Chương 2
I had counted because counting gave me something orderly to do while my son became a stranger.
"Where are you?"
"In my car."
"Are you safe?"
"Yes."
"Did anyone call the police?"
"No."
"Are you going to?"
I leaned my head against the seat.
The leather was cold.
"I haven't decided."
"Go to an emergency room."
"I'm fine."
"That phrase should be retired from the English language after sixty-five."
Under other circumstances I might have laughed.
Instead I closed my eyes.
"Call Halpern."
Martin exhaled slowly.
"I want a legitimate sale."
"Obviously."
"No tricks, no sweetheart price because I'm angry, no paper games."
"Frank."
"Market terms."
"I heard you."
"And Martin?"
"Yes?"
"Do not contact Brandon."
Another silence.
Then he said, "It's your property."
That sentence followed me all the way home.
My property.
Not my son's.
Not Amber's.
Mine through Redwood Capital, the holding company I had formed sixteen years earlier to own several pieces of commercial land and, eventually, the house Brandon occupied.
Five years before that birthday dinner, I had purchased the place after Brandon's first business failed and his credit collapsed.
He had been twenty-five, embarrassed and newly married.
Amber was pregnant then.
They lost the baby at eleven weeks.
Afterward, Brandon stopped answering calls for nearly a month.
When he finally came to my office, he sat across from me with red eyes and said he needed somewhere that did not feel temporary.
I bought the house three weeks later.
I told him he and Amber could live there as long as the arrangement made sense.
He heard something different.
Maybe I allowed him to.
That part belonged to me.
At home, I dropped my keys twice before unlocking the front door.
The little bungalow in West University had belonged to my wife, Elaine, before we married.
We kept it even after I began making serious money because she liked the kitchen window and refused to live in any house requiring an intercom.
After she died, I moved back into it permanently.
Brandon hated that decision.
He said the house made me look poor.
The first thing I did inside was feed the cat.
Mabel appeared from beneath the dining table, sniffed my trouser cuff, and complained loudly about the twelve-minute delay in her dinner.
"At least somebody has standards," I told her.
My voice sounded thick.
I put ice in a dish towel and held it against my cheek while she ate.
The refrigerator hummed.
A game show played on the television in the living room because I had forgotten to turn it off before leaving.
People applauded a woman for correctly naming a European capital.
I stood alone in my kitchen with blood drying on my collar and listened to strangers celebrate.
Then my phone began vibrating across the counter.
Brandon.
I watched his name pulse until the call stopped.
A second call came immediately.
Then a text.
You embarrassed me tonight.
I read it twice.
Not I lost control.
Not Are you hurt.
Not I am sorry.
You embarrassed me tonight.
Another message appeared.
You always push until people react and then act innocent.
I set the phone facedown.
It vibrated again beneath my palm.
Amber this time.
Please don't make this more dramatic than it was.
I laughed.
The sound hurt my lip.
I went into the bathroom and examined my face under the yellow light.
Nothing appeared broken.
My cheek was swelling.
There were finger-shaped red marks near my jaw.
The image made me unexpectedly ashamed.
I knew better than that shame.
I had spent decades supervising men who hid injuries because they feared looking weak.
I had personally sent workers home for pretending concussions were headaches.
Still, when I imagined telling a nurse my son had done this, something inside me resisted.
Pride is rarely impressive when you catch it working against your own interests.
I changed shirts, drove to an urgent care center that stayed open late, and told the receptionist exactly what had happened.
The young woman behind the desk stopped typing.
"Your son?"
"Yes."
She glanced at my age on the intake form.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
She looked as if she wanted to say more, then thought better of it.
A physician examined me, ordered imaging because of tenderness near my cheekbone, and documented the bruising.
Nothing was fractured.
When she asked whether I wanted assistance contacting law enforcement, I said not yet.
She did not pressure me.
She only wrote down a number for a victim-services office and folded the paper once before handing it over.
I put it in my wallet.
At 1:17 in the morning, I returned home.
There were eleven missed calls from Brandon, four from Amber, two from guests at the party, and one from a number I did not recognize.
I listened to none of the voicemails.
I made coffee instead.
It was a stupid hour for coffee, but sleep had already become unrealistic.
I sat at the kitchen table with Mabel occupying the chair Elaine used to prefer.
On the wall above the sink hung a photograph of Brandon at nine years old wearing an Astros cap three sizes too large.
He was holding a fish he had refused to touch until the photographer counted to two.
I had forgotten the photograph was there.
For several minutes I drank coffee and looked at that child.
The dangerous thing about loving someone for a long time is that you carry every version of them simultaneously.
The man who hit you can still be the boy who slept with the hallway light on.
The woman who betrays you can still be the girl who once waited outside your office with sandwiches.
Memory does not respect evidence.
At 6:42, Martin called.
"Halpern wants it."
I had been standing at the sink rinsing my cup.
"At the old number?"
"Close."
"How close?"
Martin told me.
May you like
It was slightly below the earlier offer but well within the valuation range.
"They'll wire earnest money today," he said.
