Dustin watched his mother cut her bacon into pieces without lifting the fork to her mouth.
His appetite was about as great as hers.
He put his fork down. “Mom.”
Cathy didn’t look up. “Mm?”
“We need to talk about the deal.”
Her knife slowed. “What about it?”
“I need to find the demon who made it.”
That stopped her.
She looked at him. “No.”
“Mom—”
“You heard me.” She set her utensils down. “There’s nothing to discuss.”
Dustin’s temper flared. “There’s a lot to discuss.”
“The deal is keeping you alive. That’s all you need to know.”
It was the tone she’d used to end a thousand arguments when he was a kid.
It wasn’t going to end this one.
“The demon gave you a way to contact him,” Dustin said. “Didn’t he?”
Cathy went still.
Her eyes moved to Greg, and Greg—who couldn’t lie, couldn’t hide, whose face was a billboard for every thought he’d ever had—looked down at his orange juice.
“You told him that,” Cathy said.
“I told him it’s standard practice,” Greg said to his glass.
“Standard practice.” Cathy’s mouth tightened. “For demons.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
For a second, she looked like she might correct the ma’am. Then she turned back to Dustin.
“I’m not helping you undo the only thing standing between you and a grave.”
“Mom.”
“No.” She pressed one hand flat on the table. “You don’t get to walk back into this house after two years and ask me to hand you back to death.”
Dustin flinched. “That’s not what I’m asking.”
“Then what are you asking?”
“I’m asking you to help me save your life.”
Silence.
