And he had lost.
I stood.
Martin rose with me. “Franklin.”
“I’m going home.”
“I don’t think that’s wise.”
“I’m not asking.”
“Then I’m calling someone to meet you there.”
“No police.”
“Security, then.”
I paused at the door.
Last night, I had refused to call the police because I did not want to see my son led away in handcuffs. That was the last mercy I had given him.
I was not sure I had any left.
“Fine,” I said.
Outside, Houston traffic moved like a restless animal. I drove myself because I always drove myself. The old sedan smelled faintly of leather, dust, and peppermint candies I kept in the console. My face throbbed. My ribs ached where Brandon had shoved me into the edge of a table before the slaps started.
At a red light, I looked at myself in the rearview mirror.
