My brave, scared, funny little boy who asked if Derby was fake and if Jeremy knew where he was. My son who should be worrying about cereal and dinosaur court, not church bulletins and porch packages.
“He’ll be safe?” I ask.
“With us? Yes.”
I press my lips together.
Safe.
The word is dangerous.
“Why would you help me?”
Silence again.
Then Hot Mama says, “Because Caroline should’ve come back before fear ate the map. Because Mike Welles left blood in more places than Kentucky. Because Lottie called. Because women like us don’t leave girls standing in burning houses and ask if they paid rent.”
Tears slide down my face.
I don’t wipe them.
“Derby is in jail,” I say.
“I heard.”
“Because of Jeremy.”
“No, baby. Derby’s in jail because Derby has fists and a temper. Jeremy just laid the bait.”
That sounds too much like the truth.
“I can’t leave him.”
“You can.”
“I don’t want to.”
“That’s different.”
I close my eyes.
Hot Mama’s voice lowers. “Want don’t always mean stay. Sometimes it means you run far enough he doesn’t have to turn himself into a weapon for you.”
That cuts so deep I can’t breathe.
Because that is the thought I have been choking on since the phone call came. Derby in cuffs. Derby’s bloody hands. Derby wanting Jeremy dead. Derby looking at August like the boy has become a promise he doesn’t know how to keep.
If I stay, Derby will keep going after Jeremy.
If Jeremy keeps coming, Derby will keep answering.
And one of them will end up dead.
Maybe both.
Or worse, August will keep watching men prove love by who bleeds first.
“Amelia,” Hot Mama says.