Chapter 2

In the taxi, Andy finally broke down. He didn't cry loudly. It was a small, fragile sound, the sobbing that came in stuttered little waves.

He buried his face against my shirt, and his tiny hands gripped my sleeves so tight his knuckles turned white.

From start to finish, he kept repeating the same words over and over. "Mommy, I really didn't take it."

I held him close and patted his back, slow and steady.

Tears stung my eyes and blurred my vision, but I forced them back.

At the hospital, we checked into the ER. The doctor took one look at Andy's face and frowned. "How'd this happen?"

I said, "Someone hit him."

The doctor lifted his ear to examine it, then shone a penlight into his eyes.

He said, "There's significant soft tissue bruising on the left cheek, and the laceration at the corner of his mouth will need to be cleaned and sutured. I'd recommend a head CT to rule out a concussion."

During the scan, Andy clung to my hand and refused to let go.

When the nurse cleaned the wound near his mouth, he flinched from the pain but didn't make a sound.

He was too quiet, so quiet it sent a chill straight through me.

The CT results came back clear, and the doctor recommended keeping him overnight for observation.

I was filling out the paperwork when David called. "Where are you guys? Mom made dinner, and we're all waiting."

His voice was completely normal, as if nothing had happened at all.

I didn't answer his question. "Your son is in the hospital."

He paused for a second. "Hospital? Come on, it was just a couple of smacks. You really had to take him to the hospital for that?"

I hung up and put my phone on silent.

Andy was already asleep when I got back to the room.

He looked so small, curled up in the middle of that oversized hospital bed, and the bruises on his face stood out even more under the harsh white lights.

I sat on the edge of the bed and watched him.

Even in his sleep, his body kept twitching, and his brow was pinched tight, like he was trapped in a nightmare.

I reached over and gently touched the side of his face that wasn't hurt.

The second my fingers brushed his skin, he nuzzled toward me in his sleep. "Mommy."

That broke me. Tears rolled down my cheeks and hit the sheets one by one.

Seven years of marriage, and I had believed I married a man who would protect our son and me. But in the end, he couldn't protect Andy, and he didn't want to.

My phone screen lit up with a message from David: [Stop making a scene. Come home. Mom's asking questions, and I don't know what to tell her.]

I glanced at it, then flipped the phone face down on the bed.

I wasn't going back tonight.

*****

I called in sick the next morning and drove Andy over to my friend Mary Hills' place.

Mary took one look at the bruises on Andy's face and gasped. "Oh my God, who did this to him?"

"Linda," I said.

Mary pulled Andy into her arms, and her eyes turned red. "She wanted to kill him! Did you call the cops?"

"I will." I knelt down in front of Andy. "Stay with Mary for a few days, okay? Mommy needs to take care of something, and I'll come get you real soon."

He nodded. His lips moved like he wanted to say something, but he swallowed the words back down.

After I left Mary's place, I didn't go home.

I drove to the small building I owned.

The ground floor had two storefronts facing the street.

The one on the left was Frank's restaurant, which he had been running for six years.

The one on the right, I had planned to keep empty for my own business someday.

But when I walked up to it, I froze.

The lights were on inside. A brand-new illuminated sign hung above the door, reading "Zane's Boutique."

When did a clothing store pop up here?

I pushed the door open and walked in. A woman in her early thirties was folding clothes behind the counter when she saw me and smiled. "Hey there, looking for something to wear?"

I asked, "I actually wanted to ask, who did you rent this place from?"

Her smile faltered, and she set down the clothes. "Mr. Lewis. The guy who runs the restaurant next door. He told me he owned the whole building."

My heart skipped a beat. "How long have you been renting this place?"

"Three years. Two thousand a month, paid annually."

Three years at two thousand a month meant seventy-two thousand dollars. I was the owner of this property, and I had never seen a single cent of it. "Do you have a lease?"

She rummaged through a drawer and handed me a copy of the rental agreement.

I opened it and saw Frank's name listed as the landlord. My name was printed in the property owner field, and my "signature" sat right there on the signature line. But I recognized the handwriting immediately. It wasn't mine. It was forged.

I photographed every single page, and my hands were shaking the entire time. Not from fear. From rage.

The woman asked, "Ma'am, are you okay?"

I said, "My name is Susan Grant, and I'm the real owner of this building."

The color drained from her face. "I got scammed?"

"You're a victim too. I'll handle this."

I walked out of the clothing store and stared at the busy storefront of the restaurant next door. Then I took a deep breath.

Well played, Frank.

I had put up with him freeloading off me for six years. And that wasn't enough for him.

He stole my house, forged my signature, and rented out my other storefront behind my back to line his own pockets.

Seventy-two thousand dollars. He really fattened himself up nicely.