I don't expect to find Sandra Morrison on my doorstep.
Callum's mother looks older than the last time I saw her. Her dark hair, always perfectly styled, is pulled back in a simple ponytail. Her face is bare of makeup. She's wearing jeans and a cardigan instead of her usual designer clothes. Dark circles under her eyes suggest poor sleep. Her posture is wrong. Shoulders curved forward. Defensive.
She looks like a woman who's had the ground pulled out from under her.
"Dr. Negrorio." Her voice is hoarse. Vocal strain. Probably from crying. "I'm sorry to show up unannounced. I tried calling, but I didn't have your personal number, and I couldn't... I needed to tell you in person."
"Mrs. Morrison." I don't move from the doorway. "What can I do for you?"
"Is Jessica here? I need to speak with her. With all of you."
Every protective instinct I have screams at me to shut the door. This woman enabled her son for years. Made excuses. Used her family's money and influence to smooth over his mistakes.
But she looks broken. And something in her scent tells me she's not here to cause trouble.
"Wait here." I close the door and pull out my phone.
Me: Sandra Morrison is at the front door. She wants to talk to all of us about something. Says it's important.
Jessica: Callum's mom???
Me: Yes.
Jessica: What does she want?
Me: She didn't say. But she looks different. Shaken.
There's a pause….
Jessica: Let her in. I'll be down in a minute.
I open the door again. Sandra hasn't moved. She's staring at her hands, twisting a tissue between her fingers. Repetitive motion. Anxiety response.
"Come in." I step aside.
She enters slowly, taking in the house with cautious glances.
"I'll get you some water." I gesture toward the couch. "Jessica will be down shortly."
Sandra perches on the edge of the cushion, spine straight. Old habits. "Thank you."
I return from the kitchen with a glass of water just as Jessica descends the stairs.
She's wearing one of Nacho's t-shirts and leggings, her hair pulled up in a messy bun. The bonding marks on her neck are visible, still healing. Pink and tender. She looks soft and loved and completely at home.
Sandra’s breath catches when she sees her.
"Jessica." Sandra’s voice cracks. "You look happy."
Jessica's voice is steady. Careful. "I am."
She takes a seat in the armchair across from Sandra, and I position myself behind her. Close enough to intervene if needed.
Sandra’s hands shake as she sets down the water glass. "I'm glad. You deserve to be happy. You always deserved better than what my son gave you."
Jessica goes still.
"Mrs. Morrison..."
