Damn. I was hoping we’d changed the subject. “Brett and I are the same. He’s just a guy I know.”

“Who is he?” she presses.

I blow out a sigh. “No one, Mallory.”

Her face changes in a split second from suggestively amused to wary.

“What?”

“Who is he?” She’s not joking around anymore. She’s always been overprotective, and that hasn’t changed just because I moved out.

“Someone from before.”

“Before?” she says slowly.

I take a sip of Diet Coke and reach for the remote, unpausing the TV. “He’s from the group home.”

For a long time, Mallory says nothing. I don’t look at her. Finally, she clears her throat and says. “I don’t think you should spend time with him. I don’t think it’s good for you.”

I still don’t look at her as all my insides pull into a tight knot. “I’m fine, Mallory. It’s really not a big deal.”

She tugs my arm, forcing me to look at her. She just stares into my eyes for a really long time before saying, “Is he the one?”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s dif—”

“Of course it matters!” she erupts. “You can’t be around those people. I forbid you to see him anymore.”

I bark out a bitter laugh and spring out of the couch, spilling my Diet Coke. “Are you serious? I’m twenty-two years old. You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore.”

I go to the kitchen for a paper towel, leaving her stewing on the couch. When I come back and start soaking the few drops of Coke out of the carpet, she says, “I’m sorry, Hilary. I just . . . you don’t think he wants back into your life?”

“He has some major guilt issues. He wanted to apologize.”

She blows out a laugh. “Like he could ever apologize.”

I sit back down. “I think he means it. He’s changed. A lot.”

Her lips purse. “I still don’t like it.”

The door bursts open and Henri comes charging through in a Transformers costume with a weighted-down pillowcase in his hand. Max trails behind with his dad, wearing some green costume that doesn’t look even remotely familiar to me.

“Hey, guys!”

“Auntie!” Henri squeals and launches himself at me. “I’m Maximus Prime!”

“Are there any Decepticons out there?” I ask, tickling his side.

“Don’t worry, Auntie! I’ll protect you,” he giggles, pulling away and puffing out his chest.

“I’m counting on it, buddy,” I tell him. “Hi, Jeff,” I say as he gives Henri’s black mop a ruffle on his way past.

“Sorry we left without you,” he says, and unlike Mallory, there’s no accusation in his tone. “The boys were chomping at the bit.”

Henri drops to the floor and dumps the contents of his pillowcase onto the carpet while Max climbs onto the couch between his parents and opens his.

“Anything good in there?” I ask, coming over and peeking in.

“You want a Charleston Chew?” he asks, pulling one out.

“Sure,” I say, taking it from his hand. “What’s your costume?”

“A Creeper,” he answers, digging in his bag again.

The doorbell rings and Mallory goes to get it. I look the question at Jeff.

“From Minecraft,” he clarifies. “Creepers are one of the monsters in the game.”

“They’re made out of TNT! They hiss and explode!” Henri volunteers through a mouthful of something blue.

Max hands Jeff a fun-sized Snickers, which he tears open as Mallory comes back into the family room. “Hilary was late because she was out with someone,” she tells Jeff, “from before.” The way she says the word leaves no doubt what “before” she’s referring to. Her lips purse and her eyes tighten a little when Jeff doesn’t respond by dragging me off to the bedroom and lecturing me. “I told her I didn’t think it was a good idea,” she presses.

Jeff splits a glance between us. “She’s all grown up, Mallory. I don’t think we have any say in who she sees.”

I totally love Jeff. If he wasn’t already married to my sister, I might actually consider marrying him.

Henri hops up and climbs into Mallory’s lap with a candy necklace in his hand. He loops it over her head and I can tell he’s already been sucking on it by the way it sticks to her hair. “You look pretty, Mommy,” he tells her, admiring the necklace.

She pulls him close and kisses his forehead. “Thank you, baby.” He squirms, trying to get back to his stash on the carpet, but she doesn’t let him go right away. “I don’t like it,” she says, her eyes locked on me. And I know this isn’t the end of the discussion.

IT’S THE FIRST of the month. I go on the first of every month like clockwork so she knows what to expect. Mom doesn’t do great with surprises.

As I climb onto the 9:48 train at Grand Central for the long trek to Bedford Hills, I’m still thinking about what there is in New York City that’s worth seeing. When the train surfaces at Ninety-seventh, I lean my forehead into the window and watch as the city rolls by, hoping that something will catch my eye . . . maybe there’ll be a big flashing sign that says, “You’ve got to see this thing right here that no one else knows about because it’s really cool.”

I don’t see any signs like that, and then we’re in the country: rolling hills and leafless brown trees for as far as the eye can see. I sink deeper into my seat and close my eyes. I have to get up early for these trips. It takes forever to get there and back, and if I’m going to bother at all, it feels like I need to spend at least an hour there, so it’s an all-day thing, for the most part. And I need to be back for work at five.

An hour later I stumble off the train in Bedford Hills. It’s about a mile from the station to the correctional facility and I could catch a cab if I could find one, but, unless the weather’s totally nasty, I usually walk. It takes about a half hour and helps me clear my head before Mom clogs it up again.

When I get to the visitor entrance I tell them, “Hilary McIntyre, here to see Roseanne McIntyre.”

I jump through all the hoops: store my bag in the lockers, walk through the metal detector, sign in, show my ID, sign the paper that says I don’t have any contraband on me and I agree to be searched, then wait.

Mom has to agree to see me.

Ten minutes later they tell me I’m good to go and let me into the visitor room. I take one of the dollars I kept in my pocket to the vending machine and buy an Oh Henry! then find a spot at an empty table near the back of the room.

When she comes through the door, she shuffles over to my table in an orange jumpsuit that hangs off her. She literally drops into the chair across from me, like the act of sitting down takes too much effort. Her cheeks are hollow caves, her skin is patchy and dry, and her long red hair is in a messy, low ponytail with stringy strands hanging loose into her sunken, dull green eyes. I swear every time I see her, she looks five years older. She’s not even fifty yet, but she could pass for one hundred.

Or maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s because, in my head, I always see her how she was before she killed that guy and got sent here.

She reaches for the Oh Henry! and peels back the wrapper, biting off a hunk and glancing deliberately at the caged clock on the wall. “You made it,” she rasps in her smoker’s voice.

It’s always the first thing she says, like I’ve kept her waiting.

“Yep.”

She swallows and bites another hunk off the candy bar. A little piece of chocolate sticks to the corner of her mouth and starts to melt. “So how’s McDermott’s?”

Always the second thing she asks. I think maybe she used to go there.

“Good. Jerry is behaving himself for now.”

She crams the last bite in her mouth. “Tips good?”

Always the third thing.

I shrug. “Up and down. Seems like people are getting cheaper. Weekends are usually decent.”

“How is that sister of yours?”

And, always number four.

“She’s good.”