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There’s a dead silence for several seconds before Sherry asks coldly, “What did you say?”

Kamden retreats immediately, apologizing, saying he didn’t mean it. I can hear footsteps and Kamden’s shallow breathing. Then there’s a loud scoff, and Sherry says, “What the fuck was that?”

“What?”

“You acting scared and shit.”

“Of me?”

“No.”

“Then quit looking at me like I’m gonna hit you.”

Every muscle in my body goes still.

Some sentences say more than the person saying them intends. That is one.

People who have never hit someone generally don’t need to demand that person stop behaving as though they might.

I listen, teeth clenched, as she accuses him of being abused by Wade, not asks; accuses; it’s clear she’s not concerned for Kamden’s safety, but more so angry that her boyfriend would pay attention to him.

I’ll be asking those questions to Kamden myself, and if the answer is yes, or it’s yes to any of her prior boyfriends hurting him, I’ll kill Sherry myself.

My phone vibrates against the console as I’m listening to Sherry demand money from her teenage son for fucking pizza.

I let it ring twice before answering. “Yeah?”

“How’s our problem?” Mathias asks.

The choice of word irritates me. Problem. A word for a contract, a debt, a loose end. Not for a nineteen-year-old kid who just needs someone to care about him.

“He hasn’t contacted police,” I say.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Anyone else?”

“No.”

“Then why isn’t it handled?”

I look toward the duplex. “I’m making sure.”

Silence from Mathias. I can hear him breathing into the mouthpiece, the faint rasp of it, and somewhere behind him the clink of glassware. “What do you need days to make sure of?”

“It’s been less than forty-eight hours since you handed me the file.”

“You know what I mean.”

I do.

Mathias is not accusing.

Not yet.

He is reminding me that he knows me. Knows how I work, how long a job takes, how I sound when nothing is wrong.