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He does, dropping into his chair with wide eyes.
I blow out a long breath as I lean against the wall. “Relax. I’m not going to hurt you.”
He squints at me, trying to decide if I’m telling him the truth. I can only imagine how many adults have lied to him in his short life. I won’t be joining that list.
“Do you work with the Department of Child Services?” he asks. “Or are you an off-duty police officer, or—”
“I’m not with the police. I’m not with anyone,” I tell him.
“You’re with her, though. Ms. Quinn.”
I shrug. “I guess I am. For today. I drove her here.”
“She usually comes alone,” he says softly.
“How many times has she been here?”
He shrugs like he doesn’t know, but I know better than that. After a few seconds of purposeful silence, he sags. “Five. She took us away once. For a little while.”
“Your mom earned her privileges back?”
When I was in group foster homes, some kids were able to see their parents once per month and then once every week. Then they’d progress to weekend trips home or a week at a time if their parents showed signs of improving the situation.
I loathed those kids.
“She held down a job for three months.” He sounds like a proud parent himself. He wants me to understand that his mom tried. That she did her best, at least for a little while. “Until our car broke down. It was too expensive to fix and her stupid ex-boyfriend blew the money on drugs and left.”
“Where’s your dad in all of this?”
He chews on the inside of his cheek, and I know the answer before he speaks. “Dead.” Before I even have the chance to respond, he blurts out, “And don’t say you’re sorry.”
“Why should I say sorry? I’m not the one who killed him.”
Grant blinks. “Everyone says sorry.”
“Everyone is stupid.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Yeah. Well…he isn’t even dead.”
“He must be close to it if you’d rather live here than with him.” I look around his room. At the sparse decorations, if they can be called that at all. Most of them look like pictures drawn by the little girl.
“He isn’t an option,” Grant grits out. Rage practically bubbles off of him. “He left after Tiana was born. Even before that, he was in and out. My mom is more dependable than him. At least she’s here.”
He glances towards the back of the house.
Fuck. I really should have stayed outside with the bike. I feel nauseous and light-headed. Caught between a past I hated and a present I should walk away from before it gets worse.
“How long does she stay in there?” I ask.
It seems like Grant might not answer. Then he crosses his arms over his chest. “Days at a time. A week, maybe.”
“Who takes care of the baby?”
“Me and Olivia split it up when she’s not in school.”
“Are you in school?”
He wrinkles his nose in distaste. “I don’t need any of that crap. What I need is a job. But I’m too young. I pick up money doing maintenance stuff around the neighborhood. It’s barely enough for formula.”
