Chapter 2

Grady didn’t shout. He had never been a shouter. His father had been a shouter, and Grady had spent thirty years learning how to keep his voice level even when his hands shook. He looked at Kendra through the glass, at her hand on the bolt, and understood that standing there wasn’t going to open anything.

“Stay right here,” he told Gus. “I’m coming around.”

He went down the back steps. The frost had stiffened the grass. He walked around the side of the house, past the propane tank, past the trash cans, to the front door. His house key was on the lanyard with his building keys. He’d carried it for four years. The lock turned.

The front room was dark. The TV was off. A basket of folded laundry sat on the couch. The house smelled like lemon cleaner and the cinnamon candle Kendra lit every night. He walked through the living room, past the hallway, and into the dining area.

Kendra was still standing by the back door. She had her arms crossed now. She didn’t look surprised to see him. That was the worst part. She looked annoyed, the way she did when the trash service missed a pickup.

“You could have called,” she said.

Grady walked past her. He turned the deadbolt and opened the interior door.

Cold air rushed in. Gus was still on the porch, exactly where Grady had left him. The wet socks had to be numb by now. His son looked at him through the open doorway like he wasn’t sure it was allowed.

“Come inside,” Grady said.

Gus came in. He didn’t run. He stepped careful over the threshold, like he was tracking mud. His teeth were chattering so hard he had to clamp his jaw.

Kendra sighed. “He was being defiant. I told him to go to his room, and he went out there to sulk. That’s not my fault. He knows the rules.”

Grady took off his work jacket and wrapped it around Gus. Then he knelt and peeled the wet socks off. The boy’s feet were white and wrinkled, cold as the frozen bottle.

“Go sit by the register,” Grady said. “Don’t put your feet on the vent.”

Gus went to the heating vent in the floor and sat, the jacket swallowing him.

“Kendra,” Grady said, still quiet. “Why is there a cot on the porch?”

“He likes it out there.”

“The water bottle was frozen.”

“He forgets to bring it in.”

“His socks were soaked.”

“He’s a boy.”

Grady stood. He was a full head taller than her, but he kept his hands at his sides. “Sixty-one moons in that notebook. One for every night.”

Kendra’s face didn’t change. “He draws. He’s dramatic. You’ve been gone. You don’t know what he’s like when you’re not here.”

There it was. The thing she always said. You don’t know. You’re not here. And he wasn’t. He had taken the second shift to pay his mother’s assisted-living bill. He had told himself Gus was fine because Kendra said he was fine. He had walked past that cot for months and called it a fort.

Jo appeared at the top of the stairs. She was seven, in lavender pajamas, dark curls smashed on one side. She had something in her hand-a small star-shaped night light, the same one from the crate. She must have unplugged it from the porch outlet.

“Jo,” Kendra said, sharp. “Go to bed.”

Jo didn’t move. She looked at Gus, then at Grady.

“I plug it in every night,” she said. “So he’s not scared.”

Kendra’s voice went bright and patient. “Sweetie, you’re half asleep. Go back to bed.”

Jo went. But she left the night light on the bottom step.

Grady turned to Gus. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Gus stared at the floor vent. His voice was barely there. “Because you’d pick her.”

The room went still.

“And Jo would go with her,” Gus said, quieter.

Grady felt like he’d been hit in the chest. “Pick her? Gus-”

Gus looked up then. His eyes were dry. That was worse than crying. “And she’s done it before. Not to me.”

Kendra moved fast. “Okay. That’s enough. He’s exhausted. He says things.”

Grady didn’t look at her. “What do you mean, not to you?”

Gus shut his mouth. He looked at Kendra, and his whole body went still, the way it had on the porch.

Grady took out his phone. His hands weren’t steady, but his voice was. He called Priss.

His mother-in-law answered on the second ring, warm and awake. “Grady? Honey, what’s wrong?”

“Kendra’s mom. I need you to tell me something. Did you know Gus sleeps on the porch?”

Priss didn’t hesitate. “Oh, honey. He likes it out there. It’s his fort. You know how boys get. Kendra told me he’s been asking to sleep out there since summer.”

Grady closed his eyes. She said it word for word. The same sentence. The same rhythm. Like a line she’d practiced.

“His water bottle was frozen,” Grady said. “His socks were wet. It’s twenty-seven degrees.”

“Boys exaggerate, sweetheart. You know how they can be. Kendra has a good handle on him. She’s always been so good with that boy.”

Grady looked at the milk crate on the porch through the open door. At the initials. T.R. above G.H.

“Priss,” he said. “Who is T.R.?”

The line went quiet. Just breath.

Then Priss laughed, a nervous little puff. “Oh, that old thing. She had the same trouble with Tyler Ray. That was years ago, honey. That’s not who she is.”

Grady didn’t move. “Who is Tyler Ray?”

Priss was already trying to smooth it over. “Nobody. It was a long time ago. It’s not-he’s not-”

But Grady had the name now. And he had the crate.