He smelled of sleep and crayons and the lavender detergent Grandma liked.
He sobbed without making any noise, the way children do when they’ve been scared a long time and nobody noticed.
“Mom, you promised.”
“I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone,” I said, in a voice I didn’t recognize. “I didn’t promise not to protect Grandma. And I didn’t promise not to protect you.”
Then the bedroom door opened.
It swung inward without a creak.
Lenora Pratt stood in the doorway in her blue robe, her silver hair loose down her back, her hand resting on the frame.
She was wide awake.
Her eyes were clear and steady and calm as a dial tone.
“Come in, you two,” she said quietly. “Before the floor gives you pneumonia.”
I stared at her.
“Mom — you heard?”
“I’ve been awake since two o’clock.” She stepped aside. “I hear everything in this house, Carrie. Thirty-one years on a night desk, you don’t forget how to listen.”
