His face changed. It was not a good change.

It was a stubborn, nasty change.

That part of Trent I knew.

“I didn’t want it to get to this, but I think it’s fair that you know, you don’t do what’s best for Ethan, Peggy and me are prepared to take you to court. And, just a heads up, she feels Ethan should be with his dad full-time. The shared custody idea was what I talked her into. You push it, she’s gonna get pissed and we’re gonna go for it all.”

At the barest thought of losing my son, I stood in my kitchen while the world collapsed all around me. At the edge of my vision, the walls and cabinets and counters and houses and the town beyond all crumbled to the earth, a cloud of dust rising, obliterating everything but me and Trent staring at each other.

He must have read that on my face because he quieted his voice when he said, “And you know that won’t go too good for you, Cheryl.”

It happened to me then, and I got it. I got how normal folk got pushed into corners, their loved ones threatened, and the urge came to them, overwhelming them, turning them from humans to animals focused solely on their need to protect. I got how they lost control and lost their minds and viciously attacked their attackers with nothing but annihilation in mind to void the threat.

I got it because that happened to me.

But I’d been kicked when I was down so often, I had just enough in me that morning to hold it in check.

“It won’t?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. “It won’t go too good for me?”

Trent looked like he didn’t want to say it.

Still, he said it.

“Dennis Lowe.”

I nodded my head. “Yeah. You’re right. I fucked a serial killer. He told me he was a cop. He told me he loved me. He took care of me. He took care of Ethan. I was taken in by that shit. Then again, so was his boss. His co-workers. His neighbors. His wife of a gazillion years.”

“You were a stripper, Cheryl,” he carried on.

“I was because, you see, my methhead, pothead, crackhead boyfriend bailed on me the second he found out he’d knocked me up, and he left me and my boy to go it alone for seven years before his wife forced him to do the right thing.”

“I’m clean,” he bit back.

“And I’ve never been not clean,” I returned.

“And I’ve never given a lap dance,” he sneered.

I took two steps toward him, edging his space but not getting into it and also not losing eye contact.

“I did,” I said softly. “I gave hundreds of them. And I’d do it again. And again. I’d do it for the rest of my fucking life if that money put food in my kid’s stomach. If it put a roof over his head. Clothes on his back. If it gave me the opportunity to give him what he needed and as much of what he wanted that I could give him. If it made certain he didn’t feel like we were hurting, he was hurting, I was hurting, or him bein’ in this world was hurting me.”