The laughter inside had finally died down. One upstairs window was still glowing, but the backyard remained dark.
“Not here.”
He replaced the garden stone carefully, though there was nothing beneath it now, and motioned for me to follow him toward the storage room.
Mom was awake.
She sat on the edge of one of the narrow beds wearing the cardigan I had bought her the previous Christmas. A battery-powered lamp rested on a plastic crate between the beds.
When she saw me, she covered her mouth.
“Gabriel.”
That was how I knew how frightened she had been.
Nobody except my mother called me Gabriel anymore.
I crossed the room and hugged her.
For a few seconds, she held me as if I were still seventeen and leaving Carmona for college.
Then she pulled back.
“You weren’t supposed to come.”
“You told me not to.”
“I know.”
“That practically guaranteed I would.”
