He said nothing.
“I know someone has been asking questions in North Carolina.” Her voice lowered. “If some damaged young man has approached you with a story, you need to be careful. Grief makes men easy to deceive.”
“Did you think I would never recognize my own son?”
Deborah stared at him.
The mask fell.
Not completely. Worse. It slid just enough for him to see the person underneath.
“You recognized a corpse when I told you to,” she said.
Harrison felt the sentence pass through him like a blade.
“You switched them.”
“I saved you.”
“You hid my child.”
“I removed the thing that was destroying you.”
“My son was destroying me?”
Her eyes flashed. “He was ungrateful. Weak. He broke your heart while you handed him the world. I was there every day, Harrison. I built your life while he played piano and cried about dreams.”
“You hit him with your car.”
“A mistake.”
