Her Silent Revenge novel Chapter 40

As I settle in for a long night alone, the ugly truth stains my world, brighter than the yellow angelfish swarming by.

I'm still not over Lady Bug. Not by far.

And I'm deathly afraid I don't fucking know how to be.

I show up at her modest apartment at eleven on the dot to find Salem and Arlo waiting for me, bundled up in thick winter coats with hats and gloves.

The boy holds his large plastic sled by a rope. I grab it and stow it in the trunk while she gets his car seat set up in the back before we set off.

Surprisingly, they're both pretty quiet.

Arlo keeps himself busy, looking at all the buttons on my dashboard from his place in the back. Besides a restrained smile and a few murmured words, Salem hasn't said boo.

The silent treatment works for me.

I switch on the radio, only to find it's on the same eighties station that had her caterwauling. Only, unlike before, when she did her damnedest to annoy me, she doesn't burst into song.

Oddly, I'd almost prefer it if she did.

It's ten minutes of awkward silence until we get to Mom's place.

Arlo makes a small noise as we pull through the gates. By the time we stop, he's in awe.

"Wowee," he says, his eyes like marbles. "This place is a castle! Are you like Batman?"

For a second, I pause.

"Yes. We went to school together, me and old Bats himself." "Oh my God!" The little boy squeals and covers his mouth.

I glance at Salem, but for once she doesn't seem to find her son funny. "Where's the harm in indulging him? A boy needs heroes," I whisper. "You… Patton Rory? You really think you're cape material?"

I snort.

"So I'm a little more low-key than the guys in the comics. I'm retired from the whole crime fighting scene. My brother kind of stole the show with that one and he can have the limelight," I say as Salem steps out and wrangles her son.

I usher them both inside.

Predictably, Mom's waiting for us, draped in her usual vibrant red scarves and a wide smile.

"Miss Hopper," she says, giving Salem a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you so much for accompanying my son today. I know how precious your time is as a mom."

Salem's cheeks go pink. "Oh, um, thanks, Mrs. Rory. It's a pleasure.

One long look around shows me what she means. When you grew up in this house, it's easy to forget.

My parents inherited this house from my grandparents, and Mom did everything in her power to retain its history and keep it fresh, which means the décor fuses the traditional—old-style gilded mirrors, heavy furniture, thick carpets—with modern touches. Paintings by local artists on the wall and geometric sculptures that look like a cross between five different animals. Healthy potted plants and touches of gold.

Light shines through the massive windows, highlighting the art like a proper museum.

"My mother's not a minimalist at heart," I say. An understatement.

"Wait." Salem stops next to a wall of photos. "Is that… Harry Truman?"

Of course, with all the extravagance displayed here, she'd find the one thing I don't want to talk about.

Family history.

If we're not careful, it always defines us Rorys.

It's too easy to become the local aristocrats, born with silver spoons in our mouths, rather than individuals who've lived and loved and suffered across generations.

"The one and only. Hell of a president, right?" I stop beside her. The same black-and-white photo has been replicated all over the place. Anyone who's lived in Kansas City has seen it on the walls of restaurants or hanging in schoolrooms.