Deacon looks like he might be sick.
The investigator asks to speak with me privately. We go into the formal living room—the one with the white couches I was never allowed to sit on—and she asks her questions while taking careful notes.
Another car pulls into the driveway. Through the window, I see Vincent getting out, and my heart swells.
He walks through the still-open front door, spots me in the living room, and his face crumbles. He crosses the room in three long strides and kneels beside my chair, taking my hand gently.
“Mama Loretta,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry. I should have checked on you sooner.”
“This isn’t your fault, baby,” I say softly.
“Feels like it is,” he replies. He stands, straightens his shoulders, and calls out: “Deacon. Living room. Now.”
Deacon enters slowly, reluctantly. Vincent stands between us, protective and solid—everything a son should be.
