They wouldn’t.” Harrison did not argue.

He only looked at me, with a steadiness that was its own kind of answer.

“They’re my children,” I said, and I heard how it sounded, like a woman holding a door shut against a flood.

“I know,” he said.

“They love me.” Harrison was quiet a moment.

“I’m sure,” he said, at last, “that they would tell you they do.” And that — not an accusation, not a denial, just that careful, terrible they would tell you they do — frightened me more than anything he could have said outright.

Chapter 10 — The Test