Downstairs, silverware clinked against plates. Chloe laughed at something Julian said. They sounded relaxed, almost cheerful, because they believed the old woman upstairs was still frightened into silence and the daughter they resented was too blinded by guilt to notice the truth.
I opened the recording application again and placed the phone on the bathroom counter.
“Mom, I need to ask you a few more questions.”
She pulled the towel tighter around her chest.
“Will they listen to this?”
“Yes.”
“Will Julian go to prison?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Her chin trembled. “He’s still my son.”
The words struck harder than I expected.
Even after the bruises, the ropes, the stolen money, and the threats, a part of her was still trying to protect him.
I knelt in front of her.
“You can love your son and still tell the truth about what he did.”
She looked toward the locked door.
“He wasn’t always like this.”
“Tell me when it started.”
My mother closed her eyes.
“After your father died, Julian came every weekend. He fixed the porch railing. He drove me to church. Chloe brought casseroles and told everyone they were worried about me living alone.”
I remembered those months. Julian had called me repeatedly, criticizing my work schedule and insisting that Mother needed someone nearby. I had offered to pay for a home aide, but he rejected the idea.
