I almost laughed. Not because anything was funny, but because of the absurdity of his shock. As if the true betrayal here was my refusal to remain ignorant.
“Yes,” I said.
His face hardened. “You don’t understand what you’ve done.”
“No,” I said. “You don’t.”
Detective Ramirez stepped subtly between us. “Sir, we located a concealed crawlspace beneath the closet in your son’s bedroom. We also recovered chemical equipment and materials consistent with narcotics manufacturing. We’re going to need you to answer some questions.”
Eric dragged a hand over his mouth. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
Ramirez did not blink. “That’s fortunate. Because what it looks like is several serious felonies.”
From the curb came Melissa’s voice, sharp and shrill.
“It’s not Eric’s fault!”
I turned.
She was sitting on the sidewalk in handcuffs beside the unknown man from the video. Her hair was wild, mascara smeared, one cheek streaked with dirt or soot. She looked less like my husband’s polished, sarcastic sister and more like what she had probably been all along: desperate, reckless, and furious at being seen clearly.
“Melissa,” I said, stunned less by her presence than by the sheer ugliness in her eyes.
She looked away first.
