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felt a little twinge about Jones and Ricky.
    “Helping him with what?”
    “He’s a private investigator now, you know?”
    “I heard.”
    Henry Ivy had told her during one of their frequent lunches that Travis Crosby had hung out his own shingle, though neither of them could imagine who would consider hiring him.
    “I was helping him paint the office,” said Marshall. “When I graduate, I’m going to be his partner.”
    There was so much pride in his voice; she wanted to feel happy for him. But she just nodded, staying neutral. He was a sensitive kid, picked up on her lack of enthusiasm. She saw his right leg start to pump. Anxiety. A second later his thumbnail was in his mouth.
    “What about college?” she asked. “Mr. Ivy told me that, with your SAT scores, you have a shot at some good schools—Rutgers, Fordham.”
    He lifted a dismissive hand. “My dad says there’s no money for that.”
    She tried to quash her own anxiety, stay level. She wanted to yell, Get out of this town, Marshall. Get away from your father. Get an education. It’s the only chance you have .
    “There are scholarships, grants, financial aid,” she said instead. “We can help you with that.”
    His eyes dropped to the floor. She decided to change the subject. “How are things going with your mother?”
    “My mother’s a whore,” Marshall said. His tone was mild, but the rise of color in his cheeks was telling.
    “Why do you say that?” A low-level anxiety caused her to inch forward in her chair a little.
    He pulled his mouth into a derisive sneer. “She has a new boyfriend.”
    Maggie forced herself to breathe in and out before answering, hoping the silence would let the exchange echo back at him. The sneer dropped, and he just looked inconsolably sad.
    “That doesn’t make her a whore, Marshall. When’s the last time you talked to her?”
    Maggie heard her son’s car rumble to life in the driveway, then speed off. Too fast. The kid drives too fast, and that muscle car doesn’t help matters . She got lost in her own thoughts for a second and almost didn’t hear Marshall’s response, something about his mother leaving him a message on Facebook.
    “Said she missed me.” He gave a bitter little laugh. It sounded bad on him, too old, too jaded.
    “But no visits, no phone calls?”
    “She said she doesn’t have time. Too busy.”
    Maggie didn’t know if that was true or not; it could have been that Marshall was avoiding her. Five years earlier, Angie Crosby had left Travis after a brutal beating (for which Travis was never charged, because he, too, had taken some blows from Angie). They then engaged in a vitriolic divorce and custody battle. In The Hollows, where they all lived—where they’d all grown up together—it was legendary. The rumors and gossip were endless; there was no function—not the precinct Christmas party or the annual pancake breakfast at the firehouse—where someone wasn’t whispering about it.
    “You were getting along really well, weren’t you?”
    “I guess.”
    When shared custody had been awarded, Angie disappeared. She was eager to leave Travis behind, and it seemed she felt that meant leaving Marshall, too. If she couldn’t keep him away from Travis, she’d admitted to Maggie recently, she hadn’t wanted him. She’d refused to attend a session with Marshall but had sent Maggie an e-mail explaining “her side of things.” At age nine, Marshall had already been prone to violent rages, had hit Angie twice and regularly invoked the vicious names Travis had for her, she claimed. I have always been afraid of Travis, even when I loved him. I am sorry to say that I feel the same way about Marshall. I want a life where no one hits me, where my son doesn’t call me a bitch and a whore. Does that make me a monster who abandoned her child? Maybe.
    Maggie had been pleased to see them approach a tentative reunion while Travis was away and Marshall was doing so much better. But maybe when