Her eyes filled with tears.

“Whatever else happened—what other tragedies followed—Mickey makes up for it ten times over. The fact is, whatever Suzze’s motive, Mickey is here because of her. The greatest gift God ever gave me—because of what she did. So not only did I forgive her, but I thanked her because every day, no matter how messed up I get, I get on my knees and thank God for that beautiful, perfect boy.”

Myron stood there stunned. Kitty moved past him, back into the main room, and then across to the kitchen area. She opened the fridge. There wasn’t much but it was laid out neatly. “Mickey went food shopping,” she said. “Would you like something to drink?”

“No.” Then: “So what did you confess to Suzze?”

“Nothing.”

Kitty was lying. She started glancing around again.

“So why did she go from here to Karl Snow’s ice cream parlor?”

“I don’t know,” Kitty said. The sound of a car startled her upright. “Oh my God.” She slammed the refrigerator door closed and peered under a pulled shade. The car passed, but Kitty didn’t relax. Her eyes were wide with paranoia again. She backed herself into a corner, glancing about as though the furniture might leap up and attack her. “We need to pack.”

“And go where?”

She opened up a closet. Mickey’s clothes—all on hangers, shirts folded up top. Man, this kid was neat. “I want my gun back.”

“Kitty, what’s going on?”

“If you found us . . . It’s not safe.”

“What’s not safe? Where’s Brad?”

Kitty shook her head, pulling a suitcase out from under the couch. She started dumping Mickey’s clothes into it. Watching this strung-out heroin addict—there was no nicer way to put that—a strange yet obvious realization came to Myron.

“Brad wouldn’t do this to his family,” Myron said.

That made her slow down.

“Whatever else may be going on—and I don’t know if you’re really in danger, Kitty, or if you’ve fried your brain into a state of irrational paranoia—but I know my brother. He wouldn’t leave you and his son alone like this—you strung out and afraid for your life, real or imagined.”

Kitty’s face crumbled a piece at a time. Her voice was a childlike whine. “It isn’t his fault.”

Whoa. Myron knew to proceed slowly here. He took a half step closer to her and spoke as gently as he could. “I know that.”

“I’m so scared.”

Myron nodded.

“But Brad can’t help us.”

“Where is he?”

She shook her head, her body stiffening. “I can’t say. Please. I can’t say.”

“Okay.” He put up his hands. Easy, Myron. Don’t push too hard. “But maybe you could let me help you.”

She looked at him warily. “How?”

Finally—an opening, albeit a small one. He wanted to suggest rehab for her. He knew a nice place not far from the house in Livingston. That was where he wanted to bring her, try to get her cleaned up. She would go into rehab while Mickey stayed with him, just until they contacted Brad and got him up here.

But his own words haunted him: Brad wouldn’t leave them like this. So that meant one of two things. One, Brad didn’t know how bad his wife was. Or two, for some reason, he couldn’t help them.

“Kitty,” he said slowly, “is Brad in danger? Is he the reason you’re so afraid right now?”

“He’ll be back soon.” She started scratching her arms hard, as though there were bugs under the skin. Her eyes started darting around again. Uh-oh, Myron thought.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I just need to use the bathroom. Where’s my purse?”

Yeah, right.

She dashed into the bedroom, grabbed her purse, and closed the bathroom door. Myron patted his back pocket. Her stash was still there. He could hear the sounds of a frantic search coming from the bathroom.

Myron called, “Kitty?”

Footsteps on the front stoop leading to the door jarred him. Myron whipped his head toward the sound. Through the bathroom door, Kitty shouted, “Who’s that?” Working off her panic, Myron pulled his gun, pointing at the door. The knob turned and Mickey entered. Myron quickly lowered the gun.

Mickey looked at his uncle. “What the hell . . . ?”

“Hey, Mickey.” Myron pointed at his name tag. “Or should I say Bob?”

“How did you find us?”

Mickey was scared too. He could hear it in his voice. Anger, yes, but mostly there was fear.

“Where’s my mother?” he demanded.

“She’s in the bathroom.”

He ran over to the door, put his hand on it. “Mom?”

“I’m okay, Mickey.”

Mickey leaned his head on the door and closed his eyes. His voice was unbearably tender. “Mom, please come out.”

“She’ll be okay,” Myron said.

Mickey turned to him, his hands curled into fists. Fifteen years old and ready to take on the world. Or at least, his uncle. Mickey was dark, broad, and had that brooding, dangerous quality that made girls weak at the knees. Myron wondered where the brooding came from and then, looking at the bathroom door, figured that he already knew the answer.

“How did you find us?” Mickey asked again.

“Don’t worry about it. I had to ask your mom some questions.”

“What about?”

“Where’s your father?”

Kitty screamed out, “Don’t tell him!”

He turned back to the door. “Mom? Come out, okay?”

More sounds of the frantic—and as Myron knew, fruitless—search. Kitty started cursing. Mickey turned back to Myron. “Get out.”

“No.”

“What?”

“You’re the fifteen-year-old kid. I’m the adult. The answer is no.”

Kitty was crying now. They could both hear her. “Mickey?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“How did I get home last night?”

Mickey gave a quick glare back at Myron. “I got you.”

“Did you put me to bed?”

Mickey clearly did not like having this conversation in front of Myron. He tried to whisper through the door, as though Myron wouldn’t be able to hear. “Yes.”

Myron just shook his head.

Kitty asked, her tone nearly a fevered pitch now, “Did you go through my purse?”