“Mom,” he said finally. “Can we talk? Inside?”
I looked at him.
Forty-one years old. Sunburned. His linen shirt wrinkled from the flight. His father’s chin. His father’s hands, hanging useless at his sides.
“Not inside,” I said. “Not today.”
“Where are we supposed to go?”
From behind him, Miles said, “You’ll come home with me. Both of you. We have room.”
Cullen turned around and looked at his father-in-law. A man he’d lied to for eighty-five thousand dollars, offering him a bed.
Something cracked in my son’s face then.
