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Yet.

There will be time for what Sherry truly deserves later, when Kamden is somewhere safe and doesn’t have to hear about it from anybody but me, when he trusts me enough to ask hard questions.

“Where are the documents?”

“Huh?”

“The important shit, Sherry,” I growl. “His birth certificate, first of all.”

“I don’t know.” She says it too fast, her eyes sliding toward the hallway like she’s tracking a roach.

I stare. “Bedroom?”

“No.”

“Closet?”

“No.”

“Desk?”

“Fuck you.”

I move to check myself, and she grabs my arm, fingers digging into the leather of my jacket.

Bad fucking choice.

I turn, catch her wrist, twist just enough to fold her forward over the counter. Her shoulder pops lightly. She screams, a raw, wet sound.

“Stop!”

“Tell me.”

“Bedroom closet! Top shelf! Box! Fuck!”

I release her. She cradles her wrist like it’s broken. It’s not, but it won’t be that way for long if she tries touching me again.

I walk down the hall.

Her bedroom smells like cheap perfume and mold. Clothes everywhere—trashy dresses spilling off the bed, low-rise jeans puddled on the floor. Open bottles of vodka and wine on the nightstand. Shoes kicked under furniture. Half a dozen photographs lie facedown on a dusty dresser. I turn them over one by one, but none are of Kamden.

The closet door sticks when I pull it. I yank harder; it groans open. The top shelf holds three boxes—one full of tinsel and broken ornaments, another stuffed with tax records from years she probably never filed, and finally, a battered plastic tote with its lid cracked down the middle.

Inside, I find some old military spouse paperwork and a folder with Kamden’s name written across the tab.

I set the folder on the bed and open it, finding Kamden’s birth certificate, Social Security card, immunization records, and some random school papers.

Sherry appears in the doorway, breathing hard, clutching her wrist. “What are you doing?”

I look at her over my shoulder. “Taking his life back.”

She gives a short, incredulous laugh.

“Oh my God,” she says, shaking her head like I’m a joke she just got. “You one of those people?”

“What people?”

“The ones who think he’s some poor little victim.”