I patiently answer each query, remembering what I’d told him the other night so that I’m consistent in my explanations. That’s all children want. To feel like the world is safe for them and they can anticipate what is coming next. Not to be surprised.

I try not to focus on just how much I’ve failed my son in this regard. God willing, he’ll never know.

Stuart offers to microwave the leftover Chinese food he and Jacob had for dinner. I take the opportunity to change into my home clothing, which amounts to sweatpants and a Mickey Mouse T-shirt I’ve had since college. The chicken and broccoli is already on the table, steam rising off it, when I return to the kitchen.

We have a small, square table in our kitchen with three chairs around it. It’s my favorite place in the apartment because it fits only our family. There’s something I find comforting about outsiders not being permitted here. We use the dining room for visitors, but the kitchen feels like home to me.

I take my seat across from Stuart and scoop up a forkful of chicken. It’s bland, the way Jacob likes it, but I still enjoy the warmth in my mouth.

“Did you know about Lauren running for DA?” he asks.

“No,” I shake my head.

“What would that have meant for you? I mean, if she ran?”

“I don’t know. I suspect she would have resigned as bureau chief. Maybe McKenney would have fired her. I don’t know what that would have meant for me, though.”

He looks at me with as much sadness as I feel. I know what he’s going to say next, and I don’t want to hear it.

“I’d rather not talk about it, Stuart. It’s all just too much.”

“I understand. If you change your mind, I’m here.”

I nod to accept his offer, even though I know that I’m not going to ever feel differently. There’s nothing about Lauren Wright that I want to discuss with Stuart.

18. ELLA BRODEN

18.

ELLA BRODEN

Gabriel walks through the door to my apartment and, after kissing me hello, announces that he’s hungry. I tell him I had a grilled cheese about half an hour ago and offer to make him one, but he tells me not to bother. He heads over to the pantry. After removing a box of Cap’n Crunch, he pours half of it into a large bowl that I usually use for tossing salads, then adds nearly half a carton of milk. Still standing, he begins to spoon the crunchified-sugar bits into his mouth.

“Do you want to sit down and eat that?”