I grab her arm as she leaves. “You can’t do this, Allison. Don’t do this.”
She rips her arm free, her eyes lit up. “This is myson. He is the only priority here. Theonlypriority. Tell me you understand. Tell me you accept those terms. Or walk away now, and I’ll figure out some way todo this myself. I know how pissed off you are at me. I know I’ve disappointed you. But this is family. This is life or death. So decide right now, Luke. In or out?”
It doesn’t take me long to answer. And part of it, yes, is that I blame myself for not talking to Allison last night after Gray called me, for not nipping this problem in the bud before it got this far.
But it’s more than that. No matter what we’ve done to each other. No matter how much we’ve hurt each other. We are blood. When the ground drops out, we show up without being asked, we sit together in silence, we wrap our arms around each other, we do whatever it takes. It’s messy, imperfect, but when it matters, we close ranks. We choose each other, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.
“I’m in,” I say.
58
Allison
—7:18 p.m.—
My hands are tight on the wheel, my breath shallow and erratic, the lights blurring in front of me, as I take the long route through Grace Park onto the interstate. I replay the phone call in my head.Dad’s dead. Someonestabbedhim.The angry text message he relayed to me.
It’s not possible. My son, my sweet, brilliant, impulsive boy—
No. I will not let my mind go there. He was hurt, angry, protective of his mother. Anger is not murder. Hurt is not homicide.
But a decade in law enforcement whispers to me: Sometimes it is.
Could my son have plunged a knife into his father’s chest? Could those hands—those small, sticky toddler hands I once held as we crossed streets—have gripped a blade?
It could have been an accident, as Luke said. A brief struggle that turned tragic. A moment of rage or impulsivity you’d give anything to have back.
My stomach knots up, flips, seizes. But something slowly rises within me. A conviction. A promise. A maternal instinct, hardened to stone over eighteen years: I’m coming, Grayson. I’ve got you.
When I reach downtown, I park not in my condo building, wheremy entry would be recorded, but at the Erie/Ontario parking garage a couple blocks away.
Time for my game face. A trial lawyer is a performer. From the moment potential jurors are being seated in the courtroom, you are scrutinized, so you get in role. Every facial expression, every mannerism. Everything tailored to make the desired impression.
Fortunately, the start of this performance, walking the block and a half to the building, does not require an Oscar-winning turn. The sun has just set, providing a natural cloak of anonymity, and while the temperatures are low the first day of April, this is Chicago, and the Streeterville neighborhood is never quiet this time of night. Bustling restaurants and taverns, still a fair amount of car traffic, the homeless shouting from the corners, the food truck operators soliciting business. I easily blend in with the crowd, dressed as someone returning from a workout with gym bag in tow. The never-ending harsh breeze off the lake provides the perfect excuse for my head tucked low.
My entry to the building, obviously, is the rear service entrance on Ontario, where there are no cameras or key cards. This is the easy part. I snap on a pair of rubber dishwashing gloves, best I could do under the circumstances, and slide the key into the code box. Once the box is open, I type in the code. The service door pops ajar.
Inside, I pass the freight elevator and enter the supply room, where I find a wardrobe cart and a stack of canvas paint drop cloths they make available for the residents who want to paint their units. I place the cloths on the wardrobe cart and wheel it into the freight elevator.
At the eleventh floor, the door of the freight elevator rumbles open with the subtlety of a bowling ball rolling down a gutter, ending with a harshclunk. I step into a dimly lit service landing lined with polished concrete, then a corridor with clean yellow walls, the only sign readingDeliveries and Move-Ins Not Permitted After 8 p.m.
It’s just past eight, actually. But many rules will be broken tonight. I park the wardrobe cart by the elevator.
A soft push on the access door brings me into the main residential corridor, with its fancy sconces and overdone molding. I walk with the gym bag at my side, wearing a relaxed expression on my face, ready for a quickHey-how-ARE-youif our neighbors in 11G, the Nunzios, should happen upon me. But they are consummate snowbirds, typically spending this time of year in Naples.
I reach our front door and type in the code on the smart-lock panel. I hear Gray’s voice stop. Good. He heard the whine and groan of the lock unlatching. The last thing he needs is another startle right now.
Game face. Be strong now.
I open the door. At the sight of him, something snaps inside me.
Grayson is by the picture window, the black sweep of Lake Michigan behind him, the lights along the shore glittering like holiday decorations.
My little boy, my Gray-Gray, hair mussed, smears of ketchup across his face with a crooked, gap-toothed smile, sticky hands reaching out for Mommy.
My eighteen-year-old with traces of dark blood on his hands. His shirt, a white football jersey, a single smear of blood above the numbers.
A young man who looks like he just stabbed his father.
