“Seth!” Anna’s voice was sharp as a slap, but Phillip only raised a hand.

Maybe his first instinct was to tell the boy it was none of his business, but he knew how to think past the quick retort and study the whole. “No, I didn’t.”

Seth gave a stiff shrug. “That’s something, then.”

“You come first.” Phillip saw the surprise flicker in Seth’s eyes at the statement. “I made a promise that you would, so you do. Nothing and no one changes that.”

Beneath the warm thrill, Seth felt a greasy tug of shame. “Sorry,” he mumbled it and stared down at his own hands.

“Fine.” Phillip sipped at the coffee that had gone cold in his cup. “We’ll hear what she has to say in the morning, then she’ll hear what we have to say. What you have to say. We’ll go from there.”

• • •

SHE DIDN’T KNOW what she was going to say. She felt sick inside. The dregs of a migraine hangover fuzzed her brain, and her nerves were stretched to the breaking point at the prospect of facing the Quinns. And Seth.

They had to hate her. She doubted very much they could feel more contempt for her than she felt for herself. If what Phillip had told her was true—the drugs, the beatings, the men—she had by the sin of omission left her own nephew in hell.

There was nothing they could say to her that was worse than what she had said to herself during the endless, sleepless night. But she was sick with anticipation of what was to come as she pulled into the small parking lot attached to Social Services.

It was bound to become ugly, she thought, as she tilted her rearview mirror and carefully applied lipstick. Hard words, cold looks—and she was so pitifully vulnerable to both.

She could stand against them, she told herself. She could maintain that outward calm no matter what was happening to her insides. She’d learned that defense over the years. Remain aloof and detached, and survive.

She would survive this. And if she could somehow ease Seth’s mind, whatever wounds she suffered would be worth it.

She stepped out of the car, a cool and composed woman in a elegantly simple silk suit the color of mourning. Her hair was swept up in a sleek twist, her makeup was subtle and flawless.

Her stomach was raw and burning.

She stepped inside the lobby. Already the waiting area contained a scattering of people. An infant whimpered restlessly in the arms of a woman whose eyes were glazed with fatigue. A man in a flannel shirt and jeans sat with his face grim and his fisted hands dangling between his knees. Two other women sat in a corner. Mother and daughter, Sybill deduced. The younger woman had her head cradled on the other’s shoulder and wept silently out of eyes blackened by fists.

Sybill turned away.

“Dr. Griffin,” she told the receptionist. “I have an appointment with Anna Spinelli.”