The look he shoots me would’ve killed a lesser woman. I deliver it right back. I dare him to deny our firstborn child, who still asks when his father will be coming home.

“I didn’t leave you,” Michael states crisply, voice low, so Chelsea won’t hear. “You left me. You left me the second you decided his needs mattered more than anyone else’s.”

“He’s a child—”

“Who needs professional full-time care.”

“An institution, you mean.”

“There are other ways to help him. You refused to consider any of them. You decided you knew best. You and only you could help him. After that, Chelsea and I didn’t matter anymore. You can’t blame us for getting on with our lives.”

But I do, I want to tell him, I do.

He motions to Chelsea that it’s time to go. Her head is down, her body language subdued. Even if she can’t hear the words, she knows we’re fighting and it’s hurt her.

I put my arms around my daughter. I feel the silk of her hair, the lightness of her slender body. I inhale the scent of coconut shampoo and Crayola markers. I hug her, hard, for this hug has to last me an entire week. Then I let her go.

She and her father bolt across the rain-swept parking lot, hands over their heads to protect themselves from the deluge. Minutes later, they’re both in Michael’s BMW and it’s pulling away, rear lights glowing red in the gloom.

I don’t know how it feels for a father to leave his son. I only know how it feels for a mother to leave her daughter, my heart driving away from me and leaving a gaping hole in the middle of my chest.

I step out in the storm, unhurried now. I let the rain soak my hair, batter my white blouse. I let the deluge pound against my face.

Friday night. Three more days, I think.

I drive home to Evan.

Chapter Eleven

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

D.D. had never been to a locked-down pediatric psych ward, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to start. But of all members of the Harrington family, Ozzie remained the most intriguing. Patrick’s former employer had nothing but positive things to say. Denise’s boss was so choked up over her murder he could barely speak. They got bursts of “great woman,” “devoted mom,” “heart as big as the sky,” in between fresh bouts of muffled sobbing.

Phil phoned in with the credit report; it was about what they’d expected. The Harringtons were down to their last eight hundred in the bank. They had a substantial mortgage payment due, not to mention ten grand in credit cards. Up until this point, the family had never missed a payment. Chances were, that had been about to change.