I looked at the ticket, then at the forged signatures. I thought of the sewing machine.

“Burn it to the ground,” I said.

Chapter 5 — The Performance

I arrived at St. Catherine’s the next morning in a wrinkled sweater, my hair unkempt, no makeup, letting the dark circles show their full depth.

I shuffled down the fourth-floor corridor, dragging my purse as if it weighed a hundred pounds.

I pushed open the door to Room 412. Colton was sitting up, watching television. He rearranged his face into a mask of brave suffering.

“Mom?” he rasped, reaching out a pale hand. “You look exhausted. You shouldn’t have come.”