Chapter 2

Hazel POV:

It all came to a head two weeks ago.

The phone call came just after midnight, a shrill, unwelcome sound that ripped me from a shallow, restless sleep. It was the local police department.

"Ma'am, we have your son, Colton McKee, in custody."

My heart stopped. The world tilted on its axis.

Colton, my sweet, brilliant, complicated boy. He had been at a party at a friend's house in the Palisades. A fight had broken out.

When I arrived at the station, the air was thick with the smell of stale coffee and disinfectant. The fluorescent lights hummed, casting a sickly yellow glow on everything. Colton was sitting on a bench with a group of other teenagers, all of them looking sullen and defiant.

And next to him, her hand resting possessively on his arm, was his girlfriend, Tiffany. She was a carbon copy of Campbell Kirby-all manufactured pout, expensive highlights, and a vapid, calculating look in her eyes.

She saw me first. Her perfectly glossed lips curled into a sneer.

"Oh, look," she said, her voice loud enough for everyone to hear. "The cavalry's here."

A few of the other kids snickered. Colton shifted uncomfortably, pulling his arm away from her. His face was a mask of irritation. He wouldn't look at me.

"Colton? Are you okay?" I asked, my voice trembling as I rushed toward him.

He finally looked up, and the expression on his face was a physical blow. It wasn't relief. It wasn't fear. It was shame.

He was ashamed of me.

"God, Mom," he muttered, his voice laced with venom. "Could you be any more embarrassing?"

My body went rigid. The blood drained from my face, a cold numbness spreading through my limbs. I was suddenly intensely aware of my appearance. I had thrown on the first thing I could find-a pair of faded yoga pants and an old cashmere sweater that had seen better days. My hair was hastily pulled back, and I knew, without looking, that my face was bare of makeup, etched with worry and lack of sleep.

I looked like a mother. A frantic, terrified mother.

And my son was looking at me like I was something he' d scraped off the bottom of his shoe.

The dam of my composure, so carefully constructed over the years, finally cracked.