Those words from Lucian kept circling back no matter how hard I tried to push them away.

"When does she even die?"

My own son - twelve years old - already sounding like he'd swallowed every bitter thing his mother ever said about women who got close to me.

I sat in the driver's seat with the engine off, drumming my fingers against my temple, trying to make sense of it. Where the hell was he getting ideas like that?

Lately he's been... changing.

Slipping cash out of my wallet when he thinks I'm not looking.

Cursing under his breath when he's angry.

Slamming doors. Ignoring me when I call...