He wasn’t eating.
Mary stood by the counter making coffee.
Her movements were too precise.
“Where did you go?” she asked.
“Your mother’s house.”
The coffee pot clattered against the counter.
Mary caught it before it fell.
“What?”
“I saw the basement.”
Harry looked up.
Andrew nodded once.
The relief that crossed his son’s face nearly undid him.
Not happiness.
Not peace.
Just the deep, exhausted relief of finally being believed.
Mary turned around slowly.
“You had no right to go there without talking to me.”
“Harry described it perfectly,” Andrew said. “The mattress. The space heater. The lock. The cardboard over the window.”
Mary’s jaw tightened.
“My mother is clearly unwell.”
“Unwell enough to fake a drowning?”
Mary blinked.
Andrew placed his phone on the kitchen table.
“I took pictures.”
Mary stared at the phone.
Then she looked at Harry.
“Sweetheart,” she said softly, “you’ve been through something terrible. Some memories may feel real even when they’re confused.”
Harry pushed the cereal bowl away.
“I’m not confused.”
Mary smiled, but it did not reach her eyes.
“We’ll talk when you’re calmer.”
Andrew picked up his phone.
