I retch and spit, scrub my mouth on my T-shirt.

Floyd’s still lying on the ground; he’s sobbing. I want to run, run faster than I’ve ever run in my life, and never come back to this heat-soaked clearing, to the knife-edged shadow of an old house.

Words are mixed in with the sobs, incoherent, broken words. “I never locked you in the cellar cupboard. Not once.”

Keeping a safe distance between us, because I don’t trust this man—I won’t ever trust him—I sink down on my haunches. “So?”

“Never beat you with a belt buckle.”

Is this about Thaddeus? Do I give a shit?

“I’ve tried to be a decent father. Tell me—”

“You weren’t!”

As he grabs for my hand, I freeze. He’s still blubbering. “I hated him, oh God, how I hated him. But I loved him too. I couldn’t stop loving him, no matter what he did.”

Floyd’s nailed it. Hate in one corner, love in the other. Aghast, I look down at him. Hunched over, hugging himself, bawling like a baby—what’s there to love?

“You better get up,” I say.

“I c-can’t.”

“You don’t want Opal coming home and finding you like this. Let’s go indoors, so you can clean up. I’ll call Pete and tell him you’re sick.”

My flesh cringes as I help him to his feet. After I loop his arm over my shoulders, we stagger across the grass to the house. Thaddeus’s house.

Grunting, because he’s heavy, I lever him into the mudroom. “Opal’s right. You need to sell this fricking house. Buy a new one in town.”

“He never once told me he loved me,” Floyd snivels. “I was his only son.”

I ram him against the door frame. “My name’s Brickson— remember? I’m your only son.”

He gapes at me, tears and sweat coursing down his face.

“Let me get this straight,” I say. “Thaddeus used to beat you up, so that makes it okay for you to do the same to me? And to Cassie? Is that your sales pitch?”

Another sobs bursts from his chest. His eyes are the same gray as mine.

Will I beat my kids?

“Go upstairs,” I say harshly. “Take a shower. You’ll have to toss out that shirt—grass stains all over it.”

Blood as well. I look down at my knuckles; the skin’s scraped and bleeding. If I don’t sit down soon, I’m going to faint at his feet.

Floyd reels away from the wall. There are grass stains on his trousers as well.

“I’m sorry,” he says. And that’s all he says.