The officers were, I have to say, kind about the basement.
“Ma’am,” one of them told me quietly, “locking him down there wasn’t exactly by the book. But you recognized an active fugitive, you kept everyone safe, you called us immediately, and you didn’t touch him. Between us? Good instincts. A lot of parents would’ve second-guessed themselves right out of protecting their kid.”
They took him away in handcuffs.
Through the window, Tyler watched the man he’d loved for three months — or thought he’d loved, or been skillfully made to think he loved — get folded into the back of a patrol car.
He didn’t cry until it drove away.
Then he cried the way he had when he was small and something had broken that he didn’t understand, and I held my nineteen-year-old son at the kitchen table, next to a pot roast nobody was going to eat, and I let him.
“I feel so stupid,” he finally said. “How did I not see it? How did YOU see it in two seconds and I didn’t see it in three months?”
“Because you were inside it, baby,” I said. “And because he’s good at this. He’s done it eleven times. You’ve been in love once.
