Chapter 18: The Key in the Door

Quinton's POV

At seven on Christmas Eve, I called my mother's bank from the kitchen table while she stood behind me with her arms crossed.

The woman on the line was kind and slow.

"A second card was issued on Mrs. VanDorn's account on October the eleventh," she said. "The request came by phone. It was mailed the next day."

"Mailed where?"

"To the address on the account."

I looked at my mother.

"Mom. What address do they have?"

She said the number and the street.

It was the apartment in Washington Heights.

"Mom, why does your bank mail to Bryce?"

"He said he'd handle my paperwork, so I gave them his address. Four years ago. I was so pleased he offered."

"Ma'am," I told the phone, "my mother didn't ask for that card."

"And her original card?"

"It was last used on November the twenty-sixth. I can open a dispute. It will take until after the holiday."

"Open it."

I hung up and sat with my hands flat on the wood.

"Four years," my mother said quietly. "He's been in my bank account for four years, and I kept thinking the bills were high."

"We don't know that yet."

"I know my son."

She turned and began to wipe a counter that was already clean.

I let her.

When something hurts her, she scrubs. When something hurts me, I go quiet. I had never noticed that we did the same thing.

Sabina came down at eight with her hair wet and a mug in each hand.

She gave me one and kissed me on the cheek in front of my mother.

My mother smiled at the sink.

I stared into my coffee.

The thing about Sabina is that she can be taken apart by a stranger's cruelty and still be exact with a stranger's kindness.

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