Chapter 12: The Passport in Her Hand

I don't know how long we sat on those stairs.

The sun came up behind the rooftops, and a garbage truck went down the street.

When I could finally lift my head, Shane was watching me and waiting.

"I believe you," I said.

He shut his eyes.

"I believed you the second you said it. I want you to know I wasn't deciding."

"Okay."

"Can I put a hand on your shoulder?"

His eyes opened, surprised.

Nobody had asked him that in four years, I thought.

He nodded.

I reached down and put my hand on his shoulder, and I felt him go rigid, and then, slowly, not.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm so sorry I didn't see it."

"You couldn't have."

"I should have."

"Devin."

"I looked at you every day and I never asked why you slept on the floor."

His mouth did something complicated.

"It's okay."

"It's not okay. It's going to be okay. It's not okay yet."

He laughed, and I laughed, and it was ugly and wet, and then he turned on the step and put his forehead against my chest.

I held on to him.

I was not a person who had ever held on to Shane.

We did it badly, with our elbows in the way.

Above us, Jo made a small noise and went inside.

When we came in, she had put three plates of scrambled eggs on the kitchen table, with toast, and she was standing at the stove with her back to us.

"Eat," she said, in a voice that wasn't completely steady.

We ate.

Nobody talked for a while.

Shane put away his eggs and half of mine.

"I have to say something," he said finally, with a mouth full of toast. "I can't go to the police. I know you're thinking it."

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