“You are a Whitmore,” she said, her whisper turning sharp and cold.

“No matter what name you put on your mailbox.

You survived because we carried you.

You do not know what it’s like to protect a son.”

She opened her car door, the hinges groaning in the cold.

“If they arrest him, it will be because you refused to help.”

She did not look at me again as she climbed into the driver’s seat.

I stood on the gravel and watched the Buick back out of the space, its tailpipe rattling against the bumper.